Trapper Keeper

The Trapper Keeper was introduced by Mead Corporation in 1978 and became a back-to-school staple throughout the 1980s and early 1990s. Designed by E. Bryant Crutchfield (1937-2022), a marketing executive at Mead, the Trapper Keeper was created to help students organize loose-leaf paper and folders more efficiently.

Its innovative design featured a Velcro flap closure, interior pockets, and metal rings that held specially designed “Trapper” folders, which allowed papers to be inserted from the side rather than the top. This prevented them from falling out, which was pure genius for a high schooler like me whose life was 100 percent chaos. 

Millions of Trapper Keepers were sold annually leading to the notebook’s rise as a Gen X cultural icon. Covers evolved from simple solid colors to bold, airbrushed graphics, and even licensed designs like Star Wars and Lisa Frank. My favorites were always the animals, especially the one with the horse, which I had. 

Mixtape

For Generation X, the mixtape was more than a collection of songs, it was a language of emotion, identity, and connection. Before playlists were digital and disposable, we spent hours hovering over record buttons, curating the perfect blend of music to speak on our behalf. Each mixtape was a handcrafted artifact of intention. In high school, my friend Jon made mixtapes for me filled with some of the era’s most beloved Christian artists. I played them to death as I had zero money for music.

These tapes weren’t just about faith; they were about understanding. They said, “I see you,” in a way few conversations could. His careful choices and hand-labeled cases gave voice to a friendship that lived in music. I truly can’t believe I tossed these treasures in the trash, but I did so many, many years ago. 

Edie Brickell

While working in Air Force public affairs in the 1990s, another friend, Cheryl, gave me mixtapes that opened a different kind of window. Her tapes were layered with introspective sounds like Edie Brickell & New Bohemians. They came tucked into plastic cases with curly handwriting.

These songs fit the rhythm of our long workdays and quiet personal dreams. To receive a mixtape was to be known, remembered, and soundtracked. It was an exchange of taste, vulnerability, and care. For Gen X, few cultural objects captured so much life between two spools of tape.

Atari Joystick

The Atari joystick was the gateway to another world for many Generation X kids, including me. I first encountered it in the early 1980s while staying at my sister’s house after the birth of my nephew Jayson. Back then I was just a kid, and while everyone else was cooing over the new baby, I was glued to the television in the living room, clutching that black plastic controller with its single red button and long black stick.

I played so much Pac-Man that week I was practically eating those little digital dots in my sleep. There was something hypnotic about the repetition, the sound effects, and the simple challenge of getting farther with each game. 

The Atari joystick, officially known as the CX40, debuted in 1977 with the launch of the Atari 2600. It was revolutionary in its simplicity: one stick, one button, infinite possibilities. Prior to this, video games were mostly found in arcades, operated by quarter after quarter. But with Atari and its joystick, the arcade came home.

The controller’s design was durable and intuitive, built for the demands of kids who didn’t know the meaning of moderation. It became the template for generations of gaming hardware that followed, from NES controllers to modern gamepads. But for Gen X, the Atari joystick wasn’t just a piece of plastic. It was a passport to pixelated adventures as we paroled ourselves from way too much aloneness.

MTV Logo

MTV debuted on August 1, 1981, with the words “Ladies and gentlemen, rock and roll,” launching a revolution in how music was seen, not just heard. For Generation X, MTV wasn’t just a channel, it was a cultural force that shaped fashion, attitude, and even language. It gave us music videos that felt like short films, VJs who became household names, and access to artists that would have otherwise existed only in liner notes.

By the mid-1980s, it was the pulse of youth culture. It was new, chaotic, addictive, and for most Gen-Xers, unforgettable.

I became fully immersed in MTV during the summer of 1986, when my parents finally got cable. I was home from college, babysitting the six Giroux kids in our 1,044-square-foot house. MTV became both my escape and my soundtrack. It played endlessly in the background of that wasteland of a summer.

The Giroux kids, around 0-11, were fantastic, though and I have thought of them so many times over the years. I didn’t realize it at the time, but all of us except the baby were Gen-Xers. 

Nikita, Desert Moon

Anyway, I remember being completely mesmerized by “Nikita” by Elton John and “Desert Moon” by Dennis DeYoung. That one still haunts me, as it’s cinematic and melancholy in a way that feels like memory itself. Of course, MTV’s rotation was relentless, and like everyone else, I got completely burned out on Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love,” which seemed to air every hour on the hour. But even when it annoyed us, MTV was all ours. 

