Snowflake Nation: Trigger Warnings, Trump, And Millennial Power

By Tyler Koch

The entire world is watching the United States as the events of the Donald Trump era of democracy continue to unfold. After Donald Trump won the 2016 general election following the most vile, scandalous, and confusing campaigns in American history- a shockwave of populism shook the foundations of conventional political establishments. Despite the best efforts of the Democratic party and the mainstream media, Trump's message prevailed, as he took an ideological jackhammer to both sides traditional establishment politics along the way. Snowflake Nation: Trigger Warnings, Trump, and Millennial Power answers the question many American's are still asking: "What now?" Snowflake Nation wipes the slate clean of the mainstream media's biased rendition of the life and times of Donald Trump the businessman, and illustrates a life of conservative principles and core values that contributed to his historic rise to the White House.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732007116

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Copyright © 2018 John Tyler Koch, Koch-Tye Holdings, Inc., Washington, D.C. All rights reserved.

Snowflake Nation: Trigger Warnings, Trump, and Millennial Power and all work included herein is a protected literary work by the official Copyright of the United States Copyright Office, Reference No. 1-6268617311.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018901835

Cover Design by Castelane.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, to include photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the expressed permission of the publisher, except in the case of quotations embodied in reviews and other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN-10: 1-7320071-0-1

ISBN-13: 978-1-7320071-0-9 (Hardback)

ISBN-13: 978-1-7320071-1-6 (Kindle)

To Jaclyn and Bentley, living proof of unconditional love.

Table of Contents

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION: An American Decision

PART I. The Rise.

Chapter One: From the Ashes, a Generation Emerges

Chapter Two: Obama, Architect of the Millennial Movement

Chapter Three: Will the Real Donald Trump Please Stand Up?

PART II. A Trumptastic Run.

Chapter Four: Hillary 2.0

Chapter Five: Trumpamania Running Wild!

Chapter Six: The Nation’s most Trumptastic Candidate

Part III. Aftershocks

Chapter Seven: Mainstream Media Backlash

Chapter Eight: Foundation Repair— How Trump Impacted

the Establishments

Part IV. The America First Revolution

Chapter Nine: The First 100 Days, and Beyond

Chapter Ten: Listen Up Snowflakes! It’s Time to Take Responsibility

Final Thoughts

Acknowledgements

The Minds Behind the Footnotes

Index

About the Author

PREFACE

No matter what side of the aisle you were on, you can’t ignore the truth about Donald Trump. His winning the 2016 presidential election is one of the most monumental achievements in American history. It doesn’t matter whether you agree with him or his politics. It doesn’t matter whether you like the guy or not. The fact is, no one outside of political circles or the military arena has ever made it to the United States Oval Office as the President of these United States the way he has. And that alone is an outstanding feat we will likely see analyzed for years to come.

I also think we can agree his win originated from a widening divide between two opposing ideologies (and little middle ground): conservatism versus progressivism. Several Americans expressed deep beliefs and opinions from both spectrums. Conservatives’ confidence was hemorrhaging after eight years of what was described as fiscal irresponsibility and global weakness during the Obama Administration, which, by all definitions, has been labeled as a progressive agenda. On the other hand, progressives felt President Obama didn’t go far enough fast enough.

Regardless of which promises you rooted for, the election of Donald Trump happened because more people said, enough is enough! They decisively and adamantly, as a nation, voted no to an ideology that didn’t fulfill the promises of change the way they expected or the way they’d envisioned. The change they’d just experienced for eight years had delivered more of an ideology that said the best way to govern people is through misrepresentation and manipulation, something people finally rejected; and they did it despite the mainstream media’s constant mantras. In an honest analysis, one would have to say one faction exerted exhaustive control and influence over the election, and that influence was the mainstream media. Instead of presenting facts and information, they tried to alter the outcome…unsuccessfully, I might add.

Considering the divide, the media, numerous campaigns, speeches, debates, ads, fake news, dirty tactics, and endless social media wars, Trump did not obtain this election victory easily. We all endured an exhausting sixteen-month campaign cycle, a cycle I didn’t think would ever end. How many of us enjoy a relentless round of personal attacks between candidates, day in and day out, week after week, no matter whether its Democrats or Republicans? Just as I thought. None of us. It wears us down, turns us off politics, and trashes our social media feeds until we beg to get back to normal.

