Raised by Benign Neglect (and It Was Fantastic)

Opinion Columnist

By Mary Keyes Rogers | May 3, 2025

I am incredibly grateful to have been born and raised in the 1960s and ’70s. I believe we were the last generation of a world that has been fading ever since. My childhood was radically different from today’s parenting norms; it might qualify as neglect by modern standards. It was fantastic.

In today’s language, my parents “created space for me to develop.” When asked to describe or defend their parenting style, my mother would smile and declare, “Benign neglect seems to be working just fine, right, girls?”

My sister and I never thought this line was as funny as our parents did. As a little kid, “benign neglect” was over my head. I assumed Benign Neglect was a person. “Okay, where is he?” I would wonder.

Looking back, Mr. Benign Neglect worked better than “just fine.” My parents weren’t my friends—they were a looming obstacle to having too much fun. I don’t think they ever once asked me how I felt about anything. They were adults doing adult things: hiring babysitters, going bowling or out for dinner, living their lives. Meanwhile, I was allowed and expected to have a childhood rich in experience and independence.

During those years, my parents were generally unaware of my specific whereabouts. Maybe one of them kept an eye on me while I poured milk into my cereal bowl, but after that, I was out the door. I might yell, “Going to the park!”—but it wasn’t a rule, just a courtesy I had picked up from watching other kids on TV.

Our neighborhood was a loose group of kids, girls and boys, ranging from about six to 16 years old. I was on the younger end, looking up to the teenagers like they were rock stars. They mostly tolerated us little kids because they had no choice—we were there.

We learned everything important from each other. The older kids taught us how to whistle with our fingers, play kick-the-can, hula hoop, make gum wrapper chains, shoot baskets, and ride a bike with no hands.

But even more importantly, we taught each other how to be decent human beings. I learned to wait my turn, ask for help when needed, share toys and food, never complain, keep a secret, and avoid being a tattletale or a show-off.

Parents can tell kids to behave, but only other kids teach the consequences of being a jerk in real time.

When I wasn’t playing outside, I was inside, glued to the television. I loved TV—and I’m convinced it loved me right back. Whatever I might have learned in Sunday school—had we gone to church, and we didn’t—I soaked up from sitcoms and family dramas.

I watched fictional families have deep, meaningful conversations that I would never experience at home, and came to construct my core values.

The moral guidance of prime-time television was significant. The Flintstones, Gilligan’s Island, I Love Lucy, Family Affair, The Monkees, The Brady Bunch, My Three Sons, and The Courtship of Eddie’s Father taught me the essentials: right versus wrong, and loyalty versus selfishness.

Television also gave me my first glimpse of lives far beyond my white, suburban bubble. I was exposed to other perspectives and struggles through shows like Julia, Room 222, The Jeffersons, Sanford and Son, and Good Times.

As a girl growing up in the ’70s, television showed me women who worked, made decisions, and lived lives beyond wife and mother. I fully expected to grow up to be like Maude, Rhoda, Alice, Mary Richards—or Angie Dickinson’s Police Woman. Strong, smart, independent women were everywhere on my screen, and it never crossed my mind that I couldn’t be one too.

ABC’s After School Special series launched in 1972 and delivered weekly masterclasses in tough subjects: domestic violence, divorce, cancer, drug abuse, mental illness—you name it. These shows opened my eyes to realities happening near and far from my neighborhood.

It makes me quite sad to think about today’s kids. Many can’t sit through a full story with a beginning, middle, and end. They live in short bursts of TikTok videos, shorts, and reels. Real-world connection skills—patience, empathy, kindness—seem to be getting harder.

I feel incredibly lucky that my parents let me be a child, one who could be perfectly happy playing make-believe with a stick and a milk carton. I hope things change, screens get put away, and every kid finds what they need to be happy, purposeful humans.

Mary Rogers is a 25-year resident of Traverse City, a freelance writer, with a husband and two grown children.