Why GenXers Hate Asking For Help

Our culture told us to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps but our parents gave us boots without straps

When I was in my 20s, I racked up some credit card debt. Nothing outrageous, but enough to warrant pausing to consider my options before my credit score went down the toilet. I entered adulthood knowing absolutely zilch about credit cards, how to build credit, the purpose of a credit score, etc. Neither of my parents taught their children financial literacy (minus the time my mom showed me how to write a check when I was 8 and how to balance my checkbook when I opened my first checking account as a teen). Generally speaking, the Silent and Boomer generations threw us to the wolves to learn all on our own, even if that meant getting lost in the woods or mauled to death. There are benefits to letting children make mistakes, but it can be harmful, too: I was always several steps behind my peers who were fortunate enough to have parents that actually helped them transition to adulting. When you have to constantly pick yourself back up and dust yourself off, you’re not going to get as far as those who never tripped and fell.

My live-in boyfriend at the time, a man who grew up with wealth privilege, advised me to ask my dad if he’d pay off my debt with the understanding I would pay him back every month. “This way you’re not accruing anymore interest and you can pay it down faster”, my boyfriend explained. It made sense, but only if you didn’t know my father.

See, he was barely present in my life. He was dedicated to his Naval career, often traveling internationally and sending me the occasional postcard or handwritten letter. When Dad was in town, my brother and I would stay at his place for a weekend where we’d play Atari games or he’d take us to his favorite ‘50s diner. There was never any conversation. I have exactly zero memories of my dad actually trying to talk to me. There were never any questions about school or what my favorite food was, never any stories he shared about his own childhood, no attempts to know who I was. What I do remember is when he suddenly slapped me across the face when I was 6 or 7 years old, for innocently exclaiming “Oh my god!”, a phrase commonly used in my home even by my very Christian mom (his ex-wife), a phrase I’d never been told I can’t say, a phrase I heard on TV and in movies. “Don’t ever say that again”, was all he said to my shocked, red-cheeked face.

When I became a teenager, nothing changed. There were never any questions about what I wanted to “be” after high school, no concerns about boyfriends, and no stories he shared about wisdom he gained. The only life guidance I can attribute to him comes from the time I asked him whether I should take Spanish, French, or German for my foreign language credits. He replied, “French. Of those 3, it’s the language I’ve seen spoken all over the world.”

It wasn’t until I read and heard other women talk about how much they loved their dads and how their fathers expressed their love for them that my dad’s detached indifference became starkly highlighted. These women would describe the time their father protected them from an abusive boyfriend, taught them how to drive and do an oil change, or took them on a fun road trip before they went off to college. These stories all felt so foreign and exotic to me, like watching Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

You know that’s not a picture of me and my dad because they’re happily hanging out together (and my dad is pasty white). Shut up, I’m not bitter…you’re bitter

So when my boyfriend suggested I ask my father for help, naively assuming all dads are like his dad, I said I couldn’t do that. “What’s the worst that can happen—he’ll say no? If he does, you can move on to the other options”, he assured me. This was coming from a man whose father wrote a check every year for his Ivy League education and paid some of his bills until he got on his feet after he graduated. I loathed the idea of asking my father for anything, let alone money, but the boyfriend had a point. There’s a chance my dad simply didn’t have the funds to help me out, so I reasoned it can’t hurt to try.

I should’ve listened to my instincts.

I wrote my dad an email (that’s how we’d been keeping in touch at that point) explaining why I had some high-interest credit card debt (college textbooks, Christmas and birthday gifts for family and friends, travel expenses), and how I learned along the way what mistakes I made. I explained I was trying to pay it down but I could only afford the minimum due every month, which really only covered the interest. Then I asked for his help (around $7,000?), saying I’d appreciate it so much, and I’d send him money until it’s paid off.

I don’t remember how long it took for him to respond, only that his response stung like my cheek did when he slapped me in the face.

Not only did he refuse to help, he dedicated the entire email to criticizing me, listing all the mistakes I made, and essentially telling me I’ve made my bed and now I have to lie in it. I was floored, not because he said no, but because it was like he didn’t even read my letter. I’d already detailed the mistakes I made, taking responsibility for my poor choices. He hadn’t added anything I didn’t already know. He saw an opportunity to be pointlessly insulting and condescending and ran with it. The biggest kick in the gut was the total lack of empathy; it’s not that he couldn’t help me, he didn’t want to. He was telling me outright I deserve to flounder instead of thrive.

Clearly my dad envisioned Cher when he read my email…pshhhh, as if!

Looking back, Dad didn’t even use legitimate excuses. He could’ve pointed out things I didn’t know at the time, like that your credit score goes down when you pay off a credit card and close it.

I regretted requesting a lifesaver from the man who tossed me into the deep end of the pool in the first place.

GenXers hate asking for help because we learned at ridiculously young ages that adults were a massive disappointment, typically unreliable, and didn’t always have our backs. When you’re raised by people who did the bare minimum as parents during your most formative years, you feel like a burden when you ask others for assistance. The resilience, independence, and self-reliance our generation is known for came at a significant cost.