We couldn’t believe it. Not only had Pat exhibited masculine traits despite our best efforts, he had done so by using a woman as a tool, and an African-American woman no less. He was only two, and not only was he already a sexist, he was a racist. On the way home, Gwen rightly placed the blame on me. I sat quietly as I accepted her righteous anger, waiting for her to finish before I would apologize repeatedly. Her amazing wisdom and intuitivity rocked my very core as she screamed and scolded me, and I had to remind myself that I needed it.
I had failed society once again. Perhaps I had been too sloppy. Too careless. Perhaps it was from the times when I brought him into the men’s restroom instead of the unisex room. Perhaps it was when I would take more groceries than Gwen when we were carrying them inside. Perhaps I didn’t wear dresses and skirts in the house enough times. Either way, it was clear that I had created, not a gender-fluid feminist, but a son.
As time went on we attempted to correct his behavior, but to little avail. He hates wearing what he pigheadedly calls “girl clothes.” Once, we caught him playing “army” with his dolls. In fact, just yesterday he informed us that he wants a toy gun for Christmas. It shocked Gwen, a steady and powerful rock, into tears.