HBO Girls: A Gen X Love Letter to Millennial Magic

Donald Glover & Lena Dunham

Let me tell you something about Girls – that HBO symphony of messy white women stumbling through Brooklyn like beautiful disasters. I'm Gen X as fuck, born into a world where we learned to expect nothing and somehow still got disappointed. But Girls? As I revisit the show many years later, it grabbed me by the throat and whispered truths I didn't know I needed to hear.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. What's this Black, gay, Gen X actor/writer doing getting all misty-eyed over Lena Dunham's particular brand of privileged neurosis? Here's the thing – and this is where Baldwin would lean in close and tell you to pay attention – art doesn't give a damn about your demographic. It cuts through all that sociological bullshit and finds the nerve endings we share.

I'm somewhere deep in season two, and let me tell you about the magic Lena conjured. This woman wrote dialogue that slaps you awake, characters so real they leave fingerprints on your consciousness. She took the millennial experience – all that beautiful, terrifying freedom to fuck up spectacularly – and made it sing like Langston's jazz rhythms on a Harlem night.

And Adam Driver? Jesus Christ, that man is not human. He's some kind of artistic weapon, all angles and intensity, making choices that would make lesser actors weep. Watching him inhabit Adam Sackler is like watching someone speak in tongues – you don't understand it, but you feel it in your bones. He's everything I dream of being in my own work: free, unbound, dangerous with his truth.

Now, I've got to address the elephant in the room – the blackness question. Or rather, the lack thereof. Did Lena stumble when she tried to paint outside her palette? Maybe. Probably. But here's where Morrison's wisdom kicks in: we don't demand Shakespeare write about Harlem, do we? The girl wrote what she knew, and what she knew was brilliant and specific and true to her experience.

When she did bring Donald Glover into the mix – and look, I'm about to get audacious like Lena herself here – that man has been a permanent resident of my spank bank since day one. And I mean permanent. Like, he's got his own ZIP code in there. But beyond my shameless attraction to his chocolate perfection, let's talk about what really matters: his artistry. The way Donald inhabited that role, bringing depth and authenticity even when the writing felt like it was responding to criticism rather than organic storytelling. His talent is cosmic – whether he's rapping as Childish Gambino or breaking hearts in Atlanta, the man transforms everything he touches. Hell, he could probably elevate a grocery list into performance art. So yes, he's still got premium real estate in my spank bank, but more importantly, he's got permanent residence in my artistic inspiration vault. That's the thing about true talent: it transcends awkward circumstances and makes you believe in magic again.

You know what I love most about Lena Dunham? She writes with the audacity of someone who knows she deserves to take up space. In a world that tells women to shrink, she sprawled across our television screens like she owned the place. That's some Revolutionary War-level courage right there.

So here I am, a Black gay Gen X writer, tipping my hat to a white millennial woman who had the brass to show us what it looks like when you refuse to apologize for your existence. She took the mess of being young and female and confused and made it beautiful. She made it matter.

I hear she's back with "Too Much" on Netflix, and I'm trying not to binge it because I want to savor every morsel of her particular genius. Like a fine wine or a really good heartbreak, some things deserve to be experienced slowly.

Lena, wherever you are, know this: you created something that mattered. You showed us that stories about seemingly ordinary people can be extraordinary. You reminded us that truth-telling is the highest form of art.

And in a world that's always trying to silence authentic voices, that's nothing short of revolutionary.

You are, indeed, the GOAT.