I hit the ball across the field in attempt to (hopefully) run to first base without getting stopped by someone in a hard hat and cleats. Except I didn’t run to first base like all the other boys did, I skipped across in a gracious way that only the most unique of children would think to do. Some of my teammates chuckled at my nonsense, but I thought it was because I was a funny child that possessed pure the talent to get to first base. I didn’t get to first base, but I still kept skipping.
It wasn’t until two years later I told my mom that I wanted to stop playing baseball because I just wasn’t interested in it anymore. I spent my free time picking out clothes for my sister’s Barbie dolls and baseball seemed to only be taking up that precious time I had as a child. My mother politely obliged, allowing me to express my femininity as a child in any way I wanted too. While my dad, a man raised playing sports and keen on the thought of his only son being a “manly man” disagreed.
That wasn’t the first time my father made me feel bad about myself, but it also wasn’t the first time my mother could put a smile on my face when my dad didn’t know how to be the parent I needed.
It started from the planting of a bland and boring seed. Whether it was staring at the bin of Disney Princess costumes or the pink plastic heels on my sister’s side of the closet, or purchasing my first lace front wig to wear to my junior year high school Homecoming, my mom always smiled and reassured the need I had for exploring every aspect I wanted to of myself.
I played the girl Prince Eric almost married in my community theater’s version of “The Little Mermaid.” She was funny, female, and I had a ball. It wasn’t the idea that the character was a female, or I wore a wedding dress in front of a full house every weekend, it was that I could express myself in a way that was the opposite of wearing some baseball t-shirt with sweatpants. I got to laugh, and make other people laugh too.
When I first brought this news to my mom, she erupted with nerves for my safety. Would people tease me for being feminine? Would they stare at me? Throughout my childhood, I constantly reassured her that nobody ever accomplished anything important without going against the voices of those who disagreed. Whether it be my father or a stranger that thinks a boy in a dress is worse than a boy not tapping into every aspect of the things that make him happy.
I decided the best thing for my happiness was to evolve. I had just gotten done with The Little Mermaid and I wanted a change. I’m always one for a good change, and I knew eighth grade was no exception. I showed up on the first day with bleached hair, white skinny jeans, and a bright red plaid shirt to notify everyone there that the “emo” boy from seventh grade had gone full femme. The majority of them stared and pointed at me -- but I embraced it. I wasn’t going to hide behind myself, I was going to embark on the Fight for Femme I loved -- even if my father didn’t appreciate it like my mom did.
My father never learned about my playing a female role that one summer. Nor does he know about me arriving to my Homecoming in full drag. But he also doesn’t know that I’m thankful for him. Without him, I wouldn’t have learned how to laugh at the world while it snickered at me.
It wasn’t until two years later I told my mom that I wanted to stop playing baseball because I just wasn’t interested in it anymore. I spent my free time picking out clothes for my sister’s Barbie dolls and baseball seemed to only be taking up that precious time I had as a child. My mother politely obliged, allowing me to express my femininity as a child in any way I wanted too. While my dad, a man raised playing sports and keen on the thought of his only son being a “manly man” disagreed.
That wasn’t the first time my father made me feel bad about myself, but it also wasn’t the first time my mother could put a smile on my face when my dad didn’t know how to be the parent I needed.
It started from the planting of a bland and boring seed. Whether it was staring at the bin of Disney Princess costumes or the pink plastic heels on my sister’s side of the closet, or purchasing my first lace front wig to wear to my junior year high school Homecoming, my mom always smiled and reassured the need I had for exploring every aspect I wanted to of myself.
I played the girl Prince Eric almost married in my community theater’s version of “The Little Mermaid.” She was funny, female, and I had a ball. It wasn’t the idea that the character was a female, or I wore a wedding dress in front of a full house every weekend, it was that I could express myself in a way that was the opposite of wearing some baseball t-shirt with sweatpants. I got to laugh, and make other people laugh too.
When I first brought this news to my mom, she erupted with nerves for my safety. Would people tease me for being feminine? Would they stare at me? Throughout my childhood, I constantly reassured her that nobody ever accomplished anything important without going against the voices of those who disagreed. Whether it be my father or a stranger that thinks a boy in a dress is worse than a boy not tapping into every aspect of the things that make him happy.
I decided the best thing for my happiness was to evolve. I had just gotten done with The Little Mermaid and I wanted a change. I’m always one for a good change, and I knew eighth grade was no exception. I showed up on the first day with bleached hair, white skinny jeans, and a bright red plaid shirt to notify everyone there that the “emo” boy from seventh grade had gone full femme. The majority of them stared and pointed at me -- but I embraced it. I wasn’t going to hide behind myself, I was going to embark on the Fight for Femme I loved -- even if my father didn’t appreciate it like my mom did.
My father never learned about my playing a female role that one summer. Nor does he know about me arriving to my Homecoming in full drag. But he also doesn’t know that I’m thankful for him. Without him, I wouldn’t have learned how to laugh at the world while it snickered at me.