All Things Genx: Playgrounds - Where GenX Learned Everything About Life

All right, let's start here. Welcome to

All Things Gen X, the show that either

brings back fond memories for the

forgotten generation or triggers their

early childhood PTSD. Either way, we are

documenting the lost stories of our

youth. I'm the DBOD veteran and I

[music] am Gen X.

>> No way.

>> And today, we're talking about the place

that quietly explained our entire

generation before we ever had words to

explain it. The playground.

>> You're not in Kansas anymore. Every

living thing wants to kill you and eat

your eyes for juju bees.

>> Not the modern playgrounds of today with

rubber flooring, rounded edges, and

adults hovering like risk managers. I'm

talking about Gen X playgrounds.

>> There is evil there that does not see.

>> The kind of place that you didn't go to

express yourself. You went to test

limits, discover consequences, and

occasionally bleed just enough to know

where that line was. And the thing that

people forget is that none of this was

accidental.

>> [music]

>> When playgrounds were designed for Gen

X, the goal wasn't safety. The goal was

durability. Municipal planners wanted

equipment that [music] would last

forever, survive the weather, and

require minimal adult involvement.

>> True enough,

>> which is how we ended up with

playgrounds that feel less like

recreational spaces and more like

outdoor industrial training facilities.

And once you understand that, everything

else makes sense. You usually

encountered the slide first because

slides were considered safe, which tells

you a lot about the standards at the

time. Metal slides became popular in the

early to mid 20th century because steel

was cheap, strong, and didn't crack

under use. Unfortunate for us, nobody

asked what happened when you leave the

steel in direct sunlight for 8 hours and

then invite children to sit on it.

[screaming and groaning]

By the 1970s and 80s, metal slides were

everywhere. They weren't curved gently.

They weren't shaded, and they weren't

forgiving. They were tall, steep, and

committed to physics. Gen X learned

early that before you trusted anything,

you tested it. You touched a slide with

the back of your leg first. That was the

science behind using a slide. If it

burned immediately, you waited. If it

didn't, you committed and hoped momentum

beat friction. Kids today would need a

full orientation to survive a metal

slide. They're [music] not ready. Rule

one, never sit immediately. Rule two,

accept minor pain as data. And rule

three, understand that fun sometimes

includes consequences. The slide taught

Gen X something important. [music]

Comfort is not guaranteed. You decide

whether the risk is worth it. And that

lesson carried over nicely into

adulthood. Once you made peace with

gravity and heat on the slide, your eyes

naturally went upward. That's when you

noticed the monkey bars.

>> Get your fat ass over there, private

pile. Oh, that's right, private pile.

>> Monkey bars didn't exist to be fun. They

existed to sort children. Originally

developed as part of early physical

education programs in the 1920s and 30s,

monkey bars were meant to build upper

body strength and coordination. By the

time Gen X came along, they had evolved

into a full-blown social ranking system.

[laughter] If you could cross them, you

knew it. If you couldn't cross them,

other people knew it. If you fell, you

learned how to fall in front of

witnesses. Jedx learned grip strength,

timing, and how to pretend you meant to

drop at the end. Kids today would need

another survival guide. Like, [music]

don't rush. Ignore the crowd. Let go

cleanly, not [music] desperately. Monkey

Bars taught us a lesson we still use.

Know your limits. Push them carefully

and don't panic when your hands give

out.

>> Jump. You mean fall.

>> If the monkey bars taught us control,

then the merrygoround taught us chaos.

The merrygoround dates back to the late

1800s as it was originally powered by

animals and adults. By the time it

showed up on playgrounds, it existed for

one reason, unsupervised speed.

>> Speed. Speed. There was always one kid

whose entire personality was spinning it

faster. Not because it was fun, but

because it was possible. You learned

quickly that holding on too long was a

mistake, and that letting go at the

right moment could be survivable. This

is where Gen X learned physics the hard

way. Momentum matters, timing matters,

and sometimes the smartest move is

bailing early.

>> Watch the canopy. Kids today would need

clear instructions. Never be the fastest

spinner. Never lock your arms. Choose

your exit before chaos peaks.

>> Go quick like a bunny. Run.

>> The merry-girl round didn't teach

cooperation. It taught situational

awareness. And once you understood speed

and gravity, you graduated to betrayal.

>> Remember, Sally, when I promised to kill

you last, I lied. That's where the

seessaw came in. Before the seessaw

became a childhood trust exercise gone

wrong, it actually had a respectable

origin. The seessaw, originally called

the teeter totter, dates back to the

late 17th century, where variations

showed up in European villages, fairs,

schoolyards as a way to teach balance,

rhythm, and cooperation. Early educators

believed it encouraged kids to

synchronize movement and understand

cause and effect. By the early 20th

century, seesaws became standard

playground equipment in the United

States, especially in public parks and

schools because they were cheap to

build, mechanically simple, and nearly

impossible to break. The original intent

was collaboration. Two kids, equal

effort, shared movement. But what nobody

accounted for was human nature. By the

time Gen X encountered the seessaws in

the 1970s and 80s, the lesson had

shifted from cooperation to power

dynamics. Whoever weighed more or jumped

off at the wrong moment controlled the

outcome, which is why the seessaw didn't

actually teach teamwork. It taught

leverage,

timing, and the dangers of trusting

someone without confirmation. NEVER

TRUST PEOPLE.

