Club Sixteen

In Kint, the citizens eventually discovered that belonging works better without numbers.

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:04

Welcome to Dispatches from Kent. Conditions remain inconclusive. This week's report concerns youth. More specifically, the curious problem of what young people are supposed to do when they have finished their homework, eaten their dinner, and still possess a great deal of energy. For many years, the teenagers of Kent had solved this problem in the traditional way. They wandered, they leaned against railings, they discussed important matters such as music, bicycles, and the possibility of leaving Kent someday. Eventually, the Ministry of Civic Well-being noticed that the teenagers appeared to have very little to do. This observation was made during a council meeting when a Kentian reported seeing four teenagers sitting on a bench doing nothing. At first, this was interpreted as suspicious, but further investigation revealed that the teenagers were simply waiting for something interesting to happen. The council decided that something interesting should be provided. And so the town created Club 16. Club 16 was designed specifically for citizens who were 16 years old. The building was cheerful, it contained music, a small dance floor, game tables, comfortable chairs for conversation. The club opened on a Friday evening, and the result was immediate success. Sixteen-year-olds gathered in impressive numbers, music played, games were played, conversations were conducted with great seriousness. The ministry congratulated itself on solving the problem of teenage boredom. But within two weeks, a group of fifteen year olds appeared before the council. They had a reasonable concern. We'll be sixteen soon, they explained, but we're not sixteen now. The council acknowledged the difficulty. After brief deliberation, they approved the creation of Club 15. Club 15 looked remarkably similar to Club 16. The main difference was the age of the members and the music, which was described by the 15-year-olds as slightly more energetic. This solution worked beautifully for about three weeks, and then a delegation of 17-year-olds appeared. Their concern was equally reasonable. We used to be sixteen, they explained, but now we are seventeen. The council agreed that progress through time should not result in social exile. Club seventeen was established. At this point the town possessed three clubs fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. The system appeared balanced, and then the thirteen-year-olds arrived. They argued convincingly that waiting three more years to participate in social gatherings was an unreasonable expectation. Club 13 was created. Soon Club 14 followed, and then Club 12. Each club contained music, games, and chairs arranged in slightly different configurations to reflect the emotional needs of the membership. Eventually the system expanded in an unexpected direction. A group of 19-year-olds approached the council. We still enjoy music, they explained. We still enjoy conversation. We simply happen to be 19. Club 19 was established. Then club twenty. During a particularly creative council meeting, a Kintian suggested Club 25. This idea was initially met with laughter, but the 25-year-olds insisted that they had once been very good at dancing and might enjoy remembering how. The club opened, attendance was impressive. Soon additional clubs appeared. Club 32, Club 40, Club 57. Club 57 became especially popular because the members discovered that they could dance enthusiastically without worrying what anyone thought. At this point, the town of Kent contained a remarkable number of clubs, each one designed for a very specific age, each one carefully organized, each one filled with people enjoying themselves. But a problem began to emerge. Kintians who turned a year older found themselves required to change clubs. Some were reluctant. Friendships had formed. The snack counters had perfected certain recipes. A few Kentians quietly remained at their previous clubs without mentioning their birthdays. Others attempted to visit two clubs at once, which proved physically difficult. Eventually the situation grew confusing. Some members created unofficial clubs and back rooms. Others invented hybrid clubs with flexible age policies. The ministry attempted to create charts explaining the system. The charts became complicated. During one particularly bewildering evening, a sixteen-year-old accidentally wandered into Club 57 and remained there for two hours discussing music with a retired fisherman. Both parties reported enjoying the experience immensely. The council convened once more. Professor Ayeldor, the current king, listened carefully as the Minister of Civic Well-being attempted to explain the situation using several diagrams. At last the king raised a hand. Remind me, he said, what problem were we originally trying to solve? Teenagers had nothing to do, the minister replied. The king nodded. And now? The minister looked at the diagrams. The minister looked at the diagrams. Everyone has somewhere to go, he said, but they're not always allowed to go there. The king considered this quietly, and then he asked a simple question. What if we stop dividing everyone? The room grew still. The proposal was radical. Instead of many clubs, the town will build one large gathering place. Music, games, conversation, food, chairs, lots of chairs. Everyone would be welcome. Teenagers, parents, grandparents. Anyone who wished to dance, anyone who wished to talk. Anyone who simply wished to sit and watch the evening unfold. The building opened several months later, and at first Kintians were uncertain. Sixteen-year-olds stood near the music. Eleven-year-olds played games. Kintians from Club 57 examined the dance floor with professional curiosity. But something interesting happened. People began talking to one another. Music crossed generations. Games attracted unexpected competitors. A 16-year-old taught a 70-year-old a new dance. A 60-year-old taught a 12-year-old how to win at checkers. A philosophical aside, human beings often organize themselves into groups. By age, by interest, by habit. Sometimes this is useful, but sometimes the most interesting conversations occur when walls between those groups quietly disappear, which may explain why the many clubs of Kent eventually became one. The sign on the building now reads simply, The Club. No number required. From the land of Kent, where generations occasionally discover they enjoy the same music, and birthdays no longer determine where one may sit. This has been your correspondent. Conditions remain inconclusive.