I am my eight year old
self today. Walking along the brook I cross the slurried algae-slicked
stream. Up and over this land, a
thousand acres thick, untraveled before now, by me at least. With my
make do shovel, or pick ax, or archeologists mattock, I set off. I am in the Adirondacks. My escape. My
sanctuary.
It is in actuality a
spackling knife that I grabbed from the shed when I was still 52 and heading
toward the slate boulders that now serve as steps to my defunct sauna. The hammock, and Adirondack chairs beside the
brook need to be put away for the winter.
I was heading in that direction to break loose the hundreds of fossils
that reside in those rock steps for my students back home. Soon there will only be gravel and shards and
I will wonder who destroyed my steps and how will I get back up to the house to
find my keys and return home to my life and responsibilities? My eight year old
self will try to conceal this information, the truth of my adventure somewhere between
just starting off and starting off all over again.
But now I am eight again,
and I have no such irrational and earthbound worries. I have my pick ax or
mattock and adventure calls. I can claim all of this land before me now, if I
so choose. I can make a flag from leaves
and sticks and appoint myself King! Yes
King! Because there are no shouts of Queen
of the Mountain that you call out at six, or seven, or eight when you are on
top! “I’m king of the mountain!” I can yell at the tiptop of my lungs, and that
alone will make it so. Yes King! Because Queens is where I was
born and there were no brooks and pick axes and adventures like this. Yes King because queens wear stiff
starched straight dresses and white gloves and suits that don't move. They wear
hats without rims, why bother? And
they have dower expressions even when they are happy, like when they meet the
Beatles or Elvis or stand close enough to their children and feel the warm
breath of knowing they are alive, and the sweet, thick smell of the lunch still
fresh in the corners of their mouths, that
close. Close enough to cause smiles to
form wide across your face, of joy and gratitude because they are your very
children. Why don’t queens smile at their children?
Yes, I will be king,
because they are free to smile at whatever they like, and they don’t have dower
faces when they meet rock stars or models or children.
I am my eight year old
self today. Occasionally when my 52 year old self comes through I think of the
meaning of all this. I think back to
how much I liked to play freely. I was not so much free of gender at eight, I
recall, as much as I was neither constrained, or empowered by it. It has
no place here in my adventure. It had
little place in my life at eight. I
believe.
I carry on with my
journey because today I am eight, so I can.
I walk around and beneath branches, over fallen trees, around pricker
bushes, staying far from the tentacles of poison ivy roots thick around the
trunks of oak and elms and maples, stopping occasionally to conjure and utilize
my Native American survival skills. I am
not Native American but every eight
year old born when I was, appreciates the magic of being Native American. Knows how to walk without sound, observing
quietly and courageously the surroundings, staying safe from Cowboys or
stoically guiding one or two.
I stop and listen to the
sounds around me. A hollow trunk being drummed by a woodpecker, brittle leaves devoid
of life, their veins stiff and useless, in the breeze they echo the memories of
rain song. If I close my eyes I will expect a downpour. How does that happen?
How can the bristle of leaves make the sound of rain? My eight year old self
can still hear this noise. My eyes catch
the sight of something foreign, mis-located. I walk towards it. An abandoned
can, washed white from age, the label nearly undetectable. Ah, slightly older
adventurers have been here long ago. Probably around the time they were 12 or 13, I
recognize the brand of beer so far away and long ago from this place.
I continue on. Back toward
the brook. Along the banks glass and twisted rusted metal have accumulated over
centuries. When garbage was made of
materials that rotted or became a stained glass and earth covered sculpture, a
rusted metal graveyard, a ravine not meant to be traveled upon or
explored. I grab my archeology trowel hoping to uncover
a treasure. Some great discovery. Maybe a skull from prepurgamentum man, that's Latin for garbage dump man. Maybe a pipe from the Revolutionary War
militia man who guarded Lake Champlain from the British territory across the
lake that is now Vermont. Benedict
Arnold travelled here. Local folklore
claims Ethan Allen’s brother lived in the small home across the street. Maybe a few of the Minute Men drank a pint
recklessly and threw the bottles down the ridge and celebrated raucously at
Benedict’s capture. My eight year old
self imagines these interactions as she digs through the broken glass and
rusted metal remains.