Many of us arrived at the polls on November 8, 2016, ready for the political war to end. We were ready to close another election cycle with a new leader taking over the reins in our government’s Executive Branch. We couldn’t wait for an end to the abundant stories and accusations about the Democratic Party’s corruption and shady dealings. And did we ever witness the corruption! How many times did you ask yourself: Can it get any worse? I’m not sure how many historical elections could compete with Hillary Clinton’s and the Democrat’s long list of unscrupulousness and misrepresentation the way they did this election season. Must be a record!

But just when we thought things might settle down, the mainstream media upped their attacks and their defamation of President Trump and the conservative movement, diving into their diatribes before Americans even had a chance to catch their breaths and enjoy a victory celebration.

At last, conservatives saw the Trump victory as a path back to individual prosperity and the Constitution’s preservation. The media took to the cameras and promoted a narrative that made it sound like the victory threatened civilization. This did not appear to be the end of political strife but the beginning! Better buckle up for this ride. Be prepared to play tug of war between two perspectives. The progressives and media grasped the end of the rope marked doomsday and white-lash against a black president. The conservatives snatched the other end containing a message of optimism, hope, and freedom from governmental mandates and control. You know, those rules and regulations that tell you what kind of lightbulb you can use in your house or what kind of water you can collect on your property. Well, this rope is tugged snugly and I don’t see much movement over the center line.

Speaking of movement, the Trump win wasn’t just a victory in voter numbers; it was proof of a movement and not the kind of typical grass-roots kind that ebbs and flows. This new awareness consisted of those who rejected top-down governance and its unified demonstration of power. For some unknown reason, pollsters and media had been proven wrong in their predictions. Everyone expected to wake up November 9, 2016, to see a female in the Oval Office, not an old white business guy with red hair. If there’s anything more infuriating than trusting those who provide statistics and data, it’s trusting them and believing in their infallibility.

Furthermore, the Democrats cringed and cried when they realized the majority of Americans had sided with constitutional originalism dating back to 1787, the very Constitution that limited the D.C. establishment’s almighty rule. What a setback! Times change, so must the Constitution. It’s outdated. It’s limiting. It’s just too prohibitive! Did federalism triumph over the proponents of progressivism (socialism)? It didn’t seem possible. This unfolding nightmare didn’t stop there. Having a billionaire as President just added insult to injury. The hatred didn’t stem from Trump’s attributes as a person or a successful businessman. The hatred didn’t even seem to come from within his ability to win without them but his win in spite of them. From the backlash, one would think the world was about to end. What had happened? How could this have happened? It couldn’t be true. Surely someone had made a huge mistake.

That mistake comes back to the mainstream media. After all, didn’t you watch journalists and commentators employ their traditional tactics to counter Trump’s efforts? I couldn’t turn the TV on any news station without their incessant attempts to shut down disenfranchised Americans who wanted out of the status-quo. Why would anyone reject the utopian promises the progressives had initiated and promoted for decades now? Didn’t people understand all the wonderful benefits of world peace and love?

Thus, the media’s backlash unfolded in an urgent and desperate attempt to wake people up to the wonderful advantages they’d just axed. They took up their swords to slash the optimism President Trump had audaciously spread among misguided and forgotten Americans. The media shared a mission to adjust the lens and focus on his distorted vision of life under conservatism. Then Americans would see their folly. The media had a duty to awaken the American people from the nightmare.

What better way to calm the hysteria and panic; what better way to ease the grief; what better way to help them recover from the nightmare than to create and promote safe spaces for dealing with the conservative victory. Those suffering the most seemed to be students and millennials. Social media spread fear, distress, confusion, and hopelessness like a virus through these student groups and college-matriculating millennials. To make matters worse, we heard pollsters and commentators lay a guilt trip on this age group, attributing Clinton’s defeat to low millennial turnout at the voting booths. Shifting the loss from a dislike of political ideologies to a generation of young citizens and their laziness took millennials out of their comfort zones. Wasn’t it bad enough they had been led to believe a third term of Barack Obama was a no-brainer? Now they want to lay guilt on them? That is a hard pill to digest.

In a state of turmoil, millennials—who were accustomed to validation and thrived under sensitive perceptions—suddenly found themselves in an alternate universe when the sun came up the night after an historical election when they learned their beloved Hillary, their feminist fighter, their compassionate and understanding leader wore a man’s suit and not a woman’s pantsuit. Bewildered and paralyzed, who would hold their hands and provide their desperate need for comfort and solace? You can probably guess—the mainstream media and their liberal institutions who’d just handed them their college degrees.

