(no subject)
My son, the 11-year-old drag queen
By Wellesley Jaye Ebert
An Advocate.com exclusive posted August 19, 2002
An adoptive mother shares the story of how she came to terms with raising a flamboyant, cross-dressing son, whom she adopted as an infant. Worry has become pride: “I never dreamed,” she writes, “that the rainbow trophy my son won as Alexis Love, the 11-year-old drag queen, would be among my cherished motherly mementos.”
The phone call came about 10 a.m. “It’s a boy,” said our social worker, Marlene, “born early this morning. He appears to be mixed race, but we’re not sure,” she added. “The birth mom had multiple partners.”
“Just what we ordered,” I quipped, sounding much more lighthearted than I felt. This was real. With a newly adopted baby, I’d be a very busy mother of three children under age 5-with a full-time job working in the child welfare system and lots of interests.
My husband and I had asked for it, though. Three months earlier, we posted an ad in the local paper. It read, “Christian family with young Asian children hoping to adopt infant of mixed racial-ethnic background.” My husband thought we should adopt another girl, perhaps from India, as Korean adoption was closed to those families who already had two children. We agreed to advertise and see what happened. After all, other couples had found success with recruiting young pregnant women considering giving their children up for adoption.
We didn’t yet realize that the hours spent in the transracial adoption classes we had taken would also prepare us to parent a cross-dressing, flamboyant, effeminate son. I never dreamed that the rainbow trophy he won as Alexis Love, the 11-year-old drag queen, would be among my cherished motherly mementos. We dreamed only of a mixed-race baby to complete our family.
And now our dreams unfolded with a phone call. A baby boy would fill our hearts and home with love. We named him Alex Michael. He’d certainly contrast with the twin girls we had adopted as infants more than four years earlier. With Asian twin girls and a brown baby boy, our family portrait would resemble a diversity poster.
Weeks later, we dressed Alex in a baseball uniform and took him home. The baseball uniform and matching cap were hand-me-downs from his sisters. I had refused to dress them in matching lace bonnets. After all, we hoped to avoid sex-role stereotyping.
As a former kindergarten teacher, I had researched the issue and I knew that children without strong gender typing are less neurotic, have higher self-esteem, and are more intelligent than their peers who follow rigid sex roles. A full-page article once quoted me saying so as I promoted a women’s conference where my presentations were featured. “Raising a Girl, Raising a Boy” was the title of my workshop on gender role stereotypes, and I titled the other presentation, which was about kids growing up too fast, “Knowledge Without Maturity, Maturity Without Years.” Back then, as a kindergarten teacher, I’d reflect frequently on how we “become”-what influences us and why.
Knowing the research on child development made parenting quite fulfilling for me, especially after a long wait for parenthood. And after having twins, I relished the chance to focus on just one baby, charting each developmental milestone on the baby calendar waiting to be filled.
Primary colors, high-contrast mobiles, teddy bears of varying textures-we knew just what to do to maximize Alex’s brain development. He was a content baby and pleased us all by sleeping through the night at 2 months old. He walked at 9 months and sucked his thumb constantly that first year. Alex removed the thumb only when he wanted to “sing.” Ten-month-old Alex repeated a succession of tones and each day. He sang a new do-re-mi of sorts, “Three Blind Mice,” “Frosty the Snowman,” “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”
I thought it uncanny that my baby repeated melodies before he knew words. My husband was amazed. “He knows about 15 words and 20 melodies,” we told the pediatric nurse at the clinic at his 15-month check-up. “I think his birth father must be an opera singer.” We all laughed, but I wondered where Alex’s perfect pitch originated.
At 18 months, Alex bopped a perfect rhythm with one hip slung and fingers snapping. When he was 2, Alex added costumes to his “shows.” Hats, beads, scarves, a tutu-my little performer stood still only to sing or to play with his Matchbox cars, which he lined up in parking lot or parade fashion. He led the parades with a baton in hand, wearing a tutu and cape.
“Take it off now. The parade is over,” I encouraged, hoping to get him out of his tutu so I could wash it. After all, he wore it to bed and all day long. My husband hid the tutu, and at his urging I provided an array of “appropriate” theatrical costumes for a boy. Alex also had a chef’s hat and apron for cooking at his pretend stove and hats designed for every career: firefighter, nurse, doctor, baseball caps like his sisters had. He draped a black scarf over his head and announced he was Cher. I laughed and taught him “I Got You Babe.” My husband turned in disgust.
By 2-1/2, Alex clearly expressed a flamboyant sense of fashion. He chose shoes with metal tips and a toddler tuxedo with gold print trim. I thought stylish clothes from the boys’ department would keep him from asking about his tutu. Perhaps attending to his fashion needs could prevent the occasional thievery when he’d sneak into his sisters’ rooms and raid their closets. Colorful beads hung from Alex’s “tail,” a boy ponytail of the sort made popular by the New Kids on the Block boy band. Carved designs in a shaved “do” accentuated his African-American heritage. I thought that playing up the ethnic aspect of Alex’s wild styles somehow squelched rude comments about gender appropriateness-most of which came from my husband.