Floppy Disk

The floppy disk was once the gold standard for saving your digital life, thin, square, and endlessly useful. In the 1980s and 90s, it was how we stored everything from school papers to software, from resumes to early drafts of dreams.

For me, it was the medium I used to save all my early articles as a young writer working for a military base newspaper. I carefully backed up every story onto those little disks, labeled them in neat handwriting, and filed them away like miniature archives of my career in progress. They felt like proof that I was building something. I still have them all, tucked away in a box in my basement, black, blue, and dusty.

But like so much of our early tech, those floppies are now stranded relics. The computers that could read them are long gone, the file formats mostly obsolete. It’s likely nothing on them is retrievable, but I keep them anyway. There’s something deeply personal about holding a floppy disk that once held your words, your ideas, your best shot at being heard. They remind me of late nights in front of clunky monitors, of getting the wording just right, and of the quiet satisfaction of clicking “save.”

Zack Morris Cell Phone

The Zack Morris cell phone, officially the Motorola DynaTAC 8000X, was one of the first truly portable mobile phones. Released in 1983, it was a towering piece of technology that weighed nearly two pounds, had a massive antenna, and offered a talk time of about 30 minutes before needing a 10-hour charge. For Gen Xers, it became a pop culture icon thanks to Saved by the Bell, where Zack Morris confidently wielded it as a status symbol. Long before smartphones and group chats, it symbolized a new era of connectivity, privilege, and just a hint of absurdity. 

Crisis Communication Exercises

I remember working in Air Force public affairs in the 1990s and dealing with a version of this technology that was even more extreme. During crisis communication exercises, we had a mobile phone packed into an actual suitcase, impractical unless you were preparing for nuclear war. It was assigned as our emergency lifeline, should all else fail. We didn’t use it often, but its presence was always part of the plan. It was our generation’s version of high-tech readiness, and it felt oddly comforting to know we had it.

Nirvana Smiley Face: The Emoji Before Emojis

Worn with sarcasm or sincerity, Nirvana’s smiley face with crooked grin, X eyes, and lopsided tongue pretty much summed up Gen X optimism. It’s been complicated, reluctant, and yes, ironic. Also, I’ve always thought of it as the emoji before emojis.

In 1991, the face first appeared on the back of a flyer promoting Nirvana’s Nevermind album and became closely associated with the band’s branding. It eventually appeared on posters and most famously on the front of a black T-shirt with “Nirvana” in yellow serif font above it. It became way more than merch, though. The smiley face became cultural shorthand for the grunge era itself.

Unfortunately, the symbol’s origin story is a bit fuzzy. It’s widely believed to have been sketched by Kurt Cobain, but debate over who actually drew it remains somewhat of a mystery. The whole thing became tangled up in lawsuits over copyright and ownership.

Pay Phone

The pay phone was once a fixture of daily life, on sidewalks, in gas stations, outside grocery stores and high school gyms. For many Gen Xers, it was more than a convenience; it was a lifeline.

I remember periods growing up when our home phone was disconnected for nonpayment. We’d hunt down a pay phone whenever we needed to make a call, usually to the phone company. Haha. Also, we’d check the coin return for loose change! If you needed a ride, had an emergency, or wanted to call someone just to hear their voice, the pay phone was your friend.

Darker Memory

But pay phones also hold darker memories. In 2010, I wrote about Tonya Rodgers, a teenage girl from Ninnekah, Oklahoma, who was abducted, raped, and murdered in 1990. She had been out late, standing at a pay phone, talking to her boyfriend. That detail, just trying to stay connected, to hold onto love or routine in a small-town night, has always stayed with me.

The pay phone was a symbol of independence and necessity, but also vulnerability. It was public, but also, unsheltered. And now that they’ve nearly vanished, their absence leaves behind a complicated kind of nostalgia. For me, they represent a mix of hardship and loss.

Punk Safety Pin

The safety pin, ordinary and utilitarian, was transformed into a rebellious emblem of punk culture in the 1970s. Later, in the 1980s, it was carried deep into Gen X consciousness. Punk musicians and fans first adopted the safety pin as a form of DIY fashion. They used them to hold ripped clothes together, pierce ears or lips, or just decorate jackets. It became a visible rejection of polished, mainstream style.

Originating in the gritty UK punk scene, it was raw, cheap, and loud without needing to speak, a perfect match for a subculture that thrived on resistance, authenticity, and anti-consumerism.

