By Harley Jane Kozak
One of the big fringe benefits of being a writer is research, and the enlightenment it brings.
For instance:
My son cross-dresses. He comes home from school and gets into dresses—velvets are his favorites, with beading or flowers—then loads up on hair ornaments, nail polish, high heels, evening bags, makeup and jewelry. He also likes to advise me on my wardrobe. It’s like living with Isaak Mizrahi. Lately he’s been pushing on me a certain slinky black silk number with attached feather boa that he considers suitable for carpool, jogging, and shopping at Costco.
I don’t have statistics—or J. Edgar Hoover—on hand, but my understanding is that cross-dressing is independent of sexual preference—i.e., there are lots of heterosexual guys out there wearing lingerie. I can’t speak to this as far as my son is concerned, because he’s not quite four years old.
And none of it troubled me till this week, when my son announced his plans to wear ruby slippers and turn into a girl when he grows up. His sister informed him that he would NEVER become a girl, because he’s a BOY and would always be a boy, because THAT’S HOW LIFE IS.
“Actually,” I started to say, “he can become a girl someday, if he wants to, and he can certainly wear ruby slippers, assuming he can find them in his size” but was this the time for the transgender/transvestite/gay/straight discussion?
They’ll figure it out eventually. If they pay attention at the next family reunion they’ll notice there’s quite a bit of diversity under that tent. Which leaves me with my own mixed feelings on the subject.
I love gay people. I grew up in theatre. I did musicals. Half my professional influences were gay, and most of my closest friends. The problem is, the majority of them are now dead. I came of age in New York and L.A. when the Sexual Revolution ran smack into AIDS, so I can’t even listen to show tunes now without weeping into my espresso.
Tags: Family Matters
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