Alex begged for pierced ears when he was 3. We compromised and he got one pierce-on the left ear-with special lightning bolt and soccer ball earrings just for him. He stole my fuchsia-sequined earrings and tried to wear both, hanging one on the top of his right ear.
Preschool began that September, and Alex insisted on taking the bus. “How was school today?” I asked.
“Oh, Mom, Amber wore white stockings,” he replied. I later learned he rubbed her legs all the way home.
“A typical guy,” said his dad. Alex didn’t stop begging for white stockings to wear until I bought him some. He was allowed to wear them only to bed. His father said boys don’t wear panty hose.
Alex gave a solo performance of “God Bless America” for the other 3-year-olds. The teacher had tears in her eyes.
Alex began ballet and creative dance class at 4. He dropped out when he saw that he was the only boy. He started soccer and gymnastics. He begged for a leotard. I found Lycra pants for under his soccer shorts and blue Lycra bike shorts for gymnastics class. The only time he stepped out of his Lycra was when he donned his satin Aladdin costume. It had a flowing scarf-like neck shield and a gemstone on the turban. He sat on an oriental rug balanced on top of the table and sang for hours. He knew every word and had perfect pitch as he belted “A Whole New World.”
“Yea! He’s modeling a boy character,” said his dad.
Alex was cast as the mayor in the junior kindergarten play. He wanted to be the princess.
When Alex was 5, we vacationed at Disney World and I bought him an African-American cap with beaded braids attached. It just about grew into Alex’s scalp, he wore it so often. His dad insisted on snapping his photo with the belly dancer at the Moroccan restaurant. “A typical guy,” he said. Alex asked if he could get a job belly dancing. After all, he now had long dark hair too.
When kids teased him at school, he’d try to make them laugh. Alex obsessed so much about what other kids thought of him that he couldn’t concentrate on schoolwork. He cried and screamed each day as I dropped him off at school. He learned to kick and hit the kids who teased him. He talked of wanting to die. He was six and the kids called him a girl.
He proved his virility by humping the bus seat, and the principal questioned what I was exposing him to. “Bus rides,” I said. It was that 30 minutes of teasing each day that was unbearable for Alex. There was a haunting crescendo to Alex’s talk about dying. “How do people stop breathing? What makes the heart stop? Why do people kill themselves? Will I see you in heaven?”
I changed my schedule so he could avoid the bus rides. I cried myself to sleep.
One evening while I was at Bible study, I got an emergency call from my 12-year-old daughter. Alex had threatened her with scissors and she ran to the bathroom with the cordless phone. I hurried home to intervene. The 12-year-old had teased her brother about playing with his Barbie dolls. “Mom, he shouldn’t still be doing that. He’s almost 9.”
My husband agreed. I hid sharp objects and stayed awake all night.
I took my homicidal-suicidal son for counseling soon after. He was diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and said to have issues around gender.
“Put him in a different school and get him into theater,” said the wise play-therapist. She thought he was very coordinated and that others perceived that as feminine. She thought that the theater environment would be accepting and an outlet for Alex’s superb imagination. She also felt that Alex felt shunned by his dad and that he saw me, his mother, as his best ally. (I am.) We also discussed that any label of “gay” should be avoided. For now, Alex was just Alex.
We chose the best school for artistic kids. It cost $5,000 per year. The other kids called Alex “gay boy” and assaulted him, taking him to a secluded area and forcing him to kiss a dead bird. The school said, “Kids do that sort of thing.” I said it was a satanic ritual. The police called it a hate crime. The 12-year-olds paid a hefty fine and gained a juvenile arrest record.
I cried. I decided to home-school Alex.
I registered him for musical theater class. At the first class, I could hear him belting out the words to “Tomorrow.” He was the best Annie. Nobody teased him. I smiled through my tears.
When Alex was 9, we saw Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Joseph was taunted for effeminate behavior. Alex understood. Alex loved Joseph’s coat, especially when Joseph twirled and the colors created a kaleidoscope of sorts. Alex said, “Mom, I want to be in a show.”
A few months later, Alex auditioned for A Christmas Carol in a local theater group. He was asked to audition for a lead role and was chosen as a dancer and singer. He couldn’t stop smiling the night he was fitted for his costume-a plaid caped coat and wool cap. When they added the stage makeup, his smile was so wide I thought his face would pop.
After rehearsal one night, Alex was in tears. “The kids say Dan is gay and that he likes me,” he sobbed.
“Who’s Dan?” I asked.
“Scrooge’s nephew.”
I recalled the young, gregarious, professional man who seemed to smile all of the time. He was friendly to kids and adults alike and clearly had theater experience. “I think Dan is gay,” I said, explaining that gay people have partners of the same sex. “Why do the kids think he likes you?”
“Because he says I sing and dance good.”
“You do sing and dance exceptionally well,” I comforted Alex. “Let’s talk to Dan.”
In the first five minutes of our conversation, I learned that Daniel was adopted, had ADHD, was raised in a family of foster children and that he was friendly, funny, and polite. I already knew that he had a beautiful voice and was a wonderful dancer. I learned that he worked at the nearby university and, among other things, counseled gay and lesbian students. Daniel also hoped to find his birth parents. At the time, I worked at an adoption agency.
Does God put the right people in our lives or what?