Now you might ask, How did America end up here? How could a wealthy businessman accustomed to a lavish lifestyle exit the land of luxury and decide the United States had lost its way and that he could fix it? Who purposely puts himself under continuous crushing scrutiny to attempt public service? I’m sure your questions are endless, but understanding an unconventional entry into politics will mystify all of us for years. Many people have wished for someone outside of the political club to take a stab at the job; and although that wish may have been granted, no one would have predicted the extreme objection.

In examining Donald Trump, what we all know is that he’s been a New York real estate developer and an international businessman for decades. Many of you may have watched his commanding TV presence on The Apprentice. You might have also seen his many interviews with TV celebrities like Oprah. One thing we may all have noticed is how he speaks differently, directly, and often controversially. Politically correct isn’t in his vocabulary. You might have cringed whenever he said bigly but grammatically, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word is correct. One thing we can all agree on: Trump’s individualistic style and nonconformist approach to just about everything confirms he has a tried-and-true formula for the success he has enjoyed his entire life. His technique obviously made the impossible possible. His pursuit of the presidency demonstrates his genius, whether you support him or not.

To help give those who are struggling with this topsy-turvy new landscape, especially the millennials, let’s leave this nightmare and continue our time travel journey into the future. Let’s see if we can piece together two different scenarios based off what we know from both the Democratic platform and Hillary’s promises and from the Republican platform under Trump’s plan. Let’s see whose world offers the best map for our life journey. Don’t we all want the same thing? You and I can find common ground, I’m sure. The question is, what’s the best route to get there? Where we will end up?

INTRODUCTION: An American Decision

Most people will remember Robert Frost ’s poem The Road Not Taken. As a high school sophomore, I had to memorize it. It may not have meant much to me back then, but on the morning of November 8, 2016, the words flooded back with a fresh perspective. I’d pondered the author’s choice—which road to take—why he chose one and not the other. Metaphorically, we all choose roads in one variation or another…sometimes every day.

And that Tuesday was no different. I, along with countless others, had to face a choice. My day had begun with me staring teary-eyed at a letter on display that was written to incoming President Bill Clinton. A place that resounds decades of dignity and respect, the George H. W. Bush Presidential Library in College Station, Texas, is an institution as rich in values as it is in history. It that fateful November day that I walked the halls of the revered library with a dear friend of mine, soaking in the years of accomplishment of the World War II fighter pilot who traversed more than forty-years of public service with an irrevocable sense of humility.

As I looked upon a hand-written piece of correspondence, a lost art to my generation, I read the words of a President who had lost an election, but had not lost his faith. George H. W. Bush assured the youthful Arkansas governor who would be taking his place to push forward through criticism, as he would enjoy the support of the office’s former occupant from that point forward. "That, is a President, I said to my college-professor companion. What happened to that sort of class? It has been replaced with a contest of who can expose the most scandalous information!" I, like many Americans, had been worn out by the degree of nastiness on both sides of the political aisle in the nation’s search for the next commander-in-chief. Nevertheless, we were nearing the end. It was time to go vote.

What road would I choose on a lonely autumn morning when I hit a fork in the road? The voting booth had become a device for exploring my decision’s outcomes in more than a metaphorical sense, as my electronic selection screen transformed into a window displaying two markedly different paths. I suddenly felt like Frost’s traveler as I stood in the voting booth and contemplated those two paths, two very important directions. After all, this was my future at stake. My future!

I could take the usual road, the one with all the familiar curves, bumps, corners, potholes, stop signs…lots of stop signs…and traffic jams. Yes, I knew this part of the grid very well. After all, I’ve lived with it for eight long, arduous years.

But for some curious reason, the unknown path seemed to flash a daring command: Be bold. Exit here and begin your road trip, your journey into the future. This mysterious option gripped me with trepidation and cultivated an ambivalence I’d never dealt with before. I had no idea where this road would end up. Nor did I know what detours or roadblocks I might encounter. There could be a cliff at the end of this alternate route. Then what?

The familiar route? Or the new one? As if a portal for time travelling had opened, I viewed both paths as an opportunity to visit the future, to get a preview of what each journey provided, to find out which travel plan offered the trip of a lifetime. Which agent could back up their boasting on all their bulleted features and tempting sensations outlined in their full-color brochures? I owed myself the smoothest, most direct, most scenic, and above all else, the best journey possible for my family.

Before I am allowed to take this trip, however, I have to agree to one condition: I cannot be told which trip I am on until I’ve made my final decision. I guess it’s like a chili cook-off: You can only judge which soup is best by its flavors, texture, consistency, spices.

