I know this woman whose 4 year old son insists on wearing dresses and fairy costumes and all things pink. Being a modern kind of gal, she encourages him to express himself, and he wears what he likes. Occasionally, she manages to convince him to shake things up a little and wear jeans and a shirt, but she doesn't want to make a fuss. "Maybe he'll be an interior designer. Or maybe he'll be the next Michael Kors." She says hopefully. What she doesn't say is, "Maybe he'll be a mincing queen who hisses when he speaks and takes it up the bum." It certainly does give me cause to think. Does any parent, gay or straight, wish for their sons to be gay? Before Michael Kors was a brand name, did his mother wonder what was going to become of him?
I hope it goes without saying that the love I have for my sons is unconditional and boundless. I would never turn my back to them, and I will always be as supportive of their lives as I can possibly be. But there are certain paths I would prefer they not take. I prefer that they not be right-wing evangelicals. I prefer that they not enlist in the army. I would prefer that they not join a cult. I don’t want my babies to grow up to be cowboys…and I would prefer it IF they do choose the path of gay love, that they check the hissing, lisping, bitching and snapping in Z formation at the door.
There are many different flavors of gay, and I don’t care for all of them. I’m sure that I’m not going to be voted most politically correct at the next Rainbow Families Potluck Picnic when word gets out that I don’t love each and every one of my brothers and sisters equally. Truth be told, there are very few flavors of people I DO love-gay or straight. I feel a tiny bit bad that I can’t get past the swishing to appreciate what lies beneath. But I can’t help but wonder if I’m capable of mothering a screaming queen.
Me: “Asher! I don’t care how ‘fierce’ you think you are, I’d appreciate it if you could please ask my permission before you raid my make-up bag. This stuff is expensive. I’m going to have to take all lipstick privileges away for a week.”
Asher: “Oh no you di--in’t!”
Me: “Don’t you wave your finger at me, Mister!”
Asher: “That’s Mistressss to you. Ms. Ashah if you’re nasssssty.”
Me: “Asher, can you please be serious for a minute?”
Asher: “I’m sorry, Mom. Tell you what. Why don’t you go change into something a little less….um….hideous, and let’s go get manis & pedis together. After that, we’ll come back home and watch the Project Runway Marathon. I’ll whip us up some tea cakes, and we’ll spoon on the sofa.”
I know. So cliché! I’m just trying to come to terms with the possibility that one of my boys might flame a little bit. I don’t have any reason to believe they will. I certainly don’t believe that gay parents raise gay children. Look at all the gays produced by straight parents. There was the time when Asher was 2 ½ when we brought home a red boa from a bridal shower, and he insisted on wearing it for weeks. The color did suit him, truth be told. And though he loves trying on our high-heeled shoes, he is obsessed with his trains and race cars. If he scores a 2 on the Machismo Scale - 10 being John Wayne and 1 being Richard Simmons, I’ll have to find the silver lining. In this case, however, that lining is sure to be gold lamé.
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