Punk Culture and Me

I spent the fall of 1986 dancing around the edges of punk culture long before I understood it fully. I loved hanging out at Rainbow Records in Oklahoma City, a rare spot where vintage vinyl and underground sounds intersected with occasional punk rocker. Although I was born in East L.A. and spent my first seven years in the San Gabriel Valley, I spent my formative years in small towns across the Heartland.

Oklahoma City was a big place for me in 1986. It wasn’t known for its hardcore scene, but for me it was cultured. Even though the punk movement never exploded here like it did on the coats, it still quietly existed in small shows that featured obscure regional bands. The Flaming Lips emerged from OKC’s punk-adjacent world.

Rubik’s Cube

The Rubik’s Cube arrived in the 1980s like a brightly colored intellectual dare. Invented by Hungarian architect Ernő Rubik in 1974, and introduced to American toy shelves by 1980, it quickly became a symbol of brilliance, obsession, and frustration.

For Generation X, it wasn’t just a puzzle, it was the puzzle. The clicking of the cube’s turning layers became a familiar sound in classrooms. Kids who could solve it were treated like prodigies, while the rest of us just scrambled it and hoped no one asked us to fix it.

I was one of the many who never figured it out. Every time I tried to solve it, I’d get a side or two lined up and then hit a wall, usually with a sinking feeling of failure that went deeper than the toy itself. It echoed something rather ick: the sting of the metric system that invaded my 4th grade class, and algeba. Ugh. I felt so invisible in math class. 

Sony Walkman

The Sony Walkman, introduced in 1979, was the first truly portable cassette player, and it changed everything. Suddenly, music wasn’t just something you played in your room, it became transportable. It actually felt like a lifeline. 

Lisa Frank Folder

The Lisa Frank folder became a cultural staple for late-wave Gen-Xers and defined a generation of childhood pencil cases, folders and stickers. They were famous for their vivid neon colors and fantastical imagery of unicorns, rainbows and sparkly leopards. Also, dolphins wearing more mascara than I wore in my 1983 Kansas Driver’s License photo.

The brand’s visual style was rooted in a combination of 1980s pop art and a near-hallucinogenic level of brightness. Can I be honest? I never really liked them.

Nevertheless, the products reflected an idealized world filled with friendship, imagination, and color. I think some part of me wanted to live in that world, but I knew it didn’t exist. The designs, in a word, were happy and their popularity solidified the Lisa Frank aesthetic as an iconic symbol of late-wave Generation X. Today, the rise of 1990s nostalgia has fueled the brand’s revival.

Glitter and Greed

In case you missed it, Glitter and Greed: The Lisa Frank Story, premiered on Amazon in December 2024. The four-part documentary pulls back the curtain on the bright, bubblegum world of Lisa Frank Inc. The series traces the rise, retreat, and reinvention of a company that once dominated school supply aisles. I watched it and the whole thing felt like one great big betrayal of sparkling kittens. Sadly, these contradictions seem to be everywhere.

D.A.R.E. T Shirt

The D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) T-shirt emerged from a nationwide anti-drug campaign launched in 1983 by the Los Angeles Police Department. It was created at the height of the War on Drugs and quickly expanded into schools across the U.S. throughout the 1980s and 90s. Kids were taught to “just say no” in assemblies led by uniformed officers, often capped off with promises of a T-shirt if they completed the program.

For many Gen Xers, the D.A.R.E. shirt was a rite of passage, handed out in classrooms alongside coloring books and pledge cards. It was meant to signal moral clarity and peer resistance. It was equal parts public health effort and public relations campaign.

D.A.R.E. 2.0

Over time, the D.A.R.E. T-shirt took on a second life. By the late 1990s, it had become something of an ironic fashion statement. It was often worn by Gen Xers who no longer viewed the program as effective or relevant. Studies had begun to question the impact of D.A.R.E., and the shirt shifted from sincere emblem to retro novelty.

Today, it remains a symbol of both good intentions and questionable outcomes. It endures not just as a piece of clothing, but as a cultural artifact that captures a specific moment in American education, youth culture, and the politics of prevention. Whether worn with sincerity or sarcasm, the D.A.R.E. shirt remains instantly recognizable. A definite Gen X flashpoint.