I close my eyes and move forward onto the path I am inclined to choose, anxiously awaiting my confirmation that my decision would prove to be the right one for me and my country, and the time travel commences.

It doesn’t feel anything like I thought it would, as it more resembles the centripetal force often encountered in a roller coaster as opposed to the feeling of activating the hyper-drive on the Millennium Falcon I imagined. In a matter of seconds, I arrive. But where? This feels like a place I’ve been before, or at least one I’ve seen hundreds of times. No, I’ve definitely been here. I look around and I see I have landed with the voting booth setup at my back. As if I had just signed on for a political reboot of Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, I knew the voting booth would be my source of reprieve.

Once I orient myself to my location, I notice a billboard where the famous Time’s Square marquee used to flash with brilliant lights, and realize I am in New York City. What has happened to the banner of lights? My surroundings certainly don’t feel like the exquisite, grand, ambitious environment poets, writers, playwrights, and songwriters have depicted throughout the decades. I don’t even see the people dressed up in Transformer costumes angling for a picture.

I look around at bare and grimy streets. The streetlights are extinguished with only a few illuminating random windows along the skyline. Dirty windows, some broken, hide views into empty stores and businesses. Lease and for-sale signs litter the buildings. Trash rolls along the sidewalks and curbs under the direction of rough breezes. Around one corner, homeless people fill the doorways and any spot fit for their cardboard tents and, if they are lucky, a pup tent of sorts to shelter themselves from the elements. New York in the winter must be brutal. How do they do it? How do they survive?

Did they have a bad storm? Another attack like 9/11?

So far, this journey loses points. I pivot to immediately try and reverse course all together, but I decide to stick with my notion things are not always as they appear. I have not given myself sufficient time to investigate things and decide to stay a while longer.

A gentleman trudges nearby and sits on a desolate bus stop bench, although I do not see many cars, trucks, or buses rolling down the streets as one would expect for a city I’d always known as bumper-to-bumper taxis. He’s dressed in an oversized coat that is at least a decade’s worth of winter’s old, and has definitely seen friendlier conditions. He wears an even older red hat, but must be either reliable or important for him to keep in its current condition. Perhaps he’s resting, waiting for his wife or another family member.

I boldly but carefully take a seat beside him and initiate a polite conversation with a generic greeting, never dreaming I’d awaken a gentleman’s inner soul and serve as his listener, his therapist, and his adviser. What I learn in these precious minutes are forever etched in my mind and will haunt me for days, maybe years, or worse, the rest of my life.

As we sit on the bench, he seemed to take notice of an invasive figure making his way between us, as he looks down and realizes his resting place has at some point been transformed into an advertisement for an older gentleman’s 2028 congressional campaign. Smiling with an American flag pin clearly placed on his left lapel, the words surrounding his vinyl-affixed face scream, Relentless Democracy Lives in 2028!

As the bench’s earlier occupant seems to finish reading the text, his face changes from one of indifference to one of disgust. He snarls and mumbles something indistinguishable at first, but becomes increasingly more familiar the louder he gets. …and to the Republic, for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible…

I know these words. I know the prominence they once held and the liberties they embodied. As I tried to understand this man’s sudden rush of patriotism, his tone became clearly angered as he revisited the words, and to the republic…THE REPUBLIC!

My heartbeat quickened as I began to put together my first steps in casually vacating the bench in search of a less schizophrenic location. As I shifted my weight onto the balls of my feet to stand, the man looked right at me. Our eyes met for the first time as he gazed upon me with a sort of harshness that couldn’t help but carry a sort of soulful pain only years of torment would leave behind.

I maintained my commitment to vacate the bus stop quickly, until he spoke four words completely grabbing my attention, wanting to hear the story behind his eyes.

What did we do? He asked as if he had just personally triggered an intentional act of national disaster.

All I could think to say was, What do you mean, we?

His defeated eyes grew wide as he shockingly said, "All of us! You. Me. We. All of us. We bought into the promises of this renewed and revitalized ‘democracy.’ It was going to make us stronger as a country. We were supposed to be able to help each other and protect our children. ‘Trust us,’ they said, ‘We know best.’

Let me ask you my friend, is this the best they had in mind? When we used to pledge to the flag of this country, we proudly declared our allegiance to the republic our Constitution guaranteed us. The Constitution I swore to support and defend against all enemies foreign and domestic. When I raised my right hand, I didn’t swear to protect this purist form of democracy we ended up with—the democracy forcing compliance of all in the spirit of majority-centric governance. It’s like they don’t even pretend anymore.

