We saw him at the park, holding his mother’s hand, pointing at the row of ducklings,
making sure to include her in all that he observed. He must have been three, maybe four.
A towhead, with a big cowlick shooting out the top of his head. Yet he feigned sophistication in sunglasses almost as big as his face, and a leopard print fleece jacket.
I nudged my husband. “How gay is that?” I said, adopting my tired old queen voice.
He leaned in as if sharing a secret.“I would have killed for a jacket like that at his age.”
“I’d kill for it now,” I said.
We kept walking, quiet now, and I watched the boy run ahead as his mother shouted at him, “Slow down!” Which he did, for two minutes, before running off again. He was boundless in his energy, like a puppy, constantly distracted by ducks, squirrels, sounds.
I don’t hang with boys that age, but aside from the high fashion, I didn’t pick up on any
glaring effeminacy. No dramatic hand-waves, no sashay in his walk. Just an average boy, I thought.
Was I once that way? Or was I always pretending? Watching other boys my age, doing what they did, while really wanting to do what the girls were doing. Playing kitchen rather than football. Making things pretty, rather than tearing them apart.
School shopping for fourth grade, I spotted a burgundy trench coat complete with a wide belt across the middle and a shiny black buckle. It could have been the leopard print fleece of its time.
“This is what I want,” I said, dramatically, as I grabbed the hanger and held the coat
up to my body, as if I was about to dance across the young boys department of Macy’s.
My mother stared at me with a tired expression I had begun to see more often. Like I was a human rubik’s cube she had no idea how to solve.
She didn’t have to say anything. I hung that trench coat back on the rack, letting her select my fifth-grade jacket, something that wouldn’t attract attention. A garment I put on every morning, as if it was a piece of armor protecting me from the primary school death knell of looking exceptional.
Maybe things are better now. Maybe this kid’s mom is preparing herself for what comes next, reading up on the lives of the gays. Maybe she talks to actual gay people, asking them, as they look out the kitchen window at the little boy playing in the yard, “Do you think he could be…different?”
Or maybe today he selected the fleece, and tomorrow he’ll choose the superhero cape.
Maybe his mom lets him be whatever he wants to be, every single day. Wouldn’t that be nice, I think, if that’s what parents do these days.
I nudged my husband again, pointing out the colors in the trees, seeming so much brighter to my eyes.
Brian Christopher Giddens (he/him) is a gay writer of fiction and poetry, writing from a standup desk while his dog Jasper watches, waiting patiently for his walks. Brian’s work can be found at https://www.brianchristophergiddens.com.