A lesson Gen X applied immediately and

permanently. Someone always jumped off.

Someone always slammed down. Gen X

learned early that trust without

confirmation was a bad strategy. Kids

today, they would need guidance like

keep your feet ready, watch body

language, and never sit until the other

person commits. The Seesaw taught us

something profound. Agreements matter.

Follow through matters and silence

usually means someone is about to leave.

If you survived all of that, you

probably wandered towards the climbing

dome. The climbing dome didn't appear by

accident. It was a product of optimism,

specifically 1970s optimism. The

geodessic climbing dome was inspired by

the architectural theories of

Buckminster Fuller who believed that

geometric structures could create strong

efficient designs using minimal

materials. His work influenced

everything from architecture to

playground designs. In the late 1960s

and early 1970s, educators and urban

planners embraced the idea that children

needed unstructured play, vertical

exploration, and riskbased learning. The

climbing dome checked all three boxes.

It was marketed as a way to encourage

spatial awareness, problem solving, and

confidence building. What it actually

did was introduce children to fear

management, exit planning, and the

reality that going up is optional, but

coming down is [music] mandatory. By the

time Gen X encountered climbing domes,

they were installed everywhere with

almost no supervision because adults

figured children would just figure it

out.

And we did. usually halfway up. The

climbing Dome didn't teach bravery. It

taught judgment, specifically knowing

when ambition has exceeded ability.

>> You underestimate my power.

>> A lesson that followed Gen X into

adulthood beautifully. Kids today would

need rules. Don't climb higher than your

courage. Plan your descent early and

accept that fear is information, not

failure. [music]

The climbing dome taught us that pride

fades, but gravity doesn't. And beneath

all of this, the most important piece of

equipment of all was the ground. Modern

playgrounds use rubberized surfaces.

>> It can be installed [music] in fun

designs, has lots of color options, high

perceived value, there's no mess.

>> Gen X playgrounds used concrete, packed

dirt, and gravel. Falling wasn't rare.

It was instructional. We learned how to

fall, how to assess damage, and how to

decide whether blood mattered. Kids

today would need coaching, like bend,

[music] roll, and check for witnesses

before reacting. The ground taught Gen X

reality. Mistakes have impacts. Recovery

is faster when you don't panic. Now,

quick pause. If any of this sounds like

your childhood, subscribe because I'm

going to keep explaining why Gen X

functions the way it does. And if these

stories don't get told, they get

rewritten. [music]

All right, back to the equipment audit.

This episode is sponsored by Tetanis

Shots and Structural Metal, the backhood

of Gen X childhood. [music]

We're talking about the real MVPs of the

playground. rusted bolts, chipped paint,

exposed welds, and steel tubing that has

been outside since 1974 and refuses to

quit. This wasn't decorative metal. This

was infrastructure. Playground equipment

back then wasn't designed to look fun.

It was designed to survive weather,

neglect, and children using it in ways

no engineer ever intended. No plastic

flex, no foam padding, no this side up

stickers. Just steel, heavy, cold in the

winter, molten in the summer, and always

slightly sharper than it needs to be.

And paired perfectly with its companion

product, the tetanus shot. Not

preventative in spirit, reactive.

[music]

You didn't get one because you were

careful. You got one because something

failed inspection after contact with

oxidized metal. This sponsorship

celebrates a simpler era of safety

philosophy. If it holds, it's fine. If

it cuts, you clean. If it rusts, don't

touch it. And if you ignore that advice,

there's a shot for it. Now, full

transparency, this is a fake

sponsorship. No pharmaceutical company

is involved. No steel manufacturer

signed off on this, and no one from

legals said this was a good idea. But if

there was a real sponsor that

represented durability over comfort,

function over aesthetics, and learning

the hard way, it would be this. Because

Gen X doesn't need warning labels,

padded edges, or constant supervision.

We grew up with materials that didn't

apologize for existing. And somehow they

still [music] worked. Tetanis shots and

structural metal built to last, unlike

our knees. And here's why this all

matters. Gen X didn't grow up with safe

playgrounds. We grew up with effective

ones. They taught [music] us

independence, adaptability, and humor as

a survivor tool. When people wonder why

Gen X doesn't panic easily, it's because

recess trained us. So, drop a comment.

Which piece of equipment almost took you

out? And what should we deep dive next

on All Things Gen X? [music] We didn't

need safe spaces. We needed band-aids

and permission to keep playing. And we

took it.