Do I look like a boy?

In 1973 I wanted a haircut.  Maybe it was 1974.  I was in kindergarten. My hair was long, always in pony tails and a part of me that didn't seem to fit right. I wanted short hair. Not quite like a boy but not quite like a girl.  I wanted something in between.  Something that felt like me.

My mother denied me my haircut for the longest time.  She spent countless hours with detangler sprays, combs and brushes.  She made sure every hair on my head was perfect.  If one piece of hair was out of place she would sigh, rip out the rubber band and start all over again.  It was an awful lot to go through for something I didn't even want.

After relentless persuasion I finally got my hair cut. I would like to say it went down like this:

Me: "Mom I reaaaaaallllly want my hair cut short. Please???????"
Mom: "OK honey."

However, it went more like this:

Me: "Mom, I reaaaaalllly want my hair cut short. Please??????"
Mom: "Fine. If you want to look like a friggin boy I will chop your hair off like a friggin boy!"

And while I do not remember the exact haircut taking place, or the ride there and back, I can only imagine with great force and anger I was grabbed by the hand, thrown in the car and taken to the shop where I am positive the girl was told to make me look like a boy, but a really ugly one.

The only memory I have is arriving back home with my hands over my head screaming and crying and my mother slamming the front door in my face.  I do know it was early morning and it seemed like the neighborhood was not yet awake.  I went next door and called up to the window of the teenaged girl that lived next door.  Her opinion, and company, was very important to me.

Me: "Do I look like a boy?"
Girl: "No, you look like a cuter version of you. It doesn't look like a boy or a girl.  I think it fits you."

It was the worst haircut ever. But at that moment I didn't care. That is what I needed to hear.

My GAY Cape

I was asked to mentor some high school kids working on writing business plans.  I cheerfully accepted. I love working with kids, in any capacity.  I always walk away knowing my experiences have taught them something.  It's a great feeling.

When I walk into the school to meet these kids, I know I will immediately scan the group with gaydar. Even if they don't know that particular thing about them, I will.  I will hope the students that I detect will be part of my team.  I want the LGBT kids, I just cannot ask for them.

Whenever I am in an situation where there are kids, I want to whip out my "GAY" cape and don a T-shirt that says, "I am here. I am grown. I survived, I can show you how. Just ask me"

I want to be the voice for them, the confidence they lack, the tough exterior they need to ward off society.  I want to be the future that looks bright, the sign of possibility and the determination that often slips from their grasps in frustration. I want to be their hope.

I am not extraordinary. As a matter of fact, I am pretty much ordinary.  These kids cant tell where I have come from, they cant see where I have been. They will most likely never realize I have been where they are now. They will go on about their days with their feelings unexpressed, their fears mounting and their options seemingly nonexistent.

I was that kid.  I wish someone would have worn that GAY cape for me.  I wish I had known someone, anyone, that made it through.  Someone that validated the confusion, the self loathing, the lack of understanding.  A person, that through words or actions, could have assured me what I was feeling was right, OK and potentially amazing.  My gay super hero would have been a phone number to call when I spent days crying in my room to my posters.  They would have been someone who could help me see that childhood is really such a short period of time even though it felt like an eternity passing through.

Recently I had a conversation with someone regarding the lack of resources for LGBT kids in my neighboring communities.  Fear was the main reason that came up again and again for keeping them away.  Parents fear for their gay children exposed in a public place. Students fear for their safety from hate filled classmates.  Administrators fear liability. Liability.  Who is liable for these kids' well being? For their sense of self? For their understanding of love? Who is liable when these kids commit suicide?

When I walk into that school I will scan the group. I will look for that familiar face staring back at me.  I will wish I had my cape on. I will try to tell them silently that high school is completely different from real life.  I will try to convey that the feelings they are experiencing are real and OK. I will try to say "just hang in there. These people will mean nothing compared to what you will mean to yourself someday".