My 52 year old self recalls
a son young enough to love the adventures of his then 40 something year old
mother. He was not eight at the time but
close enough. We would walk along the
brook discovering treasures; old toy trucks, a porcelain doll head, amber
colored medicinal bottles, rusted nails of assorted sizes. Once he found a porcelain pipe from those
Revolutionary War times but we didn’t realize the significance at the time, and
can’t recall where it ended up.
Blasted! I miss having a ten year old to play with.
My 52 year old self
returns to the pre-civil war home sitting along the old ferry road, a cottage of sorts with a post in
front for my horse should I ever have one and tie it to the front of my house
in the event I am called for a midnight run to save the universe. I will be ready! The last of my eight year old thoughts are put
aside as I go inside, reheat this mornings coffee and settle in with my
schoolwork. Recently in a management
class we were discussing the role of Human Resources and the changing landscape
of gender. Or is it the need to pin down ones gender and define it on forms? We
learned there are 50 plus varieties of gender labeling that can occur. I knew the number would be bigger than 3 but
over 50 is a bit difficult to grasp.
Fortunately, it will never be my
job to grasp the ever changing fluidity of gender, anymore than it will be my
job to harness the expansive variety of ethnic identities out there.
In my daily activities,
it is my job to teach and that is at
times challenging enough without demanding ethnic or gender
classification. A name is enough for me
to initiate contact and begin to interact effectively. All of this makes me wonder, connecting the
management class gender pronouncement and the reality that several students I
work with or have known throughout the past few years have identified
themselves as gender fluid, or their parents have discussed gender as an area
of uncertainty.
Dar Williams has this perfect song about a girl growing up,
“When I was a Boy”. She sings about
being free and climbing trees and not needing a man to walk her home or make
her safe. And in the end a man tells of being a
girl, collecting flowers and talking to his mother and being allowed to
cry. Were they gender fluid? Do we need
that label? So early? I know it helps
some children and gives them a place to be.
To belong. To understand
themselves in relation to others, all. I certainly don’t need to question the appropriateness of it or make a judgment, one way or
50 plus other ways. I do want to understand this changing world, or this not so changing world but the capacity for humans to grow and become more open, loving, accepting. Beyonce sang, "If I was a Boy", the message is related. It tells the story of the inequalities of being a girl in love with one of those boys. The rules, the roles, so different still.
I wonder if I had grown up in a house with progressive, open
parents would they have informed others that I was gender fluid every time I
wanted to play cowboys and Indians, or some form of war with my brothers? When I played with their matchbox cars would
a teacher have been alerted? A neighbor?
That full year (or longer) when I
refused to wear a skirt or dress and my not so progressive, misguided but
trying hard mother enforced the not so popular wear-a-dress-one-day-a-week (or else) clause to my upbringing. I wanted to die in
my overalls and be buried at Wounded Knee I’m sure. “King of the Mountain!” would have been
echoed across the land and the boy’s brigade would have played Reveille. It’s a wonder the dirt that accumulated on
those overalls didn’t kill me. But that
was long before I cared much about my gender.
I knew I was a girl, but I also viewed the boys, not the blondes as
having more fun. I adored my
father. I followed my older brother
whenever I could find him. I was not
interested in the dower faces of queens or the dower faces of hardworking, underappreciated
wives and mothers in Queens and elsewhere.
My eight year old self wanted to grow up to be the "Dad". That elusive family member that was gone all
day, having wild adventures, no doubt.