Daniel came frequently for family dinners and began driving Alex home from rehearsals when they were cast together in yet another play. One night, Alex said that Daniel would teach him some piano. I readily agreed. After all, I had promoted music lessons for Alex for the past several years, and for a while he cooperated, but then he refused to practice the classical pieces he learned. Lesson time became piano, voice, and lessons about life as Alex and Daniel spent hours together. I began to refer to Daniel as my “acquired adult son,” and if my husband answered the door for Dan, he’d say, “Honey, your son is home.”
My husband adores Daniel, helps him move furniture and fix his car. He drove Daniel and six other gay men to the airport when they traveled to London. He chuckled at their topics of conversation-skin care, floral design, fashion. I said, “Get used to it.”
One evening after a few glasses of wine, my husband and Daniel were discussing Alex. “I don’t always appreciate his proclivities,” said my husband, “but I admire that he stands up for who he is.”
“It must be hard for a straight man to understand,” said Daniel, “but you seem to be really working on it. I know my dad struggled for a while, but I always knew he loved me.”
I listened. It was the first time my husband seemed to want to learn more about fathers accepting children, no matter what.
Daniel bought Alex dance pants and his first bra for his 11th birthday and the two of them had makeup sessions to try out the stage makeup Alex received from his aunties. They primped in front of the mirror while Daniel listened to Alex’s stories about kids teasing him. Daniel shared a few of his own stories, including a time when a teacher called him a +++got. I listened from the other room, knowing that there are times when my love is not enough, times when my children need information and support from those who have “been there.”
Alex wore Daniel’s blond wig and a leather cape and outfit when he dressed as Storm from X-Men for Halloween last year, his first time dressing as a woman-Halle Berry-playing another woman-Storm. He was fabulous.
At the cast party for another play, Alex’s fifth costume change of the evening showcased a white evening gown trimmed in red. Dozens of the actors affirmed this little boy who so reminded them of themselves at that age.
“We dressed up too; we just had to do it in private,” commented a burly actor. In every picture from that night, Alex’s beaming smile, his blond wig, his perfect makeup, and his absolute self-confidence are overshadowed only by his many theater friends beaming with pride-sometimes with the hint of a tear in their eyes.
The university’s student association invited Daniel to be the master of ceremonies at the drag ball a few months later, and Dan asked if Alex might like to make a guest appearance. I designed Daniel’s glamorous outfit for his role as Porcelain Doll and another dress for my son, who would be Alexis Love. My dramatic drag queen sons played their female characters with perfection and class. The cute young man sitting next to me told me I have beautiful daughters. I said, “Thank you.”
Minutes before the drag show began, Alex had a moment of panic and tears. He wasn’t sure if he could sing his selection, “On My Own” from Les Miserables, because of the words “I love him.” Daniel assured him that there was no need to sing, and that most of the drag queens would only walk across the stage. Daniel sang to “All That Jazz” and Alex strutted down the runway and danced a bit. I gasped at the announcement of the trophy winner, Alexis Love, the 11-year-old drag queen.
“I’m so proud of you,” I told him. “You did a really good job.”
My petite, 4-foot-9 daughter-son looked up at me, his big brown eyes heavily made up, his wig, dress, and high heels looking so sassy. “Mom, I was never so nervous in all of my life, but when I heard the crowd cheer for me, wow, I could have done anything.”
Anything. That’s what he can do, anything.
A few months ago, Alex made his New York City debut in a musical. He belted his solos and duets and delivered his lines perfectly. He impressed the cast and audience with his well-developed voice, his quick ability to memorize, his attractiveness, confidence, and charm. My husband, daughters, and a few aunts and cousins flew out to see the show. They beamed with pride and whooped for Alex’s curtain call. A little smirk appeared when Alex read his bio in the program next to the bios of accomplished adult actors. It listed seven plays and a special award, “First-place winner as Alexis Love in the Love’s a Drag Show.” A tear welled in my eye.
Alex now wears thumb rings and bead necklaces, like Phil, the New York director.
As a parent, I realize that I provide guidance, but also that numerous forces-both inborn and experiential-influence my child. My most important role is to provide unconditional love, to model that I value diversity, and to constantly remind Alex that God made him for a special purpose and equipped him uniquely for that role in life. I surround him with teachers and mentors who affirm him and with those he can model. I try to balance my protective instincts with activities to develop “grit” in Alex.
Alex will be 12 soon. He wants to have his birthday party at Hooters and wishes for a trampoline and an art book about breasts. Alex hopes to own the Hercules videos to complete his set of Xena, Warrior Princess videos. He wants to finish recording his CD of inspirational songs before his voice changes. His demo CD has songs about love, faith, being yourself, using your gifts. I haven’t listened through it without tears, although I wore out my first copy.
For a while, Alex considered hormone treatment so that his voice wouldn’t change. Phil, the director, told him that more roles would open up to him when his voice changes. Daniel told him that the voice change would likely be easy because he has such control.
While in New York, Alex auditioned for a lead role with another theater company. He was cast as a dreamy 11-year-old who learns about leadership by developing his God-given gifts and honing his skills. Alex hopes to audition for a role on Broadway. He’s scheduled to be in an educational film, several concerts, and another musical, this time as Prince Charming, a flamboyant type.
