Born in 1976

If you were born in 1976, you were born in the year America turned two hundred and decided to feel good about itself for a while. The Bicentennial was a genuine national celebration—tall ships in New York Harbor, fireworks of unusual magnificence, Gerald Ford kissing babies in a red, white, and blue haze. It was the year of Rocky—Sylvester Stallone running up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art to that trumpet theme, the country recognizing something about itself in a broke southpaw from Kensington.

The Eagles' Hotel California and Fleetwood Mac's Rumours were being recorded, the FM rock that would soundtrack the next decade. Jimmy Carter won the presidency, his peanut farmer earnestness appealing after years of Washington cynicism. The Ramones played their first shows and punk rock was starting its transatlantic cross-pollination.

Apple Computer was founded in a Cupertino garage. The Concorde made its first transatlantic flights. CB radio was at absolute peak mania—Smokey and the Bandit was in production.

America's team, the Dallas Cowboys, the Oakland Raiders, the Pittsburgh Steelers—football had fully supplanted baseball as the national obsession. Farrah Fawcett's poster in her red swimsuit was in more teenage bedrooms than any other image in history, or at least it felt that way. The country was confident enough, finally, to celebrate its age.