There comes a moment for every mid-lifer when the evolution of humankind becomes apparent. When deep in our bones we understand that our time to disrupt and create and forward human advancement is coming to an end. That the task now belongs to the next generation–the young ones nipping at our heels, dismissing us as old, urging us to move over and let them have their fair shake at improving upon our species. Intellectually, I get it. From an evolutionary standpoint, I am dried up. Finito. Thank you for your service, ma’am, now please close your eyes while we push you off the cliff. But I’m not talking about propagation. Or anything cerebral. I’m referring to an out-of-nowhere epiphany when we suddenly get that life will not be ending with our last breath. That we aren’t the best or the last. And, in spite of this fact, it’s all going to be okay.

My version of this moment occurred a few weekends back at an urban music festival called Camp Flog Gnaw. The event, now in its 7th year, is the brainchild of 27-year-old Tyler, The Creator, who annually transforms some vast space (this time the grounds of Dodger Stadium) into a modern carnival (think giant Ferris wheel, old-fashioned games, a Golf pop-up store) and invites dozens of young hip-hop and alternative artists to perform over a weekend. I ended up there on a chilly Saturday night because my daughter argued for three months straight that, “You don’t understand, I have to go. The lineup is my playlist!” A playlist that seemingly overnight changed from Taylor Swift sweethearts to artists like Rex Orange County, Playboi Carti, Post Malone, and Jaden Smith. She pleaded her case for so long and with such passion that we had no choice but to say, yes. Save for one, small caveat: we would purchase an additional ticket so that a parent could supervise the nighttime portion of the event. When the day finally arrived, that parent turned out to be me.

I’ll fast forward over details about poor cell service, thick crowds and the overall darkness that prohibited me from actually connecting with my daughter and her friends that night, and get straight to the point that I ended up at the festival alone. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I mean, I like all kinds of music and I have no problem hanging solo. It’s just that as I wandered around  in my sensible puffer coat and giant scarf, I began to realize that there wasn’t a soul my age to be found. In a crowd of thousands, I couldn’t locate anyone within decades of my years. Not a security guard, or ticket taker, or food truck owner, or performer, or patron. In fact, I would wager a bet that there wasn’t a fully developed brain in the crowd. So much older was I than everyone else that when I walked by, one of two things happened: kids either scattered out of fear that I might narc them out to their parents, or they looked straight through me like I was invisible. “What the fuck am I doing here?” I said out loud, suddenly furious for spending so much money on my ticket. Enraged at my daughter and her useless cell phone. At the obscure line-up. At the half-dressed girls oblivious to the cold. At all the weed being smoked. But mostly, at the pitiful fact that I did not belong. There was no place for me here. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so lonely in my life. All I could think to do was get the hell back to the parking lot, jump in my car, turn up the heat, and wait out the night with NPR. But I didn’t. Because just then, Tyler, The Creator took to the stage.

I wasn’t expecting a clean cut rapper in a bucket hat and polo shirt. Or a storybook treehouse for a set. Or the music, which was surprisingly sophisticated–layers of swooning melody juxtaposed against driving rap, constantly drawing you in and then setting you straight. But most of all, I didn’t expect the crowd’s response to him, which was LOVE. They, and I mean all of them, chanted every word to every song as he thrashed and danced on stage, leading them through a continuous call and response, an entire show of give-and-take, made better by each other. They were mesmerized by him, and I was mesmerized by them. By their collective joy and identification. By their singular voice.

At which point I realized the privilege bestowed on me: that I was being given a chance to stand in the space of evolution’s next generation. One challenged, like my own and those before me, with the remarkable task of improving upon the current version of humankind. As nascent and underdeveloped as they all were, and as much as I wanted to yell at them to stop vaping and put on a damn sweater, I was dumbstruck by their potential and all they will become. Tyler said the same, actually. That somewhere in the crowd was someone who sang or rapped or had ideas, who in a few years would make him scared and become his competition. He saw them. He appreciated them. And they adored him for it. He also said that he created a festival, “where all you weird motherfuckers can come and be safe.” Which I wholly appreciated because there was no question that I was the weirdest motherfucker out there: the only 50-something in a throng of twenty-five-thousand kids.

After his set, I did head to my car, crank up the heater, and finish my evening in the company of NPR. Grateful for the peep-hole view into my daughter’s world. For realizing the big-ass job she shoulders as part of the new generation of rebels and creators and disruptors. (They have a lot to deal with!) But mostly what I got from that rather painful experience was the understanding that I can either dig in and stay fixed, believing my way is the only way, becoming increasingly dismissive, critical, and afraid of a burgeoning voice that is not mine. Or I can ride the wave of evolution and appreciate the world from their point of view, maybe even learn a thing or two as I pass them the baton. It’s a crossroads moment, for sure. And an inevitable one for all of us. But I think I’ll go with door number two. Because in the words of Tyler…

I rock
I roll
I bloom
I grow

Peace out.