As I've said many times, the single most oppressed class in

Hear the striking words of Joe Bob Briggs: “As I’ve said many times, the single most oppressed class in America right now is the teenager.” Though spoken in jest or critique, the saying resounds with a truth deeper than it first appears. For the teenager, caught between the innocence of childhood and the burdens of adulthood, lives in a land of paradox. They are told they are free, yet their movements are watched. They are told they are nearly grown, yet their voices are dismissed. They are urged to prepare for the future, yet denied the dignity of shaping the present. Thus they become, in a very real sense, an oppressed class—not with chains of iron, but with rules, expectations, and mistrust that weigh upon the spirit.

The ancients knew of this in their own way, though they did not name it. In many lands, there were rites of passage where the young were tested, so that their strength and wisdom might be acknowledged before all. When the Spartans sent their youth into the wilderness with nothing but a cloak and a knife, they honored the truth that the young are not merely half-formed creatures, but seeds of the future already taking root. But in lands where such rites are absent, the teenager is trapped in limbo—strong enough to see the hypocrisies of the world, yet too bound by authority to challenge them.

Consider the life of Joan of Arc. At seventeen she led armies, guided by visions and a fire no elder could extinguish. Yet imagine if her world had treated her as modern society treats its youth—dismissed as foolish, silenced as naïve, bound to the hearth by the decree of adults. History itself would have lost a flame of courage. Her story shows that the oppression of the young is not their weakness, but the refusal of society to hear their voice and recognize their power.

Joe Bob Briggs, with irony and wit, points to a profound injustice: the teenager is often the most scrutinized, criticized, and underestimated member of society. They labor under schools that weigh them down with hours of toil, they endure the judgments of adults who recall not their own restless years, and they are tempted by a culture that mocks them even while exploiting their desires. It is a silent oppression, rarely named, yet keenly felt by every young soul who has ever cried, “You don’t understand me.”

And yet, there is hope. For oppression, even in this form, can be a forge. Many who were scorned in youth rose up to change the world. Think of Malcolm X, who as a young man knew rejection and confinement, yet in adulthood transformed his fire into a movement that shook the conscience of a nation. The lesson is clear: what society suppresses in its youth may return as the very force that reshapes it.

What then shall we learn? Let parents, teachers, and elders listen more carefully to the voices of the young. Instead of mocking the teenager’s intensity, let them honor it as the birth of conviction. Instead of dismissing their questions, let them guide with patience, remembering that every reform, every revolution, every renewal began in the hearts of the restless and the young. For the energy of youth, though wild, is the wellspring of tomorrow’s world.

To the teenagers themselves, hear this counsel: do not let the weight of your oppression turn to bitterness. Use it as a whetstone for your mind, as resistance that strengthens your will. Read, question, dream, and prepare, so that when the time comes, you may step forward not as one broken by society, but as one tempered and ready to lead.

Thus the saying of Briggs is not mere jest but a hidden prophecy. It tells us that the most restless generation is also the most silenced, and that the future depends on whether we choose to continue this cycle, or to honor the fire of the young. Listen to the youth, guide them with wisdom, and unleash their strength, for they are not the oppressed of tomorrow—they are the builders of it.