"I am a Cusper." Now I said it and after 73 years on this Earth, I can finally let my secret out.

As a child, I never knew I was a Cusper—shoo, maybe I should have suspected it, but I never did.

In college, I felt it, but then, there was no name for it, or if there was, I hadn't heard it.

As I grew into adulthood, I heard that I was a Baby Boomer—but that never felt right. My sister was also a Baby Boomer—a term for kids born in the aftermath of the Second World War—as was kids born upwards of 18 years after me; according to an online definition, Baby Boomers are kids born between 1946 and 1964.

Come on. I was born in 1946. What did I have in common with someone born in 1964? In 1964, I was dancing to "I Saw Her Standing There" while those so called Baby Boomers were still suckling—or more likely drinking infant formula—another of the convoluted triumphs of "modern medicine."

In fact, the Beatles, the icons of my era, broke up in 1970—when these late term Baby Boomers might be as young as six years old.

So, if I'm not a Boomer, what am I?

I've wondered about this from time to time, and it seemed to me that I was born on the cusp between the "Greatest Generation" and the Boomer Generation. That's right. I am a Cusper.

And I'm sure there's a lot of us out there—swell, there were. So, if you're a Casper like I am, you might be around 73 years old. And I say "might" because how you fit into the culture largely determined whether you were on one side of the cusp or the other.

In 1963, when I entered college, I was a gung-ho patriot. I tried to join the ROTC—but couldn't fit it into my schedule. So what, I would eventually graduate with an engineering degree and would volunteer and be an officer and do my duty.

Well, something changed—big time. Along came the cusp. At the tip of the cusp was the Vietnam War. The public did not know how bad things were—but we kids did. We had first hand information.

Soldiers returning from their tours in Vietnam and returning to college told us tales of an unwinnable war, escalating casualties, and declining moral to the point of fragging of officers.

And we college Cuspers were likely to be next. With the lies going around, who would listen to us. Protest, sing, get an exemption, leave the country. Such was the trial of the Cusper.

I had friends on both sides of the debate: engineers and ROTC cadets who followed the flag, and Hippies and protestors who marched against the devious politicians.

Yes, I was and am a Cusper. Always on the razor's edge—wanting to be a patriot but not knowing what it means.

I guess that's why I'm a journalist—I'm struggling to find out.

~ Al Zagofsky