The next few years will likely be interesting. I’m sure Alex will flourish. Each day I repeat to myself, “I’m developing a child, not building a star nor a career.”
I’ve learned more about gender differences, orientation, and self-expression. Other children are quick to label Alex as “gay-boy” or “girl-boy.” Even adults sometimes give those messages, whether verbal or simply by inference. Some very close friends have questioned why Alex is the way he is. One friend thought for sure that Alex was “turning gay” because of Daniel’s influence. I patiently explained that Alex is more comfortable with himself because Daniel has taken an interest in him and become a strong role model for him in many ways.
Alex notices Daniel’s interests, mannerisms, and talents. Occasionally, Alex asks about Daniel’s “dates,” roommate, and friends, but not more often than he asks about his heterosexual cousins or others of a partnering age. I answer all of his questions the best I can, and when I don’t know the answers, I encourage Alex to ask others. And he does-regularly. It’s not uncommon for Alex to bluntly ask a fellow cast member, “Are you gay or straight?” One time, I overheard Alex say, “Wow, I didn’t know you were gay-you act so straight!” Nobody was aghast. For us, the topic of homosexuality is out of the closet.
Some people ask if I think Alex is gay, and the bolder, more strong-of-heart ask about whether he may be transgendered. I strive to become informed about all of these issues and share the information with anyone who’ll listen. I quote Brigitte, a parent advocate for Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, who says, “Many boys dress up and dance and try makeup, but when their hormones kick in they’re straight as an arrow.”
Brigitte meets monthly with parents who want to learn more. To join the group, people dial a telephone number at a church, and then they are screened and forwarded through two other parties before someone calls back to tell them where the meetings are. When I questioned this, a PFLAG member told me they had had threats of violence.
I’m unsure about how much to tell Alex about the potential violence. My fears of violence against effeminate boys are congruent with my fears about violence against minorities. My protective instincts are the same as those of most other parents. I assure myself that God protects us, and I answer Alex’s questions as they arise.
If others ask about PFLAG, I readily share that a group of delinquent teenagers who spray-painted homophobic graffiti on a PFLAG billboard were charged with a hate crime and prosecuted. I share my opinion that their parents should serve time incarcerated as well and should be required to contribute to agencies promoting diversity.
I talk about experts, such as William Pollack, Ph.D., author of Real Boys (Owl Publishing/Henry Holt & Co., 1998). Pollack stresses that gender-appropriate or -inappropriate behaviors are not necessarily associated with sexual orientation. “There is simply no evidence that these early childhood experiences can make a boy gay,” he writes, but “environmental factors such as parenting or education may influence how quickly or successfully a person accepts and acts upon his inborn sexuality.” And with the suicide rate for gay and lesbian youth three times the national norm for all teenagers, parents and teachers are obligated to provide the environmental factors that help kids accept themselves.
Overall, I respond to homophobic and insensitive comments in much the same way that I react to racist comments, and that is with absolute nontolerance. I demand that my children speak up to verbal assaults against all of God’s children. As a multiracial family, we’re noticed. And we need to use that added attention to further the case for civil rights. So much of what we’ve learned as an interracial family can be easily applied to other situations of injustice, including homophobia. There is no doubt in my mind that our family needs to learn and grow from all of our experiences and share them with the world.
My husband has grown in his awareness and sensitivity. I continue to provide fodder for discussion with his insensitive coworkers and friends. Recently we were strolling through Greenwich Village observing the sites of events that lead to the gay and lesbian civil rights movement, the Stonewall bar, the memorial to the lost lives of gay and lesbian people due to hate crimes, the gay pride symbols, and numerous same-sex couples openly showing affection to one another. “Homosexuality is still illegal in some places,” he said.
“Yes, and so are interracial marriages,” I responded. “I guess we need to speak out so the world can have more precious gifts like Alex.” And so we keep them alive and allow them to thrive, I thought.
When people ask about Alex’ gender-related differences, whether he’s gay, why he likes Barbie dolls, if he’s going to be a professional actor, hairdresser, or dancer, I respond, “He’s just Alex, and actually, he can do anything.” After my quip, I often share that he’s well-gifted, from the Giver himself, and that my job is to provide the skills for him to best use his gifts, whatever his challenges may be.
I’m sure that my matter-of-fact attitude seems abrasive at times, but people need to hear my message loud and strong. The more we accept our children for who they are, the more they become who they are meant to be.
In parent education classes I’ve taught over the years, I’d say, “Parenting is giving part of yourself to help a child grow.” Now I add that parenting is looking for opportunities for parents to grow so that they can best meet their kids’ needs, for children push us to new stages of growth and into roles that previously seemed too big. They prod us to examine our ideas and grow more solid in our values.
Parents and children challenge one another. Remarkably, we grow to meet the challenges. What we learn through parenting can impact the world and we are obligated to share our knowledge, along with sensitivity and support, as we help others grow. For with affirmation and support, we can do anything.
That’s what we can do, anything.
Wellesley Jaye Ebert is a freelance writer from the Midwest. She has 25 years experience in social work and currently teaches at area colleges, including classes on diversity, gender-related differences and GLBT issues. “Alex Michael” and “Wellesley Jaye Ebert” are pseudonyms to protect “Alex’s” privacy.
