Real Boys Wear Pink

Have I mentioned that Ari wears a tutu? Or, he did, before. Then he ripped a hole in it, and I had to go 268 different places to find someone who would fix it. The stitching is very delicate, you see, and many tailoring professionals were frightened. This is the only time in my life I wanted to live in New York. I hate New York. (I know this admission will make me extremely unpopular.) However, I also realize that in New York they will fix ANYTHING.  You can go anywhere in New York--just pick a random building and walk in--and somebody in there will agree to turn your broken, moldy, flea-infested whatever to "good as new" for five dollars. If you turn that offer down, they may even do it for free because nobody in New York ever throws anything away, nor can any of them bear to see anybody else throw anything away, which is part of why I hate it. Too much clutter. Plus, I'm from the South. We're obligated to believe New Yorkers are rude, though in fact, I find them very polite, a lot like southerners, really. The people are sweet, but I hate the place. It's too cold in the winter, too hot in the summer (and has an alarming shortage of both central a/c and swimming pools), smells of urine, has too many insects, and is expensive.

Nonetheless, I said to Barbara the other day, "We may have to move to New York." She was thrilled, of course, being from Brooklyn. Why did I say this inane thing? Because in New York no one cares if a three year old boy wears a tutu, like Ari used to. He insisted on wearing it to school every day. Being queer, what could I say? "No, darling, only your mothers are allowed to do socially-variant things." I was proud of him. But also, secretly, I was scared.

Ari (of course) lost interest in his tutu at the precise moment I got it back from being repaired, but he still wears them at school. (They have school tutus, believe it or not.) He also sometimes insists he's a girl, a kitty cat, a big boy, a baby, his own baby sister (very meta for a three year old, no?), or a kao-kau. (I do not know what this last thing is, so I just agree stupidly and change the subject.) The other day, he told me, "Mommy, Lulu says I'm not a girl!" He looked unhappy about this. I, momentarily struck stupid, said, "Well, you're not." Mommy fail #57904502984. Barbara saved the day, whisking into his room, and declaring, "Well, you tell Lulu that she doesn't decide what you are. You do." This was one of those times I was grateful there are two of us. Usually somebody can keep her head.

I mentioned Ari's girlie predilections to the pediatrician, and said, "Of course we don't care if he's gay." In fact, I'd always assumed he would be. I hope so. Gay is cool. He will shop with me. He will take frequent showers, even as an adolescent. He will be less likely to get some girl pregnant. He will not (probably) date anyone who thinks it's weird that he has two moms. But let's face it: wanting to wear a tutu has nothing to do with being gay.

The tutu. . .

. . .two ways

Anyway, the pediatrician totally took my mind off my own questions by telling me how his son wore a tutu (a blue one that his wife made for the kid) when he was three, too.  The pediatrician's son has brittle bone disease so also wore a full body cast, and one day was playing baseball (modified for the cast, of course) around the coffee table when he fell and gave himself a concussion. Evidently, the ER docs loved the tutu; ignored the body cast; and were confused about the modified, coffee-table baseball, but overall weren't so shocked by any of it. After this story, I quickly saw that gender variance of any degree is such a minuscule concern I needed to shut up. So, I did. Since then, I've wished I had a fairy who would make Ari a tutu that was goth and black and sort of Robert Smith looking. I envision Ari-teenager as a beautiful androgynous long-haired fairy type, both his tutu and his hair blowing in the wind. Sort of Maxfield Parrish with a twist. Then I realize A does not have the coloring for a black tutu. Neither does Robert Smith, but he can afford better make up and colorists than Ari.

The point is, whenever I start to feel positively about Ari having some gender variance, part of me is afraid for his well being. I'm afraid, not for his safety, but for his essence. I want to protect him and the exponentially expanding number of potential selves he will choose from. I want him to be able to choose from them all and to change his mind whenever he wants to. But that's not how gender works in our dumb world. What I (and most three-year-olds) see as something fun to play with and try on, others see as unbending. Whenever I think about this, I get so angry I can barely breathe. What kind of a society is this, where the masses decide so arbitrarily, so seriously what people should wear and how they should behave? When I look at my own life and the lives of my friends, I view the ways we've adjusted as a series of compromises. Sure, I can wear boy's clothes and have short hair and like football and marry a woman and still be female, but only just. Example one: people assume that B carried our child because I dress like a boy. What kind of sense does that make?

There are only four or five boys in Ari's class of 22, and already they segregate themselves. Really? Yes. Ari is the only boy I ever see playing in the "kitchen." He is the only boy I see wearing purple, yellow, or pink. The other day he told me, "Mommy, boys don't wear lellow!" (He can't pronounce "yellow.") He wanted to wear blue that day, even though I know his favorite colors are red and purple and pink. I watch him trying to figure out how to fit, and I wish he didn't have to.