Bring back vintage panic and rage

Remember Y2K? That panic was cute.

In 1999, we simultaneously braced for a new millennium and the end of the world.

Y2K loomed ahead, a huge question mark. Best Buy convinced us that everything from air traffic to banking to the machine in your “computer room” would be affected. Chaos was to ensue.

Or maybe not. It was a curious, innocent type of fear — not the gut-punching terror that dominates today’s news.

This was before smartphones, before push alerts every five minutes. Panic traveled by television anchors, phones tethered to the kitchen wall, office rumors, and chain emails that screamed “FWD: URGENT!!”

We prepared for the chaos with zeal, clearing out Wawa like we were preparing for a decade underground. Nothing says “national crisis” like a region hoarding Shortis and Tastykakes. If the world were ending, we were not going down without one last soft pretzel.

Looking back, the panic feels almost sweet. No one knew exactly why we were worried — something about floppy disks and zeros? It was an amusing type of fear — not the adrenaline surges and terror layered across today’s news feeds.

Here in Philly, our emotion was focused wholly on saying goodbye to Veterans Stadium, beer-soaked basement jail and all. We panicked more about losing that stadium than we ever did about losing our computers. Underneath the apocalyptic preparation was a communal consciousness that understood we were safe.

A few years later, our national anxiety shifted from computers to potatoes. In 2003, “French fries” were hastily rebranded as “Freedom Fries.” Restaurants reprinted menus. Congress cafeterias complied. Late-night comics had a field day.

In an unprecedented show of unity, Americans declared a “War on Terror” and pushed for an invasion of Iraq. France wouldn’t participate, so the U.S. did the most Philly thing we’ve ever done and declared a nationwide rebranding of the French fry.

It was Red October at McDonald’s. The poor soul who ordered French — not freedom — fries got no potato side, with disapproval to boot.

This was the norm for national crises then. They were the civic version of Dikembe Mutombo: gentle and kinda funny. We felt safe. Disagreements were just that — disagreements. They didn’t split families, and they weren’t the origin story for the latest school shooter.

National conversations were civilized (as much as they can be in Philly), respectful, and safe. Things felt steady. We felt safe. When Mutombo hugged Allen Iverson after big wins, it felt like the whole city was getting that hug. We were together. We were OK.

Those were what I call vintage panics — silly enough to laugh at later, harmless enough to leave us intact.

Y2K didn’t kill us. Freedom Fries resulted in menu changes, not bloodshed. The Vet came down. Wawa expanded. This was the era of the DREAM Act. Diversity in most any form was encouraged. Panics were survivable.

Today’s rage is different. It’s constant, heavy, and often deadly. Rage is in our politics, our traffic, our classrooms, our feeds. It no longer renames a side dish; it breaks communities. It divides families. Sometimes it takes lives.

Another awful headline recently made me stop and think: Maybe this is it. Maybe we’ve gone too far. The contrast with the potato wars of 2003 could not be sharper.

Back then, we funneled our fury into countdown clocks, menu edits, and worrying whether Mutombo’s knees would last through the NBA Finals. Now the stakes are so much higher.

Y2K didn’t take us out. Freedom Fries didn’t tear us apart. Sports heartbreak never broke this city’s spirit — if we survived those four straight trips to the NFC championship, we could survive anything.

What we have now? Much harder.

We’ve tried a call to arms. We’ve armed ourselves with anger, suspicion, conspiracy, and endless fights. It hasn’t worked.

So here’s another option: A call to calm.

To put down the rage, the hostility, the weapons, both literal and digital. To remember there was a time when our national arguments were about VCR clocks and potatoes. When even our panics were crispy, golden, and — in hindsight — almost sweet.

Because potatoes don’t storm capitols. Potatoes don’t undermine democracy. Potatoes don’t bleed.

And maybe we should offer a long-overdue apology to the French. You gave us the Statue of Liberty. You didn’t deserve to be demoted for the sake of alliteration.

And much like that movement, this idea is so crazy it might work: a National Chicken Tender Movement. Not aimed at treating our fellow citizens with suspicion or rage — but with tenderness.

Because we don’t need bigger enemies.

We do need smaller panics.

And maybe what we all need most right now is this:

Small fries.

A little calm.

And a touch of Mutombo-level kindness.

Angela B. Ryan is a writer, lawyer, former Villanova Law professor, and mother to four under 4 based in Villanova. She started the National Chicken Tender Movement today, and she is the only person left in the country who refers to French fries as Freedom Fries.