Although I already had gotten a sense this gentleman’s discontent lied somewhere within his perceived manipulation of the United States’ guaranteed Republican form of government, I could tell he had more things in the basement he was ready to take out of storage. So, I continued. Who doesn’t pretend? I asked.

All these puppets who claim they were the path to prosperity for everyone. People like this guy, as he flippantly motioned to the face on the bench between us. Democracy was a choice. It’s what separated us from them when this country was founded. Yeah, we wanted government by the people. Yeah, we wanted representation. But what we never signed up for was tyranny through the façade of this scab called absolute democracy" that has euthanized all hope for the rise of the individual outside of the majority’s rule.

If I want to refuse buying healthcare coverage and take the penalty, that’s my God-given right as an American to act with my conscience and pay the money. But the government telling me because the majority voted that’s the way it’s gonna be…regardless of what I think…it’s not what was intended for this country. We’re supposed to have a choice.

Before he could continue I asserted my confusion, I don’t understand, do you not vote? How can you blame a representative form of government for its decisions if you’re not even willing to do what’s constitutionally provided for you? I assumed I had encountered a member of the party that had lost the election and was just looking for an avenue to vent. As I soon discovered, it was a bit bigger than that.

Constitutionally provided?! That’s a joke. What, did you just take a course on the history of America before 2016 and learn some terms that used to mean something? These people aren’t concerned with the Constitution. All that concerns them is keeping this emotional chokehold on those who even care enough to vote. Tyranny came in a familiar form my friend. It looked like, sounded like, and felt like the right thing to do. We should have seen the writing on the wall; it was there. We lost our function as a Republic overnight, and with that our American identity as the one true beacon of hope for everyone trying to survive as an individual with opportunity.

Why did he refer to 2016 specifically? Was that year more critical than I thought, or was he just making a point? I knew I must follow up quickly as a loud rumbling bus approached, pouring black smoke. The gentleman buttoned his coat as if it was coming for him. What are you saying? I asked with a pronounced tone of confusion. Are you saying mob rule has replaced the protection of individual rights and liberty under our American Republic?

As if irritated, He shook his head quickly, stood up, and looked toward the approaching bus. Mob rule? Not quite. Those guys still understood the importance of family. This is the age of snob rule." The government elites with no regard for the Bill of Rights or the Declaration of Independence—both documents that set out to prevent their type of cynical rule. They know best, right? Think about this, ‘snob rule’ in Washington says I have to take this bus to work because they can’t afford to support the infrastructure for me to drive my own car…assuming I could afford one after all the import taxes.

You think I ever see my congressman on this bus? Nah. But I get a nice text every two years to remind me how much they’re doing for me up in D.C.

As the bus rolls up to a stop, I see a face stickered on its side, a re-election ad. Instead of Relentless Democracy, a slightly simpler message surrounds this face of Still Strong. The bus doors open and before the man gets on, he motions to the same American flag pin on the candidate’s lapel, turns back to me, gives an exhausted exhale and says, and to the republic…yeah right.

I have no idea where the bus is going, but what I did know is—our conversation is far from over.

Anxious to continue discovering this distraught man’s evident perils man, a man clearly old enough to be my dad, I eagerly rush onto the bus after him. As I hit the second step I can see him take what must be his normal seat wedged between two others. Although the bus’s capacity is largely empty except for a dozen riders, the man seems focused on his routine. While determined to move back into conversational range, the driver abruptly reminds me of one important detail, as I felt the impact of his arm across my waistline.

Transport Stamps, he demands. I immediately reach for my wallet as if I would find something for passage. I pull out a recent DC Metro card, hoping to deter the assumption of complete cluelessness. I don’t seem to have any, I reluctantly reply. Can I use a debit card?

Debit Card? He shockingly exclaims. Not for the past eight years! Obviously, I have encountered a significant shift in economic operation. Look, sir, if you don’t have your transport stamps I suggest you go down to the nearest Post and Monetary Exchange Office and purchase some. In any case, take your debit card off my bus so I can get these people to work.

Assuming I can walk anywhere I need to go…I mean, it is still New York City after all…I decide to step back. Can you at least tell me where you’re headed? I ask the driver before fully getting out of the door.

Looking at me like he is genuinely unsure how I manage to function on a daily basis, he says through the thickest expression of disbelief, All buses go to the same place, kid. Long Island Health Insurance Exchange Co. And if you want some advice, try and wake up a bit before you make your way down there. With that he drives away, and in the process, helps me complete my full bodily exit from the bus—I guess some elements of the city are still the same!

