“Mom? Am I gay?”
My ten-year-old son asked me in a serious tone one Tuesday morning. He ran his hands through recently dyed electric red hair. Last week it was purple. The week before it was white.
“Well, I don’t know, let’s see… who do you want to kiss, a boy or a girl?” I was fairly certain we had discussed different types of relationships, so I cut to the chase.
“Kiss?! Ohmygod, Mom… ew! No one,” he concluded. That had me laughing. I was happy to dodge one more pre-teen hazard on this road to pubertic maturation. We had braces, glasses, greasy hair, and sweaty everythings already. I knew crushes were just around the corner, but I was happy to not add that drama to our lives yet.
It wouldn’t be the first time the thought had crossed my mind, though. But it dissipated, like fog in the morning. Knowing his orientation one way or the other wasn’t a priority in our family. What mattered to my husband and I was to raise a happy, healthy child with a positive self-esteem, sense of purpose, strong work ethic, and an unshakable faith that we would never abandon him.
My husband and I were raised in typical Gen-X/Y homes. Both were latch-key kids, taught to figure out life by checking all the “boxes” it presented. We did and we survived. But then we adopted our son.
He didn’t fit into any boxes. Not ours, nor those in our community. So, as survivors, we tossed out our prior expectations and started making new ones. Realistic ones. Succeeding in this new “woke” era would mean being flexible and compassionate—never assuming one’s outer expression could limit or otherwise define their inner potential.
In the care of his biological family, our son experienced years of emotional and physical abuse which left him fearful and angry. He spent his entire life feeling unwanted. We were determined to put an end to that. We wanted him to feel accepted in our family for who he is—whomever that might be.
In the process of fostering our son, Steven, we told him that we wanted to adopt him. At seven, he understood what that meant. He was thrilled and responded with a season of reinventing himself which threw everyone for a loop.
I guess you could say we were a bit “liberal,” or “unrestrictive” at first. Some people thought we promoted gender neutrality or gender fluidity. Our church friends at the time were showing increasing discomfort with having their children around ours—afraid the “gayness” would rub off on their kid. Puh-lease.
One of the first things Steven wanted to change was his hair. He cut it right away. Down to the scalp. With craft scissors. When it grew out again, he cut it again. And dyed it, curled it, spiked it, and clipped bows in it. That’s right. The bows and plastic baubles were important accessories to his Disney princess dresses. He had superhero and firefighter costumes as well and wore them just as much. Sometimes, he would put on makeup and join me for a manicure or pedicure. He had his own polishes in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle color scheme.
We took heat for allowing this. Steven’s therapist at the time actually scolded me.
“Steven is trying to recreate himself,” the therapist explained. The day’s session was over and Steven was absent-mindedly playing with lobby toys.
“Yeah, we know,” I answered. I didn’t like his tone. Be aware: therapists are supposed to help, not judge. But they have a bias, emotional baggage, and triggers just like any other person.
“This could be a sign of hyper-vigilance. He’s trying to please his new parents out of necessity. It’s a survival strategy,” the therapist continued. “You’re the adult in this situation. You have the ability to stop this.”
“But we don’t ask him to do those things,” I replied. “We haven’t initiated the changes or interfered with his choices.” This man’s conclusion needed some unpacking, in my opinion. If a child is free to be whomever they dream to be and is provided a fertile environment to grow and explore, “survival,” as he mentioned, absolutely will happen. But not in the way he implied. Not only was Steven healing in our home physically, but my son was thriving emotionally and developmentally by the parenting choices we made.
There was logic to the therapist’s conclusion. Hyper-vigilance is a real concern which could impact our son’s attachment to the family. But by continuing to allow Steven’s exploration of identity, he believed we were dishonoring the identity he was born with. Disregarding it, even. We were not considering his future well-being.
Out of curiosity, I asked Steven, “Which parents should decide what a kid dresses or looks like?” I expected “biological” or “foster” in reply. He outsmarted me.
“I don’t think that’s a fair question. Kids should be able to do what they like with their body.” I wondered if he meant kids should have freedom to explore and find what makes them happy.
“Yeah. Like, if you want to wear girls’ clothes, or have red hair, you can.” It was a very simple concept for him. Being happy and comfortable in his skin is a basic right that children should have. We reassured Steven that he could dress however and be whomever in our home.
One week after our initial chat, my son came back for another tête-à-tête.
“Mom, I’m pretty sure I am gay,” he announced with eyes downcast. It sounded like a cautious revealing of a terminal illness. This raised my suspicions.
“Alright. Well, what makes you think that?” I asked.
“I look gay, so I guess, I am.” That gave me a #FacePalm moment.
“And who says you look gay?”
Running his hands through his hair once more, he said, “Everyone.”
Enough is enough. Hair styles and dyes do not determine one’s sexual orientation or gender identity. But would hair really singe my child’s reputation in 2019? It did, and still does. As does his love for dance.
Recent dance company auditions highlighted the fact that my son was the only one of two males in the studio’s clientele. The “Is he gay?” energy swirled around us like autumn leaves in an updraft. The fact that grown women (mothers) and the female dancers were considering who my underage child would have sex with in the future did not sit well with me. Although one’s orientation is a legally protected status now, I’m learning that certain people are still going to get their digs in.
After a few years as a top-earner in his Boy Scout troop, earning several highly-esteemed math, science, and engineering awards, we started running into road blocks with the leadership. Our son’s dance classes and recitals/competitions would not be counted towards his sportsmanship requirements. Why?
“Because it’s not a sport,” I was told. Seriously?
We weren’t trying to push any agendas on the institution, but this attitude was already two decades outdated. We just wanted our son to be recognized for the hard work he put into his craft.
…And the therapist thought we would be the people to dishonor our son’s identity. His mark was a bit off. If anything, my husband and I reinforced my son’s identity from day one. Gay or straight is nobody’s business, but my son is loved, accepted, enjoyed, protected, destined, safe and wanted. That is who he is. But our world is still what it is.
Owner/Editor - Chris Chmielewski