Sometimes, I have my own version of what I like to call only in Northampton moments. For example, this week I passed by two middle-aged guys standing in front of Starbucks and pointing to City Hall. One said, “I think the Dalai Lama spoke there.” Or, at my parent-teacher conference for my toddler, when her teacher shared this lovely story: a little girl classmate and friend had been determined to wear a dress that morning because her friend and classmate—a boy—had been wearing one all week and she wanted to match. Imagine her disappointment when he arrived at school wearing only pants.
Of Saskia, her teacher said, “She’s feisty. She’s so petite, but she’s strong. I hope she can hold onto that. It’ll serve her well.” Indeed, my pretty little petite girl has not yet matured into an always sharing-caring preschooler; she’s, well, scrappy (in the best sense of the word, plus a little of the less-than-in-control-of-her-impulses sense). She gets right into it, especially with two boy pals (between them in their families, third child, third child, fourth child; they know from tussles).
What I take for granted most of the time, but really also falls under only in Northampton is that her toddler classroom is run by a very comfortably “out” lesbian and a male teacher. In other places, this composition of teaching staff for very young children especially would not be either unremarkable or remarkable/good.
Lest I forget that, somewhere in the midst of whatever else created buzz this fall, the Internet seems to have decided to discuss and debate gender codification and young children. That is to say a post around Halloween went viral: mom (a cop’s wife, no less) let (some say forced, once the costume had been purchased) son to dress as Daphne from Scooby Doo for Halloween. Then, another post—mom writes about feeling upset her first grade girl was being teased for toting a beloved Star Wars water bottle—went viral before Thanksgiving. Conveniently, there’s also a new picture book on the topic, written by the mom of a dress-loving boy called My Princess Boy.
If you click and read comments about any of these stories that just went bazooey, you’ll be somewhat amazed—or maybe you will be—both by how much the stories resonate and how mean people can be and how quickly people are to jump from liking a dress or a cartoon character or a movie to being certain those preferences—exhibited by young children, let’s note—determine who they will be in terms of things like sexuality. I mean, maybe if you like Star Wars you will always like Star Wars and maybe you won’t. I am pretty sure that if you like wearing—even love wearing—dresses when you’re three or five, you may or may not like wearing them later (boy or girl) and you may or may not love men or women (whether you grow up to be a man or a woman). We don’t know. We aren’t—as adults looking on, even as parents loving our children—supposed to know. I think our job as adults is to love the children in our lives for whom they are and honor their spirits, their pretty, feisty, twirling, and sleuthing, adventuring spirits.
An essay I wrote about letting my eldest boy—turning five at the time of the story—wear a dress to a cousin’s wedding seems almost naïve in the present-day landscape. It seemed both so complicated and simple at the time: we loved him; we wanted to show him that we believed he was perfectly fine wanting to wear a dress, rather than judge him wrong or weird for that. He’s fifteen and he doesn’t wear dresses, but if he did? That would be fine, too.
Countless times have I been walking with my longer-haired boys and their shorter-haired girl pal to have passersby let me know that they assume—they are not even asking, it’s more declarative than that—the boys are girls and the girl a boy. Between us boys and girls, we shrug. Often, we just carry on—unless we set the record straight.
Personally, I believe parents have an important role to play here in the gender-codification wars and it’s this: we have to support our kids to navigate the landscape that might not be so kind without rendering the desire to explore and honor one’s preferences wrong. This might mean paving the way for your dress-loving boy to attend weddings in something pretty, or later, helping your tweenager girl opt for shorts and T’s over miniskirts and halter-tops. These might sometimes feel like fine lines to traverse: how to support a child in one moment without jumping ahead five steps (or developmental stages) and how to love the boy on the dress day and the boy on the pants day equally. Saskia’s friend looked awfully adorable in the green tutu.
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Because it’s a funny story, that only in Northampton phrase came from my friend Ellie Lipman when she shared with me many moons ago how she was sitting at our favorite breakfast place—long gone Curtis and Schwartz—at the banquette beside a homeless man enjoying breakfast there and she said to him, “The pan-fried potatoes are so delicious.” He replied, “It’s the rosemary.” My friend—fellow writer and blogger, too—Amy Meltzer described Northampton as a place where everyone either has backyard chickens or at least has considered having backyard chickens. You do get that we love our quirky town.
Years ago, I was being photographed for a project my friend and neighbor Ellen Augarten was doing, documenting ordinary pregnant women (as opposed to celebrities) and so we were in my backyard just a couple of weeks before my third son arrived taking pregnant lady pictures. The kids were at school; no one was home. So, in front of the swing-set I stood, stark naked. Except, I hadn’t realized that Mister Gutter would be working at my house that day. He caught an eyeful. I imagined his telling his wife the story later that evening, with an eye roll and a comment, “Only in Northampton.” She took some really gorgeous photos that day.
