During a recent evening spent around the dinner table at home, thought-provoking conversation once again took my guests and me to references from childhood. Perhaps it's the fact that most of my friends are either gay or new parents, but somehow, we always seem to gravitate toward conversations about youth.
In light of all the controversial headlines over gay adoption and the definition of both family and marriage, those topics always seem to prompt exclamations regarding the best practices for rearing a child. And, more specifically, who should decide what qualifications typify the perfect parent. “If straight people had to take a test to make sure they'd be fit parents, half of them would fail! It's just wrong!” said my friend Jeff. As I nodded along in agreement, it made me think about the “little” things I witness through my work.
Over the past several years, as a component of my job,I have had the privilege of creating for, playing with and observing children.
During another evening of toy testing, my coworkers and I, perched behind a wall of two way mirrors, listened in anticipation as tomorrow's adults unknowingly assessed the fate of next year's playthings. As we looked on, certain character traits such as “leader” and “art director” became increasingly apparent. And, at times, our observations would lead us to speculation regarding “alternative lifestyle choices.”
Sitting in the dark, bloated from continuous dips into the M&M's bowl, I began to wonder if the things I did, and the childhood choices I made, gave off signs of my 1 in 10 destiny as an adult. “Do you think kids do ‘gay’ things before they know they're gay?” I asked my coworker. “It sure looks that way.
”She said. As a child, the thought had never dawned on me to check with the other fourth grade boys on the blacktop to see who else really wanted a trench coat with a zip out lining.
Nor did the notion cross my mind that offering up style critiques to my mother's wardrobe (later to become my career) was anything but natural and normal. I suppose people from the far right, or those possessing “religious conviction,” might suggest that at age 10 I should have yearned for a football instead of yarn ball. But much to my parents’ credit and encouragement, I grew into puberty with a bountiful imagination.
So throughout various dinner gatherings, I began to accumulate gay recollections of youth from my guests. With the opportunity at hand I ignite the situation with my famously potent coffee, accompanied by various tales from my formative years. A personal favorite, and one that served me well as a designer, is a recounting of my two-day holiday journey to Florida by train at the fidgety age of 10. My Aunt Regina, probably desperate for anything to keep me tame, patiently taught me to crochet! While the passers-by looked on, and proud of my newly acquired skill, I spent the next 24 hours diligently crocheting scarves, drinking glass covers, and Ali MacGraw inspired skull caps, complete with flowers, all intended gifts for the various family members aboard.
With chuckles from my company, I then share my favorite childhood “fairy” tale—stolen from an ex-boyfriend, a corn-fed lad from Iowa who grew up with a house full of sisters and a field of crops out back. At the impressionable age of 8, he became infatuated with his mother's beauty shop-inspired hair dryer ,and would happily sit under it for hours to ensure the perfect hair. With parents less liberal than mine, he was barred from the in-home beauty shop and forced into monthly visits to the barber. As is the norm for most children, when the opportunity to play freely presents itself, Crayola portraits come to life on walls, and in this case, the beauty shop was opened for business. As his parents’ car disappeared into the distance for a night out, he diligently set up shop, looking forward to an evening coifing himself to perfection. Minutes later, caught off guard by their swift return, he did what any guilty child would do. He hid the evidence!
Without suspicion, he smiled innocently up at his parents and headed off to bed leaving the hairdryer beautifully camouflaged and running in the sofa pillows. The firemen, unable to save the house from being completely burned to the ground, managed to provide his parents with the blaze's origin—the now charred remains of his mother’s hair dryer.
Although this tale brings rounds of laughter, it always manages to ignite a firestorm of debate.
As adults/parents, can we spot the threads of “gayness”in children—even before they know? Should the innocent, gay choices of eccentric youth be stifled or supported? And most importantly, can they really be “corrected”?
The list of childhood tales builds around the table as one dinner guest recalls how he, and a neighbor boy, learned from his grandmother how to construct paper nurse hats. Once they'd mastered the basic hat, like any imaginative young lads dedicated to and inspired by The Flying Nun, they added paper wings to their smart chapeaus, lay stomach down on the seats of the backyard swing set and, with outstretched arms, flew alongside “Sister Bertrille” for hours of ecclesiastical adventures. Season after season the young postulants flamboyantly flew, soaring to new heights of religious expression. And in the quiet of a New Jersey backyard, innocent choices helped shape the future of a successful New York fashion designer and make-up artist. This tale of sacred devotion sparks fond memories of boyhood admiration from another visitor, his face serenely frozen in the past as he recounts the first time he fell in love with a man.
TV Guide, the unaware matchmaker, introduced it's young admirer to 1970s actor Michael Sarrazin through a story on the upcoming movie of the week, Frankenstein: The True Story. The angelic glossy of this movie-of-the-week Romeo was highlighted alongside an all-star cast. The ironic twist to this classic tale reveals that Dr. Frankenstein's monster was beautiful, yet possessed the mind of a child. The doctor, proud of his creation, begins teaching his pretty pet the lessons of life. However, the tale turns ugly when the experiment backfires and beauty becomes the beast. Cast aside, the creature takes on all the classic monster traits, and along with his fading beauty, eventually dies. As for my dinner guest, this began a boy’s understanding of unconventional love, although some may consider it the creation of another monster.
After repeated visits to the TV Guide as well as hours of microscopic adoration, he set out to do what came naturally. Thanks to a promotional opportunity in the back of his Teen Beat magazine, he was able to send the now clipped out photo away in the mail to become a poster-sized expression of his devotion.
After weeks of nail biting at the mailbox, the cardboard tube finally arrived! Jubilant, he proudly thumbtacked the film star Frankenstein to his bedroom door! In true New England fashion nothing was said about this eccentric display of affection, and once again, from a cramped bedroom in a quaint New England town, unexplained attraction inspired the success of a Hollywood marketing maven.
As each of these evenings venture into dessert, our playful tales evolve to a more serious note. United by both the humor and innocence of our youthful choices, thankful acknowledgment goes out to our parents for allowing us freedom, encouragement or quiet observation. Speculation as to what they were thinking as we went about our “Mary” little way introduces another question: What would President Bush do were he and Laura to gaze lovingly out the kitchen window expecting “normal” swing-set play, only to discover two cheerful young boys flamboyantly flying through adventure after adventure?
The conclusion? A Hail Mary! Grateful my friends and I were able to flourish into confident gay adults, all united by our freedom, my hopes are that we will inspire our proceeding generation to make as many liberal, albeit playful, choices—especially when voting! To some that may seem trite, to others pompous, but as they say, “It's the little things we do together.” And to quote a favored first lady, “It takes a village, (or perhaps in my case, the Village People) to raise a child!” But what do I know? I only design their toys.
For additional archives of
previously published columns visit www.frontiersweb.com and www.outlooks.ca