I wrote about this a while back on my personal blog, except in reverse. In The Business of Raising A Woman I talked about raising a daughter free from societal expectations of a girl.
No lacy dresses, no giant bows on my baby’s head. I don’t judge, it’s just not my thing. Now, if Violet starts asking to wear pumpkin-sized bows that obscure her entire head, fine. I may be bummed, but if it’s her thing, it’s her thing, I just ain’t inflicting it on her.
Such was the struggle of the woman who wrote My Princess Boy. It tells the story of a 4-year-old boy who loved anything pink, sparkly or typically considered girly. It also describes the journey of acceptance taken by his mother, Cheryl Kilodavis.
I realize although don’t understand why, in society, it’s much more acceptable for a girl to be a tomboy than for a boy to be girly. If my boy pops out of the womb digging pink sparkles then I will go to town with sparkles. In fact, I daresay I’d be thrilled with such an individualistic expression of self.
Does it mean my son is gay if he digs sparkles? No.
Is this a gay issue? I think so.
I think that’s what makes folks so uncomfortable with The Princess Boy, Dyson. They worry that encouraging his pink sparkle obsession will somehow turn him gay. But digging sparkles makes him gay about as much as it means Violet’s a lesbian because she’s really into dinosaurs, fishing poles and trucks, which she received in spades for Christmas.
Dyson, may be gay or straight and it doesn’t matter. It’s society that has inflicted opinions on what is acceptable or unacceptable for little boys and girls. Gender stereotyping at its finest.
But if my son were gay it wouldn’t change a damn thing for me or my husband either. Living in Utah, where the main religion vocally and financially supported Proposition 8, we deem it our duty to be loud, proud and usually pregnant when it comes to fighting for gay rights.