a little uncomfortable

(Original Post - March 2013)

“Boys can’t love boys! Can they?”

So, with that opening line, I’d be willing to bet that a few people are already feeling a little bit uncomfortable.

Norah raised a similar question quite a while ago, and at the time I really wasn’t sure how to direct the conversation. I see now that the conversation need not have been deep or complex, but I’ll address that in a bit.

It’s interesting, when we think about what makes us uncomfortable. But more interesting, I think, are the reasons that we are uncomfortable with certain things, be they conventional items, conversational icebreakers, or controversial ideas.

My son James is a lot of things. Inquisitive, energetic, competitive, and at times, unbearably contrary. He’s pretty darn handsome too. However, when he and my wife ventured out last Saturday to meet myself and Norah at her dance lesson, he apparently felt the need to enhance his fetching features with an accessory.

A purse.

But surely, you say, you must mean a hip, daring leather satchel, seen so often on the shoulders of men on the streets of Manhattan. Something akin to the ever-present bag of Indiana Jones, perhaps; convenient and stylish while being, above all, decidedly masculine.

But to you, I say No, no, my friend. What my son sported was nothing of the sort.

It was a purse. A hot pink purse, shaped like the most exquisite strawberry, and draped over his shoulder on a tiny silver chain.

I’ve stated in previous writings how appalled I was when I learned last year that there were several families at my school (fathers mostly) who would not let their sons wear a pink shirt on National Anti-Bullying Pink Shirt Day. This was the first thought to cross my mind when I saw James jump out of the car that morning. The smile on his face was huge and perfect. He was having a great morning, happy to be doing the Saturday morning activities that we engage in each week, and yes, I think he was pretty proud of his man purse.

“James, buddy, what have you got on?”

“A puhse.” (The letter R is still a little elusive).

“Why have you got Norah’s purse on?”

He unzips it and happily shows me its contents. “I need it foh my supo-hewoes. See, it’s da Hulk!” He shoves the Incredible Hulk in my face, growling with his best Hulk imitation. Hulk stares back at me, his green cheeks flushed red, his eyes begging for help. But there’s no escaping the vice-like little fingers of James. He shoves Hulk back in with Superman, Batman and The Flash, and marches into Norah’s dance studio, purse slung over his tiny shoulder.

As we left the studio that morning, myself and a friend were chatting about how men often struggle even to hold their wives purses for the shortest moment. James walked beside us, adjusting his pink strawberry handbag.

And then there’s Norah. Always thinking, always analyzing and processing. Sometimes, I worry that because she thinks so much, she’ll worry too much. She’s already a worrier, and she comes by it honestly.

So when she was feeling a bump on her face a few weeks ago, I was a bit concerned. The bump (actually, bumps – there were quite a few of them) was the result of a bad fever she suffered for a couple of days prior. The bumps were red and raised, and very noticeable. Once she was feeling better, we decided to head out for a while, and as she sat on the step waiting for us (perhaps waiting for James to find his purse) I noticed her staring off into the distance, a serious look on her face, as she felt the bump on her nose.

Of course, I thought, she’s self-conscious about going out with big red marks on her face.

“What’s wrong, Hun? Are you worried about the bumps on your nose?”

Norah looks at me, a little confused. Then she smiles.

“No, I’m just feeling how big this one is.” She jumps up and heads out the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

Apparently, any uncomfortable thoughts were my own entirely.

Recently, I attended an LGBTQ awareness training conference for guidance counsellors and administrators. The event was facilitated by Egale, and discussed a number of issues pertaining to students and teachers who are gay or lesbian. One of the things I took away from the event, aside from a great amount of new knowledge, was a bright, rainbow colored Egale wristband. One of the facilitators suggested we wear it, as the LGBTQ community appreciates all the allies that provide them with support. I put it on and headed home.

Shortly afterwards, I took it off. Little time passed before James noticed it, and called out to me. “Dad. Whas dis?”

I go in to see what he’s holding. “Oh, that’s my wristband.”

He looks at my wrist, which is free of bands or any other accessory. “How come you not puttin dat on?”

And I’ve got nothing. That little voice in my head pipes up immediately and asks, Yeah Dave, how come you not puttin dat on? I know the answer. I’m just a bit uncomfortable with it. It is, after all, a big wristband. And it’s awfully bright with its kaleidoscope of rainbow colors. And Egale is printed in big letters across its length. And I –

I look at James. He’s standing there, looking up at me, holding out the wristband. That look in his face is one I’ve seen in so many of the situations that I write about in these Short Thoughts. It’s hard to describe. It’s a look that always makes me step outside myself for a moment, and subsequently makes me take a long hard look at myself.

I take the bracelet from him, and put it on with a smile.

At the pool a couple of hours later as myself and my wife watch the kids during their swimming lessons, I’m still smiling. I’m still wearing the band.

And I pull up my sleeves.

But to get back to the whole ‘Can boys love boys?’ question that Norah posed, we fast forward to the next morning. Over a bowl of Lucky Charms, Norah tells me that one of the boys at her sitter’s house said that he loved one of the other boys there. I could tell she’d been thinking quite a bit about it. I thought about how she asked me a similar question over a year ago, and I kind of brushed it off back then. This time, I decided to answer her properly.

I rolled up my sleeves.

I pointed out the rainbow wristband, and told her that this was given to me by a lady who was, in a way, my teacher for a day. I talked about what a nice woman she was, what a cool woman she was, and then I told Norah about the woman’s family. I noted how our family consisted of her, her mother and brother, and myself. Then I told her about how this nice woman who gave me the wristband had a family too, but her family didn’t have kids; it was just her and her best friend, who she loved. Another lady.

Norah processed for a second. “So, Mommy’s got a husband, but this girl doesn’t?"

“No husband,” I said. “Just her and her partner. They’re the family.”

Another pause, and then with a shrug Norah says, Oh, and dives back into her cereal.

A two minute conversation, and I’m pretty sure that Norah realizes it’s fine for two people to live together and love each other, even if they happen to be the same gender.

I’ve realized that some of the most profound lessons I’ve learned from my kids come from situations where I’m a little uncomfortable, where I’ve made mistakes, or where I’ve muddied waters that, in a child’s eyes, are unmistakably clear. They see things in a way that is pure and unfiltered. They see things through eyes that are unbiased by society and the larger world.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with James carrying his superheroes in a strawberry purse. There’s absolutely no reason for Norah to feel self-conscious about a few blemishes on her face. And there’s absolutely no reason for me to hesitate in wearing an LGBTQ wristband.

The only thing that’s wrong is the fact that society will continue to work to convince us that there is in fact something wrong about the aforementioned examples. So what can we do to combat this? What can we do to ensure that our kids grow up feeling entirely confident in and comfortable with themselves?

Watch them. Listen to them. Learn from them…

And roll up your sleeves.

“Why is it that, as a culture, we are more comfortable seeing two men holding guns than holding hands?” - Ernest J. Gaines