I can barely make out the man’s tattered red hat through the window as the bus fades out of sight and makes a right on what I’m guessing is 42nd Street. I begin my trek to the next objective, when I remember I have traveled across time and space continuum to get here.

Why won’t the same transport mechanism work for a quick trip to Long Island? I step back into my booth and peer at the screen hoping to see my choices appear. The screen illuminates but only displays one image—it’s an image of the I-495E road sign with a tunnel in the back. I know enough to know this would at least get me out of Manhattan, but two other symbols flash on the screen, FF, with a double right-pointing arrow. Universally speaking, I assume this means fast forward. Thinking this implies an expedited way to reach my next destination, I close my eyes and select the only option available. And once again, I am off!

PART I. The Rise.

As abruptly as before, I stop. With no idea when or where I am, I step out of the voting booth, anticipating another depressing, American landscape in tandem with the disgusting remnants of the once thriving economic epicenter I just left.

But that’s not what I see. For starters, the weather is warmer. Either I have fast forwarded into the spring or we have all been wrong on the climate change timeline! I appear to be in some sort of alleyway, but become confused as the neatly organized recycling and refuse containers are unlike any New York setup I’d ever seen. Did I somehow end up in The Hamptons? I walk over to a neatly arranged stack of newspapers and shuffle through them, looking for any indication of when and where I might have arrived. Assuming the robust newspaper I initially grab is the New York Times, I am surprised to read the words "Bay Shore Bulletin" written across the top. I immediately check the date to discover this is April 2029.

Great, I say aloud. Even if I find this fellow, there’s no way he’ll remember some random guy from a bench six months ago. Nevertheless, I decide to check things out to see if it’s as bad as I think. I decide to keep the paper for future reference.

As I exit the alley into the nearest street, I am shocked to see a plethora of smoothly designed cars traversing the streets with an almost silent progression. If I didn’t see them, I wouldn’t have been able to hear them. Most of them sport a familiar blue oval on the front and must be some sort of advanced hybrid model, given their stealthy presence. Unlike my first stop, dozens of people shout out and hurry about. On a nearby corner I see tables filled with coffee and conversation. Every small storefront operation seems to be filled with patrons. I’m not familiar with Bay Shore, but it’s no wonder the bus driver said all buses end up here. Maybe Bay Shore is the new NYC? Remembering that I came here for a purpose, I decide to ask a passing lady, probably in her early 20’s, if she can tell me how to get to the Long Island Health Insurance Exchange Co.

Pardon me, ma’am! I exclaim, realizing a younger New York woman would probably not appreciate my southern label intended as a complimentary gesture. Surprisingly, she smiles and stops to inquisitively reply, Yes?

I’m trying to find a large business that employs several people, the Long Island Health Insurance Exchange Co…I think.

She looks puzzled and says, Well, I can tell you where it is, but there can’t be more than three people working there, if that many.

Have I said the wrong thing? No. I’m sure I repeated it exactly as the driver proclaimed. But just to be sure, I follow up with Oh…okay. Well what is the big business where lots of people come from the city to work? You know, where the busses bring people over every day?

Even more perplexed, she replies, I’m sorry but most businesses on Long Island, and I guess in the city as well, are smaller independent-type operations. The only large businesses we have here are hospitals and schools—but I can promise you nobody commutes from the city! she says with a jovial laugh.

My mistake, I acknowledge. I must have misunderstood. If you wouldn’t mind, I will take the directions to the Health Exchange, so I can at least check it out for argument’s sake.

It’s perfectly fine! she says. You’re actually about a block away. Just walk to the end of this street and take a left, and go up one block and it’s on the corner—it’s a small brick building. After giving directions, she glances down at my paper and exclaims, I see you’ve read my paper!

I’m sorry, this one’s yours? I ask, attempting to hand it back. Oh no, she replies, "I mean mine as in the one I started, the Bay Shore Bulletin, right?"

Yes, I sigh in disbelief. You started a newspaper in a digital age? What are you? Like 20?! I realize I may have offended her—the age thing—I mean; I didn’t even know her name. I quickly apologize.

Don’t worry about it. It happens all the time, she claims. It started as my blog about six years ago, and I planned for it to stay that way. But...people wanted something different, and I saw the opportunity. It’s not uncommon to find a Generation Alpha business owner these days.

That’s amazing, I say. Where I’m from, people our age are content to still live in their parents’ guest rooms while defaulting on the debt left over from their college degree. Most would never think of starting and running a business.

She appears to question my assertion as