Or at least knowing the potential for them was right out there. I knew this much at eight. I knew when he came home happy, everyone was
happy. (I knew the opposing scenario was worse,
and occurred more often, perhaps that potential for adventure wasn’t quite as
appealing as I had imagined.) I know at
times all he had to do to get the joyful attention of his four children was to
bring home a few hershey bars. It was that simple. I remember wondering why my mother couldn’t see
how easy it was, and apply this same magic. I grew up and had three children of my own, rarely could a
chocolate bar have made parenting in the form of the mother easy. If I had been absent for larger
and longer periods of their lives I suppose an xbox or iPhone could have made
them smile slightly longer than briefly. I’m thinking with
inflation dollars, the hershey bar of 1968 is not that different than the xbox
of today. I get it now. Some of it. Gender.
The roles we adhere to, or assign to, or demand of each other, and
ourselves. Relentlessly it seems.
I was with friends a few weeks ago and a fellow
parent was discussing her daughter’s explanation of what it meant to be gender
fluid. She discussed changing pronouns
to refer to a person that is not quite “she” and not exactly “he”. It made me realize a small piece of the depth of this struggle. Sexuality is not a large part of these
conversations, not yet anyway. The
frontier is changing there as well, the terms are changing at least, concepts
of love and relationships and community... Polyamorous. Pansexual.
How did we get here? The pressures of being a boy or a girl and
following expected or accepted norms feels larger lately, the afterglow of the sexual revolution seems nowhere to be seen. Identifying the sex, or gender, or physically
noted potential reproductive parts of the baby in the womb allowed through the
amazing technological advances of the last century has caused a bit of a
backlash of role assignment to our modern day children. They are brought home adorned in blue clothes
or pink clothes. They have baseball
mitts or frilly dolls ornamenting their cribs.
I imagine a You Are Here arrow on their bedroom doors, with those gender
identified international bathroom symbols.
Boy. Girl.
Later that week I overheard a few girls discussing not
wanting to be girls. Not liking what it
means. One of the girls describes
herself as gender fluid. It saddens me
to hear this conversation. The internal
challenges of not connecting to this self that is required by others must be confusing,
unbearable at times, but the thought of not wanting to be a girl because of
what that means to a nine year old is troubling to me. What does
it mean? She hates being a girl. This is said sadly, as she is rolled up
tightly, crouched down. She does not
claim being a boy is how she feels inside, or what she identifies as. She just hates being a girl. What does this particular nine year old girl already
know that makes it despairing to be one?
Does she have to wear a dress
once a week? Or take care of the
children and the house and cook all the meals?
Is she not permitted to go out and explore with as much freedom as her
brothers? Does she wonder why some of
the girls in her class can’t play freely, or won’t? They can’t run as fast,
climb as tall, swing as high because they are adorned in skirts that they seem
to enjoy wearing every day. Does she wonder if something is wrong with her
because she doesn’t feel like that
version of what it means to be a girl?
My 52 year old self struggles with many of the disparate
terms assigned to being a woman. The
lack of equality is experienced on a daily basis, or it is certainly
surrounding me if I choose to attend to it.
Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I
can’t get away from it. The pay
differential. The lack of representation
in government and private sector leadership.
The on going rhetoric regarding women’s health care, aka, birth control,
aka body ownership. Aside from once wanting
to be a “Dad” when I grew up, or at least the parent that was adored and
celebrated for such simple acts of engagement as bringing home the gold, or at
least the wax paper wrapped squares of confection, I question more why we
aren’t trying harder to scale back on the expansive gender identification and
pushing for everyone to start at the same place, as human, humane and
caring. Equal.