By Wellesley Jaye Ebert
An Advocate.com exclusive posted August 19, 2002
An adoptive mother shares the story of how she came to terms with raising a flamboyant, cross-dressing son, whom she adopted as an infant. Worry has become pride: “I never dreamed,” she writes, “that the rainbow trophy my son won as Alexis Love, the 11-year-old drag queen, would be among my cherished motherly mementos.”
The phone call came about 10 a.m. “It’s a boy,” said our social worker, Marlene, “born early this morning. He appears to be mixed race, but we’re not sure,” she added. “The birth mom had multiple partners.”
“Just what we ordered,” I quipped, sounding much more lighthearted than I felt. This was real. With a newly adopted baby, I’d be a very busy mother of three children under age 5-with a full-time job working in the child welfare system and lots of interests.
My husband and I had asked for it, though. Three months earlier, we posted an ad in the local paper. It read, “Christian family with young Asian children hoping to adopt infant of mixed racial-ethnic background.” My husband thought we should adopt another girl, perhaps from India, as Korean adoption was closed to those families who already had two children. We agreed to advertise and see what happened. After all, other couples had found success with recruiting young pregnant women considering giving their children up for adoption.
We didn’t yet realize that the hours spent in the transracial adoption classes we had taken would also prepare us to parent a cross-dressing, flamboyant, effeminate son. I never dreamed that the rainbow trophy he won as Alexis Love, the 11-year-old drag queen, would be among my cherished motherly mementos. We dreamed only of a mixed-race baby to complete our family.
And now our dreams unfolded with a phone call. A baby boy would fill our hearts and home with love. We named him Alex Michael. He’d certainly contrast with the twin girls we had adopted as infants more than four years earlier. With Asian twin girls and a brown baby boy, our family portrait would resemble a diversity poster.
Weeks later, we dressed Alex in a baseball uniform and took him home. The baseball uniform and matching cap were hand-me-downs from his sisters. I had refused to dress them in matching lace bonnets. After all, we hoped to avoid sex-role stereotyping.
As a former kindergarten teacher, I had researched the issue and I knew that children without strong gender typing are less neurotic, have higher self-esteem, and are more intelligent than their peers who follow rigid sex roles. A full-page article once quoted me saying so as I promoted a women’s conference where my presentations were featured. “Raising a Girl, Raising a Boy” was the title of my workshop on gender role stereotypes, and I titled the other presentation, which was about kids growing up too fast, “Knowledge Without Maturity, Maturity Without Years.” Back then, as a kindergarten teacher, I’d reflect frequently on how we “become”-what influences us and why.
Knowing the research on child development made parenting quite fulfilling for me, especially after a long wait for parenthood. And after having twins, I relished the chance to focus on just one baby, charting each developmental milestone on the baby calendar waiting to be filled.
Primary colors, high-contrast mobiles, teddy bears of varying textures-we knew just what to do to maximize Alex’s brain development. He was a content baby and pleased us all by sleeping through the night at 2 months old. He walked at 9 months and sucked his thumb constantly that first year. Alex removed the thumb only when he wanted to “sing.” Ten-month-old Alex repeated a succession of tones and each day. He sang a new do-re-mi of sorts, “Three Blind Mice,” “Frosty the Snowman,” “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”
I thought it uncanny that my baby repeated melodies before he knew words. My husband was amazed. “He knows about 15 words and 20 melodies,” we told the pediatric nurse at the clinic at his 15-month check-up. “I think his birth father must be an opera singer.” We all laughed, but I wondered where Alex’s perfect pitch originated.
At 18 months, Alex bopped a perfect rhythm with one hip slung and fingers snapping. When he was 2, Alex added costumes to his “shows.” Hats, beads, scarves, a tutu-my little performer stood still only to sing or to play with his Matchbox cars, which he lined up in parking lot or parade fashion. He led the parades with a baton in hand, wearing a tutu and cape.
“Take it off now. The parade is over,” I encouraged, hoping to get him out of his tutu so I could wash it. After all, he wore it to bed and all day long. My husband hid the tutu, and at his urging I provided an array of “appropriate” theatrical costumes for a boy. Alex also had a chef’s hat and apron for cooking at his pretend stove and hats designed for every career: firefighter, nurse, doctor, baseball caps like his sisters had. He draped a black scarf over his head and announced he was Cher. I laughed and taught him “I Got You Babe.” My husband turned in disgust.
By 2-1/2, Alex clearly expressed a flamboyant sense of fashion. He chose shoes with metal tips and a toddler tuxedo with gold print trim. I thought stylish clothes from the boys’ department would keep him from asking about his tutu. Perhaps attending to his fashion needs could prevent the occasional thievery when he’d sneak into his sisters’ rooms and raid their closets. Colorful beads hung from Alex’s “tail,” a boy ponytail of the sort made popular by the New Kids on the Block boy band. Carved designs in a shaved “do” accentuated his African-American heritage. I thought that playing up the ethnic aspect of Alex’s wild styles somehow squelched rude comments about gender appropriateness-most of which came from my husband.
Alex begged for pierced ears when he was 3. We compromised and he got one pierce-on the left ear-with special lightning bolt and soccer ball earrings just for him. He stole my fuchsia-sequined earrings and tried to wear both, hanging one on the top of his right ear.