Rotary Phone

The rotary phone was a fixture in nearly every Gen X household, a clunky, coiled lifeline mounted on kitchen walls or perched on hallway tables. With its heavy handset and finger-dial that clicked and whirred as you spun it around, it demanded patience and intention. And it was at the center of so much early adolescent drama and connection.

Avocado Green

For me, that avocado green rotary phone in a spare bedroom was where I spent hours talking to my 9th grade boyfriend, John. We barely acknowledged each other in the halls at school, but once that final bell rang, we’d talk for hours. That is until the moment he dumped me, unceremoniously, in the middle of one of those long, static-laced calls. It wasn’t particularly crushing. I just had to find someone new to talk to during the lonely hours after school. 

I also spent countless hours talking with my friend Jennifer, who lived eight miles outside of town and rode the bus home each day. Our lives were so separate after school, but the rotary phone closed that distance. We’d talk about school, boys, books, everything and nothing.

Then there were the occasional long-distance calls from my brother, a Marine stationed far from home. Those moments felt precious, even sacred, with the entire house quieting so we wouldn’t miss a word. 

Encyclopaedia Britannica

The Encyclopedia Britannica was once the gold standard for knowledge, thick, dignified volumes lined up like soldiers on living room bookshelves or tucked into wooden cabinets sold door-to-door. For Gen X kids, it was the original search engine, the place you went when the teacher assigned a paper and your library access was limited to whatever your family had at home.

Vietnam War Term Paper

I remember earnestly flipping through its weighty pages in middle school, convinced I could write my entire term paper on the Vietnam War using just what I found there. Spoiler: I could not. The war was condensed into a few dense columns of neutral language and military timelines. I tried to stretch those paragraphs into a full report, adding transitions and filler sentences, hoping my teacher wouldn’t notice the thinness of my sources. It was a total trainwreck. 

A Full Set

Still, those volumes represented something bigger than schoolwork. They felt important, permanent, adult. Owning a full set meant your family believed in education, even if it mostly gathered dust between assignments.

The encyclopedia encouraged a kind of slow, analog curiosity. You’d look up one topic and inevitably stumble onto others: Cambodia, communism, Cold War, all in alphabetical order. It didn’t give you answers so much as it trained you to dig.

For me, that Vietnam War paper wasn’t a success in the academic sense, but it was a rite of passage: the moment I learned that real understanding didn’t live in just one book, and that history couldn’t be summarized in a single entry, no matter how fancy the typeface.

Funk and Wangnalls

Also, I feel the need to mention the particular trauma of my father forcing me to take my Funk and Wagnalls encylopedias to college. He bought one a week for me at the grocery store until the set was complete. They took up half my dorm room and I never used them one time. Poor Dad.

No Fear

Launched in 1989, the No Fear brand exploded across Gen X culture in the 1990s with its aggressive fonts and bold, in-your-face slogans about courage, risk, and living without limits. Worn by skaters, jocks, and even suburban kids trying to tap into something edgier, No Fear made it feel like rebellion came screen-printed. It was part fashion, part philosophy, perfect for a generation raised on irony. Even if most of us weren’t cliff diving or motocross racing, wearing No Fear made it seem like maybe we could.

Grunge / Flannel

Grunge flannel was the accidental uniform of a generation, unpretentious, oversized, and effortlessly cool. It came straight out of the Pacific Northwest in the early 1990s, worn by bands like Nirvana and Pearl Jam who made fashion out of fatigue, and authenticity out of thrift. But you didn’t have to be in Seattle to get the vibe.

College Flannel

I wore a lot of flannel in college. Mainly, shirts I bought in the men’s section at Walmart, often paired with a curly updo and vintage rhinestone earrings. It was a look that didn’t make sense on paper, but it worked. I felt freaking amazing in it. Comfortable, a little rebellious, and entirely myself.

Grunge style wasn’t about labels or trend cycles. It was about layering on what felt good and felt real. Flannel shirts, especially when softened by wear and age, became a kind of armor. They told the world you didn’t try too hard, even if, secretly, you kind of did. I was all about thrift rebellion in college. 

VCR / VHS Tape

The VCR (Video Cassette Recorder) was introduced widely in the late 1970s. It boomed in popularity through the 1980s and 90s as it let us record shows, fast-forward through commercials, and rent movies on our own time. No longer did you have to miss an episode or wait for a rerun.

And the VHS tape, with its clunky plastic case and spools of black ribbon, became a sacred object: rewound, borrowed, dubbed, and occasionally chewed up by the machine at the worst possible moment. The “Be Kind, Rewind” sticker, in and of itself, is a cultural icon. 

