Growing Up

The day I wondered if I’d ever hear anyone identify Oscar as female ever again, we went to a new vegetarian restaurant up the street from our condominium. They served breakfast all day, so there would be something the kids could stand to eat. The place was slick, sort of pseudo diner, with ten dollar veggie burgers made from mushroom and tofu.

“And can I get something to drink for the ladies?”

The waiter was looking at my son and his friend Rachel. My son’s hair was longer, and cleaner than usual, and he wore a bulky hoodie. The ladies ordered soda. The waiter bustled off.

“Hey Lady,” I said to my son. I’m amazed that this is still happening; my son is 13, and while a pretty boy, he really does look pretty much like a boy with long hair.

I think.

But then, what do I know? It’s just that I remember when my circuits, my gender-detector, the part of my brain that instantly sorts people into the binary, used to file my son away visually as female, while my more conscious thought held open all options for him. That part of my brain has since started filing him away as male, while the conscious part of me still holds open all options. (but in an ever-more- cool and distant way.)

So I was amused. “Ladies!” I said.  My son whipped a french-fry at my face, smiling, and gave me the finger. The french fry clipped my right ear, amazingly painful, if you’re not ready for it, the french fry to the face.

“Don’t throw french fries at me,” I said calmly. “Not cool.” I accepted the finger,  knowing that I’d had it coming. We don’t talk about these things directly, and we  never talk about them in front of other people.

I remembered that he’d explained to my wife that I wasn’t to talk about his previous femme presentation with his middle school guy friends. But somehow, with Rachel, with whom he’s played since birth, I’d felt free to try to talk about it. I should have known better.

I know his presentation was important to him. He fought for it, hard, for years, primarily with my wife, who bought the clothing. Repurposing halloween costumes into daily wear, bringing home skirts from the school clothing swaps, etc.

But this faded away as he shot up and hit puberty, and now, he’s a he. But he would never correct anyone who used a female pronoun. I never saw him flinch, or react, in any way to the use of any pronoun; it has seemed like a total non-issue to him.

But lately, I’d seen him shrug off a jibe about his presentation from one of his newer guy friends, and I realize that he has paid a price, both for what he was, and for what he now is, a price I can’t fully understand. He comes home from school, his hair in braids or pigtails, some girl whose name I’ve never heard had wanted to do his hair, and I think, he’s doing OK. He’s doing fine. He’s having a good childhood.

Another part of me knows that I can never really know, fully empathize, with his struggle. And as we leave childhood behind, and the inevitable secrets of adolesence accumulate, I worry about being blindsided.

But at 13, he still hugs me, wrestles me, confides in me now and then. He listens without appearing to listen. I embarrass him now, of course. I can remember, when he used to embarass me, but it was so long ago. That fleeting embarassment turned into a fierce pride, long ago.

And so when I see him denying his past, erasing it, some part of me rebels, and I want to tell him, never turn against yourself. Never let anyone take you down. You are better and stronger than anyone who slipped effortlessly from a normative mold.  You are a force of nature. You’re my child. You’ve been my son, you could have become my daughter, and someday, you still might, and honestly, I don’t care about that anymore, it’s not an issue.

Never hide. Never weaken. Never give up.

But we don’t talk about these things, out loud. I think he knows what I think. He might read this blog. We don’t talk about it.

I guess we don’t need to. He knows what I think. At least, I’m pretty sure he does.

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