My 52 year old self attended a conference on Multicultural
Education last week. My eight year old
self excitedly caught sight of a new children’s book. My 52 year old self conferred with the purchase without opening it, enjoying the brightly colored cover. A big
red crayon. It sat in a bag in my car for a few days before I started to
look through my purchases to decide which class each purchase would work best
with. I opened it and read each page happily, giddy
and overjoyed with the simplicity of the story, the message bold and colorful
and perfect. Red, A Crayon’s Story, by Michael Hall is the tale of a crayon,
among crayons, all assigned to produce the brightness and truth of what they
were “made” to be. The orange crayon
proudly making oranges, the golden gate bridge, and so on. Blue making the sky, or the ocean or the
bluebirds, happy. Red, however, is
wearing it’s red wrapper proudly but can’t seem to produce anything red, in
spite of it’s label. Everyone has
something to say about what’s wrong with Red, how to make Red “right” or how
sad it must be for Red’s parents....finally a brightly colored friend approaches
Red and suggests Red try to make something else,
be it’s true self and create what comes naturally.
At the end of the day, in school, at work, in life, imagine
if we all were able to celebrate being our true selves? How brightly colored life could be.
Epiogue of Sorts....or....Sordid
Epilogue
Last week I purchased my very first pair of stiletto’s. Black patent leather.
I went to a “gala”. I have never said those words before, gala, stiletto, me. I couldn’t walk in them, which made me feel all sorts of giggly and girlie. I felt almost like a princess. An elegant, one, anyway, when I wasn’t walking. It was magnificent. And I was adored, I amazed even. It’s true! Undeniably so. How wonderful it all felt.
I went to a “gala”. I have never said those words before, gala, stiletto, me. I couldn’t walk in them, which made me feel all sorts of giggly and girlie. I felt almost like a princess. An elegant, one, anyway, when I wasn’t walking. It was magnificent. And I was adored, I amazed even. It’s true! Undeniably so. How wonderful it all felt.
My bestfriend is 4. No kidding. I took her to her dance class last week to
help out her mother (my second best
friend) and she asked her teacher to get me from the waiting room to help her. I was
announced, almost like a princess, “Maeve’s best friend!” the dance instructor
called out. It felt pretty special. So the day before this gala, in my second
best friend’s wardrobe closet, I was getting input about the dresses I was considering wearing, and trying on a couple of others, when my best friend awoke from
her nap and joined to watch as I tried on several dresses and shoes. She wanted to know what was going on and why was I getting all dressed up.
Earlier in the week she asked if my husband
died. I had to bite hard my response and
then simply said, “I don’t have a
husband.” She laughed at me. Nervously. She wasn’t exactly sure how to tell me I had
children, so I had to have a husband... "silly”...she quietly added thinking I was not too quick on the uptake as to how the world
works. I smiled and bit down hard
again. She needs to believe husbands
don’t go away. After all, her mother has one and if he goes
away, there goes all that Dad magic and...well,
the fragility of families is not something I need her to learn from me, just
now. I decide not to tell her about my
ex-husband's extra-familial pursuits and my divorce and instead point out other husbandless
or wifeless, single and available, some divorced, some not, members of our shared tribe. But she is quick to tell me where the
other husbands are and aren’t, and next she is telling me how to get me a
husband of my very own. I try to
convince myself maybe we have
advanced and I am permitted to have a gaggle of husbands....maybe. She shares the secret; it seems I have to
dress up and kiss someone at a dance. “Easy
peasy” she prods. I say “Wait a minute,
where’s your husband?” She laughs in
that barroom cackle she occasionally conjures.
“I’m not getting no husband!” hands quickly fly to hips, and head
shakes, “no-way Jose!” I’m not getting
anymore either, I think, smiling.
I’m not as vibrantly disconnected to my label as Red. I look
all sorts of every bit of the woman I am in that dress, in those shoes, at that
gala, with that man. I might even get
more practice to master those stilettos.
If not, they would make perfect spears, or boomerang-like ninja weapons
on my next adventure. I adore being an
eight year old non gender specified child and a beautiful aging 52 year old
human who hasn't yet found the form to check off girl-child-woman-emerging warrior, unmarried
Free to be.
I do wish the 4 year olds would loosen up about those rules
for courtship and marriage and gender conformity. It’s gotten out of control and too difficult for
the rest of us to meet their rigid expectations. Maybe we can encourage them to relax a bit.
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