Preschool began that September, and Alex insisted on taking the bus. “How was school today?” I asked.
“Oh, Mom, Amber wore white stockings,” he replied. I later learned he rubbed her legs all the way home.
“A typical guy,” said his dad. Alex didn’t stop begging for white stockings to wear until I bought him some. He was allowed to wear them only to bed. His father said boys don’t wear panty hose.
Alex gave a solo performance of “God Bless America” for the other 3-year-olds. The teacher had tears in her eyes.
Alex began ballet and creative dance class at 4. He dropped out when he saw that he was the only boy. He started soccer and gymnastics. He begged for a leotard. I found Lycra pants for under his soccer shorts and blue Lycra bike shorts for gymnastics class. The only time he stepped out of his Lycra was when he donned his satin Aladdin costume. It had a flowing scarf-like neck shield and a gemstone on the turban. He sat on an oriental rug balanced on top of the table and sang for hours. He knew every word and had perfect pitch as he belted “A Whole New World.”
“Yea! He’s modeling a boy character,” said his dad.
Alex was cast as the mayor in the junior kindergarten play. He wanted to be the princess.
When Alex was 5, we vacationed at Disney World and I bought him an African-American cap with beaded braids attached. It just about grew into Alex’s scalp, he wore it so often. His dad insisted on snapping his photo with the belly dancer at the Moroccan restaurant. “A typical guy,” he said. Alex asked if he could get a job belly dancing. After all, he now had long dark hair too.
When kids teased him at school, he’d try to make them laugh. Alex obsessed so much about what other kids thought of him that he couldn’t concentrate on schoolwork. He cried and screamed each day as I dropped him off at school. He learned to kick and hit the kids who teased him. He talked of wanting to die. He was six and the kids called him a girl.
He proved his virility by humping the bus seat, and the principal questioned what I was exposing him to. “Bus rides,” I said. It was that 30 minutes of teasing each day that was unbearable for Alex. There was a haunting crescendo to Alex’s talk about dying. “How do people stop breathing? What makes the heart stop? Why do people kill themselves? Will I see you in heaven?”
I changed my schedule so he could avoid the bus rides. I cried myself to sleep.
One evening while I was at Bible study, I got an emergency call from my 12-year-old daughter. Alex had threatened her with scissors and she ran to the bathroom with the cordless phone. I hurried home to intervene. The 12-year-old had teased her brother about playing with his Barbie dolls. “Mom, he shouldn’t still be doing that. He’s almost 9.”
My husband agreed. I hid sharp objects and stayed awake all night.
I took my homicidal-suicidal son for counseling soon after. He was diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and said to have issues around gender.
“Put him in a different school and get him into theater,” said the wise play-therapist. She thought he was very coordinated and that others perceived that as feminine. She thought that the theater environment would be accepting and an outlet for Alex’s superb imagination. She also felt that Alex felt shunned by his dad and that he saw me, his mother, as his best ally. (I am.) We also discussed that any label of “gay” should be avoided. For now, Alex was just Alex.
We chose the best school for artistic kids. It cost $5,000 per year. The other kids called Alex “gay boy” and assaulted him, taking him to a secluded area and forcing him to kiss a dead bird. The school said, “Kids do that sort of thing.” I said it was a satanic ritual. The police called it a hate crime. The 12-year-olds paid a hefty fine and gained a juvenile arrest record.
I cried. I decided to home-school Alex.
I registered him for musical theater class. At the first class, I could hear him belting out the words to “Tomorrow.” He was the best Annie. Nobody teased him. I smiled through my tears.
When Alex was 9, we saw Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Joseph was taunted for effeminate behavior. Alex understood. Alex loved Joseph’s coat, especially when Joseph twirled and the colors created a kaleidoscope of sorts. Alex said, “Mom, I want to be in a show.”
A few months later, Alex auditioned for A Christmas Carol in a local theater group. He was asked to audition for a lead role and was chosen as a dancer and singer. He couldn’t stop smiling the night he was fitted for his costume-a plaid caped coat and wool cap. When they added the stage makeup, his smile was so wide I thought his face would pop.
After rehearsal one night, Alex was in tears. “The kids say Dan is gay and that he likes me,” he sobbed.
“Who’s Dan?” I asked.
“Scrooge’s nephew.”
I recalled the young, gregarious, professional man who seemed to smile all of the time. He was friendly to kids and adults alike and clearly had theater experience. “I think Dan is gay,” I said, explaining that gay people have partners of the same sex. “Why do the kids think he likes you?”
“Because he says I sing and dance good.”
“You do sing and dance exceptionally well,” I comforted Alex. “Let’s talk to Dan.”
In the first five minutes of our conversation, I learned that Daniel was adopted, had ADHD, was raised in a family of foster children and that he was friendly, funny, and polite. I already knew that he had a beautiful voice and was a wonderful dancer. I learned that he worked at the nearby university and, among other things, counseled gay and lesbian students. Daniel also hoped to find his birth parents. At the time, I worked at an adoption agency.
Does God put the right people in our lives or what?
