Baby Storm and his/her looong-ass road ahead.

I came across an article on Yahoo News the other day titled “Parents Keep Child’s Gender Under Wraps.” Click through if you’d like to read it. Basically, the general gist is, this Canadian couple had a child whom they named Storm (who is now 4 months old) and they refuse to disclose the child’s gender to anyone other than the midwives who helped deliver the child, the child’s two brothers, and a close family friend. They were quoted as saying that their choice to not disclose his/her gender is “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? …),” and saying that their decision gives Storm the freedom to choose who he or she wants to be. The mother, a teacher at an alternative school, said “What we noticed is that parents make so many choices for their children. It’s obnoxious.”

They raise their other two boys (ages 5 and 2) with the same mindset, allowing them to choose clothing from both boys’ and girls’ sections of stores, and they are “unschooled” - a version of homeschooling which puts a child’s curiosity at the center of his or her education. Both wear pink and have long hair, and are frequently assumed to be girls - although the oldest chose not to attend a conventional school because of the questions about his gender, and has asked his mother to make sure other people know he’s a boy. When asked whether the confusion over his gender upsets him, he nodded yes.

Now. First of all, my disclaimer: I don’t believe that anyone who knows me can honestly say that I am in any way against gender equality and/or the right to sexual freedom. And I can totally see what the parents are TRYING to do, and what they’re TRYING to stand for. I don’t believe they are acting with any sort of malicious intent.

However. With that said:

I don’t feel like this is the best way to raise these children. What if, instead of “liberating” her children from the evils of assigned gender roles, she is in fact just confusing them about their sexuality or “portrayed” sexuality? What if, by encouraging them so much to “think outside the box,” they feel they’re expected to cross-dress or bend gender roles? In other words,  what if, by encouraging them to choose clothing out of both the boys and girls sections, they feel they are required to? Her children are at an extremely delicate developmental stage right now. They are impressionable, and rely on mommy and daddy to make the best decisions for them in order for them to grow into well-adjusted adults.

I feel like a more appropriate course of action would be to not ask them to make choices one way or another, but to simply allow them to be whomever and whatever they want to be, and support them in their choices. If they want to wear girls’ clothing and choose activities normally enjoyed by the opposite sex, go for it! Don’t shoot them down, and encourage their choices. But that’s one thing - making them think that they want to when they’re too young to really know what they want is another - and it could be detrimental to their emotional and psychological development. I don’t believe there is anything inherently wrong with raising your girls as well-adjusted girls and allowing them freedom to make non-gender-specific choices. Same goes for boys, obviously. But I feel as though this mother goes so far out of the way to be “progressive” that she may be inadvertently forcing her children to behave in a way they don’t want to (which is exactly what she’s fighting against) but the worst part is, she’s expecting them to behave in a manner that can and probably will cause the child pain, suffering, and shame. You cannot force individuality, just like you cannot choose your gender any more than you can choose your sexual preference. I am talking, of course, about the older boys, not the baby Storm.

Storm will have his/her own problems when s/he realizes s/he has major issues with his/her sense of gender identity, which is psychologically considered essential to a fully integrated personality and a large part of a person’s self schema. To paraphrase one of the gay men who commented on this article, “So you want to change the world, fantastic. Good for you. Teach your children to be free thinkers, don’t use them as lab rats just to prove your point.” These children are TOO YOUNG to make educated decisions on such a complicated issue. Grown ADULTS have trouble making decisions like this.

I can see how this kind of upbringing would have been great for people who ended up having gender identity issues as an adult, but the problem is that this mother has no way of knowing if Storm or her boys would have developed such issues - they may be more common than society admits, but I’m not sure if they’re so common as to justify risking your kid like this. Now, instead of potentially clearing up the kid’s later gender-identity issues, the mother has likely caused a whole slew of them.

"tell me about a familiar experience that centers around emotion."

There’s nothing like it.

The muffled footsteps of people shuffling into their seats, the crackling of programs being explored. The smell of wood and dust and day-old coffee that lingers in the air - a sort of warehouse smell to which I’ve become so accustomed it almost feels like home. The lingering taste of the banana and vitamin water that has become tradition. All of a sudden I’m keenly aware of my every muscle, my every joint, the very air that enters my lungs. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The world around me has been reduced to the pounding heartbeat that seems to have taken over my whole body. I can feel my fingertips pulsating. I’m not scared, I’m not nervous - I’m ready. I want to get out there. I want to see what I can give today.

I feel alive.

A hush settles over the house and the lights dim. One more deep breath and then the click of my heels brings me out of my dark velvety cocoon and out into the open space where I am most vulnerable. I nestle into the curve of the piano, taking a moment to run my fingers over the dark wood lid, grounding me and pulling me closer to the music until I can feel it as much as hear it. Any leftover apprehension and doubt is carried away by the first few notes to envelop me.

The words that are the vessels for each floating note carry with them love, longing, sadness and joy. They carry me over and above myself until I no longer feel trapped by reality but surrounded by the beauty of Possibility. I am everyone who has ever felt anything before. I savor their passions and endure their fears, and in return I offer up my own soul. Everything I am, everything I could be, and everything I have been is on display, raw and naked. I have become pure emotion.

As the notes die down and I begin to fall back to reality, I gather up what’s left of me in an attempt to bring myself back down to earth. My pulse begins to race as I welcome the overwhelming rush and exhilaration of having thrown yourself to the wolves and survived. Trembling, I dip my head and lower myself in open gratitude, genuinely thankful for the reward of applause.

As my footsteps carry me back to the comforting thickness of heavy velvet curtains and darkness, I realize with a pang of disappointment that it’s all over - for now. Next time. I’ll be ready next time as well. After all…there really is nothing like it.

Story of my Life.

March 12, 2011. 12:37 AM. While completely sober, Cristina heads downstairs for a cup of Kool-Aid, which she brings to her room and promptly spills all over her bed. At this point, she isn’t even surprised at her clumsiness; in fact, she simply sighs dejectedly and trudges off in search of replacement sheets.

But what’s this? The self-deprecating acceptance of her clumsiness gives way to a new, somewhat unwelcome emotion when she realizes that, in a cruel twist which adds insult to injury, there is not enough left in the cup for her to take her evening medication. More must be procured, perhaps in a child’s sippy cup, or a sealed water bottle.

She heads back downstairs, annoyed and exhausted. Places the cup on the counter - so. Lifts the pitcher. Thinks twice, and lifts the cup. Determined not to make another mess, she slowly retreats back to her room, where, steadying the red plastic vessel with both hands, she drinks deeply without incident. Relieved, she places the cup on the desk opposite of her bed in order to minimize any more accidental toppling.

She crawls into bed and lets her hair out of its elastic band. As her jet-black curls tumble loose, she tosses the elastic aimlessly across the room, only to hear the faint click of elastic on plastic, and the sound of the cup tipping over, spilling its meager remains across the desktop.

The room is silent, save for her frustrated sighs. A moment passes, before we hear her turn over and go to sleep, mumbling only one audible phrase:

“Fuck. That. Shit.”

vulnerability

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.

C. S. Lewis