TV Test Pattern

The TV test pattern, those eerie color bars, geometric shapes, and that monotone hum, was once a familiar and unsettling sight for me growing up. Long before 24-hour broadcasting, it marked the end of the viewing day or the moment a local station was having “technical difficulties.”

For me, seeing it flash onscreen felt like a tiny death. One minute you were watching cartoons or a late-night movie, and the next, silence. No dialogue, no music, just that droning sound and a screen that could go on for hours. It was annoying and sometimes, unsettling, especially if you woke up th enext morning and it was still there!

Scratch ‘n Sniff Stickers / Scented Stationery

I was too old for Scratch ‘n Sniff stickers when they came out, but they are definitely a Gen X touchstone. What I do remember, however, was my sister Becky’s strawberry scented gingham letterset. If I recall correctly, there was also a lemon letterset. I loved this stationery so much. My friend Chloe recently sent me a vintage letterset. Generation X remembers…

 BMX Bikes

BMX bikes were the ultimate symbol of freedom for Gen X kids. Smaller and lighter than traditional bikes, they were built to race, jump, skid, and survive whatever tricks you could dream up. Riding a BMX wasn’t just about getting from one place to another, it was about how you got there. Whether it was launching off homemade ramps, spinning out in gravel, or racing neighborhood kids around cul-de-sacs (ha!), these bikes stretched the limits of suburban streets.

The BMX boom really took off in the late 1970s and 80s, inspired by motocross racing but made for kids who couldn’t wait to grow up. Movies like E.T. and Rad only fueled the obsession, turning the BMX into a pop culture icon. 

Swatch Watch

The Swatch watch was a fashion revolution you could strap to your wrist. Introduced in 1983 as Switzerland’s answer to the growing popularity of affordable Japanese digital watches, Swatch turned timekeeping into an accessory game. They were colorful, quirky, and fun, combining Swiss precision with pop art flair. A friend of mine in college, a girl with a bright blue Trans Am, wore three stacked on one arm, each design bolder than the last. She was something else.

Penn Square Mall

I eyed the Swatched behind the glass at the Foley’s counter in Penn Square Mall while I was in college. Unfortunately, I could never afford one, and often stood there amazed at how expensive they were. Later, at that same counter, I bought myself a pair of 1928 pink rosebud earrings and a matching necklace as a college graduation gift to myself. Together, they cost $40, which was more than I’d spent on anything up to that point. I still have the 1928 jewelry. I still don’t have a Swatch!

Chalk Erasers

There was something strangely satisfying about slamming two chalkboard erasers together and watching the chalk dust bloom like smoke. I longed for chalkboard duty, a weird sort of honor reserved for the most trustworthy students. In 5th Grade, I was, however, selected to deliver the morning devotional, which was about chalk erasers.

This was in 1978, at a public school in West Texas, by the way. I wish I could put my hands on a copy. Unfortunately, I remember little of what it said despite practicing it for weeks. I was thrilled talking to the entire school through the schoolwide intercom system. 

Boom Box

Finally, the boom box, which exploded in popularity in the late 1970s and early 80s, and became one of the most enduring symbols of Generation X.

In the summer of 1987, I drove an old car without a working radio, so I carried the silver boom box my dad bought me in the passenger seat. From it I played cassettes I’d lovingly dubbed from records. It was my lifeline during that grim season of working at the Hertz Data Center and living in a seriously sketchy apartment in West OKC with my friends Debbie and Julie. I was so broke, I slept on a pool raft and lived on rice cakes and cheap diet soda.

Springsteen

One afternoon, driving home and listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Little Girl I Wanna Marry You, I accidentally hit record. My audible gasp, sharp and unmistakable, became permanently etched into the track. For years, that gasp would interrupt every listen, a glitch that was both maddening and weirdly endearing.

Boom boxes were essential, but their battery life was brutal. Eight D-cells cost nearly 10 percent of my weekly paycheck, and they always seemed to die just as you hit your favorite song. Still, the boom box was freedom. It was portable music power that went wherever I needed it, even in a crappy car with no air conditioning, miles to go, and little gas left before home.

Echo and the Bunnymen

I remember the night Trica and I drove to Eldon Lyon Park to prove how interesting we were dancing after nightfall to Echo and The Bunnymen. Who knows what happened to that Boom Box or sadly, what became of 99 percent of the people I once called friend.