Daniel came frequently for family dinners and began driving Alex home from rehearsals when they were cast together in yet another play. One night, Alex said that Daniel would teach him some piano. I readily agreed. After all, I had promoted music lessons for Alex for the past several years, and for a while he cooperated, but then he refused to practice the classical pieces he learned. Lesson time became piano, voice, and lessons about life as Alex and Daniel spent hours together. I began to refer to Daniel as my “acquired adult son,” and if my husband answered the door for Dan, he’d say, “Honey, your son is home.”
My husband adores Daniel, helps him move furniture and fix his car. He drove Daniel and six other gay men to the airport when they traveled to London. He chuckled at their topics of conversation-skin care, floral design, fashion. I said, “Get used to it.”
One evening after a few glasses of wine, my husband and Daniel were discussing Alex. “I don’t always appreciate his proclivities,” said my husband, “but I admire that he stands up for who he is.”
“It must be hard for a straight man to understand,” said Daniel, “but you seem to be really working on it. I know my dad struggled for a while, but I always knew he loved me.”
I listened. It was the first time my husband seemed to want to learn more about fathers accepting children, no matter what.
Daniel bought Alex dance pants and his first bra for his 11th birthday and the two of them had makeup sessions to try out the stage makeup Alex received from his aunties. They primped in front of the mirror while Daniel listened to Alex’s stories about kids teasing him. Daniel shared a few of his own stories, including a time when a teacher called him a +++got. I listened from the other room, knowing that there are times when my love is not enough, times when my children need information and support from those who have “been there.”
Alex wore Daniel’s blond wig and a leather cape and outfit when he dressed as Storm from X-Men for Halloween last year, his first time dressing as a woman-Halle Berry-playing another woman-Storm. He was fabulous.
At the cast party for another play, Alex’s fifth costume change of the evening showcased a white evening gown trimmed in red. Dozens of the actors affirmed this little boy who so reminded them of themselves at that age.
“We dressed up too; we just had to do it in private,” commented a burly actor. In every picture from that night, Alex’s beaming smile, his blond wig, his perfect makeup, and his absolute self-confidence are overshadowed only by his many theater friends beaming with pride-sometimes with the hint of a tear in their eyes.
The university’s student association invited Daniel to be the master of ceremonies at the drag ball a few months later, and Dan asked if Alex might like to make a guest appearance. I designed Daniel’s glamorous outfit for his role as Porcelain Doll and another dress for my son, who would be Alexis Love. My dramatic drag queen sons played their female characters with perfection and class. The cute young man sitting next to me told me I have beautiful daughters. I said, “Thank you.”
Minutes before the drag show began, Alex had a moment of panic and tears. He wasn’t sure if he could sing his selection, “On My Own” from Les Miserables, because of the words “I love him.” Daniel assured him that there was no need to sing, and that most of the drag queens would only walk across the stage. Daniel sang to “All That Jazz” and Alex strutted down the runway and danced a bit. I gasped at the announcement of the trophy winner, Alexis Love, the 11-year-old drag queen.
“I’m so proud of you,” I told him. “You did a really good job.”
My petite, 4-foot-9 daughter-son looked up at me, his big brown eyes heavily made up, his wig, dress, and high heels looking so sassy. “Mom, I was never so nervous in all of my life, but when I heard the crowd cheer for me, wow, I could have done anything.”
Anything. That’s what he can do, anything.
A few months ago, Alex made his New York City debut in a musical. He belted his solos and duets and delivered his lines perfectly. He impressed the cast and audience with his well-developed voice, his quick ability to memorize, his attractiveness, confidence, and charm. My husband, daughters, and a few aunts and cousins flew out to see the show. They beamed with pride and whooped for Alex’s curtain call. A little smirk appeared when Alex read his bio in the program next to the bios of accomplished adult actors. It listed seven plays and a special award, “First-place winner as Alexis Love in the Love’s a Drag Show.” A tear welled in my eye.
Alex now wears thumb rings and bead necklaces, like Phil, the New York director.
As a parent, I realize that I provide guidance, but also that numerous forces-both inborn and experiential-influence my child. My most important role is to provide unconditional love, to model that I value diversity, and to constantly remind Alex that God made him for a special purpose and equipped him uniquely for that role in life. I surround him with teachers and mentors who affirm him and with those he can model. I try to balance my protective instincts with activities to develop “grit” in Alex.
Alex will be 12 soon. He wants to have his birthday party at Hooters and wishes for a trampoline and an art book about breasts. Alex hopes to own the Hercules videos to complete his set of Xena, Warrior Princess videos. He wants to finish recording his CD of inspirational songs before his voice changes. His demo CD has songs about love, faith, being yourself, using your gifts. I haven’t listened through it without tears, although I wore out my first copy.
For a while, Alex considered hormone treatment so that his voice wouldn’t change. Phil, the director, told him that more roles would open up to him when his voice changes. Daniel told him that the voice change would likely be easy because he has such control.
While in New York, Alex auditioned for a lead role with another theater company. He was cast as a dreamy 11-year-old who learns about leadership by developing his God-given gifts and honing his skills. Alex hopes to audition for a role on Broadway. He’s scheduled to be in an educational film, several concerts, and another musical, this time as Prince Charming, a flamboyant type.
