Pop will identify Pop’s self to the world.
The Toronto parents of Storm are doing something similar. In their birth announcement, they wrote to friends and family that “We’ve decided not to share Storm’s sex for now—a tribute to freedom and choice in place of limitation, a stand up to what the world could become in Storm’s lifetime (a more progressive place?…).”
The New York Times Magazine did a long profile of “gender-variant” kids and their parents. The thing that struck me most in the article was how hard the parents were working to create a space in the world for their kids.
One father of a boy who wore dresses and had long hair reflected: “He’s just this very brave person. My son showed me this is part of core identity, not something people just put on or take off. And it’s not their job to make sure we’re all comfortable.” A preschool in Sweden is working to inculcate the next generation with that same kind of sensitivity and appreciation for the breadth of human expression. They have done away with the pronouns “him,” “her,” “he,” and “she.” The kids are called by their names or referred to as “friends.” Toys are not gendered and neither are activities.
The move came after a 1998 law requiring equal opportunities for girls and boys in school. Teachers then filmed their interactions with the kids. The director said that they found caregivers were responding really differently to boys and girls: “If a boy was crying because he hurt himself, he was consoled, but for a shorter time, while girls were held and soothed much longer. With a boy it was, ‘Go on, it’s not so bad!’”
Our society is fast and ruthless in its enforcement of gender norms. It is not just the clothes, it’s everything. From the kinds of toys that babies and children are given—doll babies and kitchens for girls, matchbox cars and fire trucks for boys—to the kinds of activities that are sanctioned—sports and tree climbing for boys, playing house and picking flowers for girls—it is no surprise that this impulse also manifests in how parents and caregivers respond to injuries and tantrums.
Kids do it to each other too. When Rosena was in kindergarten, she came home from school complaining that kids on the playground said that her jacket was for a boy and she must be a boy if she’s wearing a red and blue jacket with a hood.
She was hurt and upset, but she was also indignant. “Who did they think they were?” It was not too hard to convince her that she had a nice warm fall jacket and that she should keep wearing it. But it happened again at summer camp.
It was probably my fault. I cut her bangs and bungled it badly. She was just happy to have the hair out of her face, but it was a bit of a hatchet job. Kids called her a boy and it hurt her feelings. But then the next day, she picked out an outfit of shorts and a T-shirt, nothing pink or girly. She was going to be who she was—comfortable and ready for fun. I was proud of her but I also made an appointment for her to get a real haircut later that week.
All of this made me consider my own gender education. I was often mistaken for a boy because of my homemade haircuts, oversized clothes, and generally grubby appearance. I didn’t really mind it most of the time. I either relished the opportunity to correct people for getting it wrong or I subtly revealed my femininity in their presence by taking my hair down or doing something unmistakably girlish to see how they reacted.
In some ways, my mom and dad had a traditionally gendered relationship within the completely nontraditional context of a nonviolent resistance community. There was something archetypal about both of them. My mom was a peacemaker, a negotiator, a finagler. She asked questions. She listened, she was patient, she conceded, and she gave second chances. She sought solutions that worked for everyone, and she softened my dad’s hard edges. My dad was the tough guy. He
The Toronto parents of Storm are doing something similar. In their birth announcement, they wrote to friends and family that “We’ve decided not to share Storm’s sex for now—a tribute to freedom and choice in place of limitation, a stand up to what the world could become in Storm’s lifetime (a more progressive place?…).”
The New York Times Magazine did a long profile of “gender-variant” kids and their parents. The thing that struck me most in the article was how hard the parents were working to create a space in the world for their kids.
One father of a boy who wore dresses and had long hair reflected: “He’s just this very brave person. My son showed me this is part of core identity, not something people just put on or take off. And it’s not their job to make sure we’re all comfortable.” A preschool in Sweden is working to inculcate the next generation with that same kind of sensitivity and appreciation for the breadth of human expression. They have done away with the pronouns “him,” “her,” “he,” and “she.” The kids are called by their names or referred to as “friends.” Toys are not gendered and neither are activities.
The move came after a 1998 law requiring equal opportunities for girls and boys in school. Teachers then filmed their interactions with the kids. The director said that they found caregivers were responding really differently to boys and girls: “If a boy was crying because he hurt himself, he was consoled, but for a shorter time, while girls were held and soothed much longer. With a boy it was, ‘Go on, it’s not so bad!’”
Our society is fast and ruthless in its enforcement of gender norms. It is not just the clothes, it’s everything. From the kinds of toys that babies and children are given—doll babies and kitchens for girls, matchbox cars and fire trucks for boys—to the kinds of activities that are sanctioned—sports and tree climbing for boys, playing house and picking flowers for girls—it is no surprise that this impulse also manifests in how parents and caregivers respond to injuries and tantrums.
Kids do it to each other too. When Rosena was in kindergarten, she came home from school complaining that kids on the playground said that her jacket was for a boy and she must be a boy if she’s wearing a red and blue jacket with a hood.
She was hurt and upset, but she was also indignant. “Who did they think they were?” It was not too hard to convince her that she had a nice warm fall jacket and that she should keep wearing it. But it happened again at summer camp.
It was probably my fault. I cut her bangs and bungled it badly. She was just happy to have the hair out of her face, but it was a bit of a hatchet job. Kids called her a boy and it hurt her feelings. But then the next day, she picked out an outfit of shorts and a T-shirt, nothing pink or girly. She was going to be who she was—comfortable and ready for fun. I was proud of her but I also made an appointment for her to get a real haircut later that week.
All of this made me consider my own gender education. I was often mistaken for a boy because of my homemade haircuts, oversized clothes, and generally grubby appearance. I didn’t really mind it most of the time. I either relished the opportunity to correct people for getting it wrong or I subtly revealed my femininity in their presence by taking my hair down or doing something unmistakably girlish to see how they reacted.
In some ways, my mom and dad had a traditionally gendered relationship within the completely nontraditional context of a nonviolent resistance community. There was something archetypal about both of them. My mom was a peacemaker, a negotiator, a finagler. She asked questions. She listened, she was patient, she conceded, and she gave second chances. She sought solutions that worked for everyone, and she softened my dad’s hard edges. My dad was the tough guy. He
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