Playground Genderwars

The first thing Elsie does every morning -- or at least the first sign of wakefulness that I can detect from my own room -- is list her favorite things. Imagine life like that, rolling over, blinking in the beautiful late summer morning light, stretching your arms and legs, and watching the cobwebs clear from your mind to reveal all of your favorite things. Imagine being that optimistic! My list, if I could recapture that innocent joy, would probably sound like a fancy menu, or like a party invitation of my favorite people. For Elsie, it sounds something like this:"Fire truck! Fire truck! Garbage truck! Dump truck! FRONT END LOADER! Dinosaurs!!!"

"That's so cute!" Says my mom-friend. And I smile, because it IS awfully cute, which is why I shared the story. "Usually it's the boys who are so into trucks."

***

My dad walks into a bike shop and asks one of the sinewy, tan, scruffy young bike men, "Do you carry toddler bikes?"

"Sure." He replies. "For a girl or a boy?" gesturing to the options: a single bike everything-pink or a small array of bikes anything-but-pink.


***

"Does Elsie like GIRL stuff, or BOY stuff?" Asks S, our spunky 7-year-old nextdoor-princess, while Elsie plays with her newborn sister's toys in primary colors.

"What do you mean?" I ask. "She's still very young -- just one year old, so she still pretty much likes BABY stuff."

"Well, you know, that stuff there," S gestures to the red, yellow, blue, and green baby toys, "That's boy stuff. There's this girl at school, she never wears pink. Her back pack's, like, army pattern. And she likes to play sports with the boys. She's so weird. See me, I like girl stuff. I love princesses and Taylor Swift and Barbie. I have, like, 60 barbies upstairs."

"She does." Confirms her 5-year-old brother, G, from under his crown of blond curls.

"So does Elsie like girl stuff or boy stuff?"


***

There's a new kid in the neighborhood (8), who coasts down the street on a chunky blue mountain bike, wearing cargo shorts and a cotton undershirt, and showing off tricks, arms and legs extended, then rolls into the neighbor's driveway, drops the bike, casts off a blue helmet to reveal a disheveled mop of curls, and hops onto the swingset next to G (5), swinging so high that the old wood creaks and groans and the stabilizers buck off the ground. The whole swing set threatens to tear itself apart. M (S&G's incredibly hard-working mom) shoots me a look that says, "GREAT. A trip to the ER is all I need this evening."

Elsie toddles in front of the swings in her little cotton dress, too close for comfort.

"Stay right here, Elsie!" I say, swooping her up. "The big boys are swinging."

The new kid immediately scuffs to a halt in a cloud of dust and grass.

"I'm a girl."

"What?" I ask, not quite processing this new information.

"You said 'boys.' I'm a girl."

I feel awful. I turn beet red. I stammer, "I'm sorry. The big KIDS are swinging, Elsie. Kids."

***

So what's my point? Was I offended that my friend's surprise that my daughter loves trucks? Of course not. She didn't mean anything by it, and maybe she's write, statistically speaking. I just think maybe plenty of little girls like trucks, but we ENCOURAGE boys to like trucks.

And what's so wrong about distinguishing between girls and boys bikes?

"He didn't even ask for her age, height, or weight." My dad said, disbelieving. "You'd think that would be more important than color. Those bikes were the same. Why call them 'girl' or 'boy?' Why not just call them 'pink, red, blue, and black' and let the kid decide on aesthetics?"

What's so wrong about this is that we (or merchandise companies) are telling kids what the have to like to fit in. This is profitable for the companies oh no, you can't let your SON reuse that GIRL'S bike -- or he might turn out GAY! Instead you have to buy another completely overpriced toy and let the first one rot in the shed for eternity.

The problem is that kids buy into this. They crave these gender stereotypes, so the more rigid and restrictive the standards you set, the more they eat it up, hook like and sinker, like my next-door neighbor. The one who is actively ostracizing that "weird" tomboy in her class -- for the pattern of her backpack.

What happens, then, if you are a girl who doesn't like pink? A girl who thinks Taylor swift is uninteresting and barbies are boring? What if you're a girl like the new kid on my block?

As a third grader, she gets picked on just for being in a girls' bathroom, and is already medicated for anxiety because she is so worried that she'll never be able to find a college where she feels safe. (Yes, I told her mom about Smith.) She goes to private school with open and affirming doctrine and attends a transgender sleep-away camp even though she is not (at this time) transgendered. It is a place she can feel safe and be herself.

I have to admit, my first instinct was, "I really hope her moms aren't forcing her into gender neutrality as some well-meaning sociological experiment." Because I am a jerk. Turns out, no, this is just the way she is and just the way she has always been and her moms give her all the support she needs to be herself even in a world that sometimes ostracizes her for it. I commend her parents for supporting her this way.

Though it's lonelier for the tom-boy, I believe this gender battle is no more advantageous for the little princess. If she buys into these primary-school standards, what's to break the habit when she's a teen, trying attain standards of perfection of pubescent womanhood broadcast from photoshopped, airbrushed, pumped up, plucked, starved, nipped, tucked, and altogether grotesque shiny media empires?

And it's no better for boys than it is for girls. The messages to little boys is that you have to love blue, be strong, fierce, good at sports, and have no feelings -- and if you happen ever play in a play kitchen or break with these norms in any way, then you must be homosexual, and that is the worst thing you could possibly be. My mom once had to field a call from a parent in our school system who didn't want her son participating in drama -- a passion for him -- because she was afraid it would make him gay. That's pretty sick, too. This war touches everyone.

"But I loved the Disney Princesses, and I turned out just fine."

So did I. There was a time in my life when I could recite The Little Mermaid verbatim, from credit to credit. I loved that invisibly-waisted, impossibly-quaffed woman who gave up her one true talent and passion to get the man she loved so that she could leave behind her entire support network and go live with someone who loved her for her SILENCE.

And I turned out fine. Seriously. I did.

But I don't want that stuff in my house. I'm not judging you if you have it in your house, I just don't want it in my house. Elsie will be part of it because she is part of our culture, but I want her to come home to a place where it's okay to love a front-end-loader, even if you're a girl, and where boys can put on tutus and dance around without fear of ridicule, and where she learns compassion for people who don't fit social norms from our babysitter -- the most awesome tom-boy on the street. Because this particular kid, though very rough-and-tumble, is incredibly nurturing and loving and good with children.

So please, make our bike the red one. And swap that stupid seat covered in skulls for the plain black or white one. Sheesh.