The next few years will likely be interesting. I’m sure Alex will flourish. Each day I repeat to myself, “I’m developing a child, not building a star nor a career.”
I’ve learned more about gender differences, orientation, and self-expression. Other children are quick to label Alex as “gay-boy” or “girl-boy.” Even adults sometimes give those messages, whether verbal or simply by inference. Some very close friends have questioned why Alex is the way he is. One friend thought for sure that Alex was “turning gay” because of Daniel’s influence. I patiently explained that Alex is more comfortable with himself because Daniel has taken an interest in him and become a strong role model for him in many ways.
Alex notices Daniel’s interests, mannerisms, and talents. Occasionally, Alex asks about Daniel’s “dates,” roommate, and friends, but not more often than he asks about his heterosexual cousins or others of a partnering age. I answer all of his questions the best I can, and when I don’t know the answers, I encourage Alex to ask others. And he does-regularly. It’s not uncommon for Alex to bluntly ask a fellow cast member, “Are you gay or straight?” One time, I overheard Alex say, “Wow, I didn’t know you were gay-you act so straight!” Nobody was aghast. For us, the topic of homosexuality is out of the closet.
Some people ask if I think Alex is gay, and the bolder, more strong-of-heart ask about whether he may be transgendered. I strive to become informed about all of these issues and share the information with anyone who’ll listen. I quote Brigitte, a parent advocate for Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, who says, “Many boys dress up and dance and try makeup, but when their hormones kick in they’re straight as an arrow.”
Brigitte meets monthly with parents who want to learn more. To join the group, people dial a telephone number at a church, and then they are screened and forwarded through two other parties before someone calls back to tell them where the meetings are. When I questioned this, a PFLAG member told me they had had threats of violence.
I’m unsure about how much to tell Alex about the potential violence. My fears of violence against effeminate boys are congruent with my fears about violence against minorities. My protective instincts are the same as those of most other parents. I assure myself that God protects us, and I answer Alex’s questions as they arise.
If others ask about PFLAG, I readily share that a group of delinquent teenagers who spray-painted homophobic graffiti on a PFLAG billboard were charged with a hate crime and prosecuted. I share my opinion that their parents should serve time incarcerated as well and should be required to contribute to agencies promoting diversity.
I talk about experts, such as William Pollack, Ph.D., author of Real Boys (Owl Publishing/Henry Holt & Co., 1998). Pollack stresses that gender-appropriate or -inappropriate behaviors are not necessarily associated with sexual orientation. “There is simply no evidence that these early childhood experiences can make a boy gay,” he writes, but “environmental factors such as parenting or education may influence how quickly or successfully a person accepts and acts upon his inborn sexuality.” And with the suicide rate for gay and lesbian youth three times the national norm for all teenagers, parents and teachers are obligated to provide the environmental factors that help kids accept themselves.
Overall, I respond to homophobic and insensitive comments in much the same way that I react to racist comments, and that is with absolute nontolerance. I demand that my children speak up to verbal assaults against all of God’s children. As a multiracial family, we’re noticed. And we need to use that added attention to further the case for civil rights. So much of what we’ve learned as an interracial family can be easily applied to other situations of injustice, including homophobia. There is no doubt in my mind that our family needs to learn and grow from all of our experiences and share them with the world.
My husband has grown in his awareness and sensitivity. I continue to provide fodder for discussion with his insensitive coworkers and friends. Recently we were strolling through Greenwich Village observing the sites of events that lead to the gay and lesbian civil rights movement, the Stonewall bar, the memorial to the lost lives of gay and lesbian people due to hate crimes, the gay pride symbols, and numerous same-sex couples openly showing affection to one another. “Homosexuality is still illegal in some places,” he said.
“Yes, and so are interracial marriages,” I responded. “I guess we need to speak out so the world can have more precious gifts like Alex.” And so we keep them alive and allow them to thrive, I thought.
When people ask about Alex’ gender-related differences, whether he’s gay, why he likes Barbie dolls, if he’s going to be a professional actor, hairdresser, or dancer, I respond, “He’s just Alex, and actually, he can do anything.” After my quip, I often share that he’s well-gifted, from the Giver himself, and that my job is to provide the skills for him to best use his gifts, whatever his challenges may be.
I’m sure that my matter-of-fact attitude seems abrasive at times, but people need to hear my message loud and strong. The more we accept our children for who they are, the more they become who they are meant to be.
In parent education classes I’ve taught over the years, I’d say, “Parenting is giving part of yourself to help a child grow.” Now I add that parenting is looking for opportunities for parents to grow so that they can best meet their kids’ needs, for children push us to new stages of growth and into roles that previously seemed too big. They prod us to examine our ideas and grow more solid in our values.
Parents and children challenge one another. Remarkably, we grow to meet the challenges. What we learn through parenting can impact the world and we are obligated to share our knowledge, along with sensitivity and support, as we help others grow. For with affirmation and support, we can do anything.
That’s what we can do, anything.
Wellesley Jaye Ebert is a freelance writer from the Midwest. She has 25 years experience in social work and currently teaches at area colleges, including classes on diversity, gender-related differences and GLBT issues. “Alex Michael” and “Wellesley Jaye Ebert” are pseudonyms to protect “Alex’s” privacy.