Monthly Archives: November 2013

When my daughter, Clementine, was four years old she and I went to the park almost every day. One day I heard her chattering away with a little boy I had never seen before at the top of the slide. As they stood on the ladder, waiting for their respective turns, the boy looked at Clementine, looked at her short hair and overalls, and then asked her “Are you a boy or a girl?” Clementine, for her part, looked back at him like he couldn’t possibly be for real and said, “I’m a Clementine!” (The “moron” part was implied). And then she went down the slide and forgot all about him. Or at least that’s what I thought.

Fast forward thirteen years, and Clementine is now seventeen, And, apparently, hasn’t forgotten what it is like to be asked whether or not you are a boy or a girl.

The first time she referred to herself as cisgendered I was confused, and had to ask what it meant.

“It means you identify with the gender you were born into,” she explained.

“So, um, it means you’re normal?”

“No.” The look she gave me made me understand how that little boy had felt all those years ago. The same “moron” still hung in the air, unspoken, as she gently led me to understand the very real difference between being “normal” and being “common.”

She then went on to explain the difference between hetero-, homo-, bi-, pan-, demi- and asexual, and even patiently taught me that there could be a difference between someone’s sexual and romantic orientations. At first I just rolled my eyes when she told me she was a “cisgendered pansexual panromantic,” asking why she had to make something so simple into something so needlessly complicated. And then, after I thought about it for a bit, (and got over myself a little bit more), I started to see her point.

Unlike young Clementine, I have never once been asked “what I am”—not at any age. I have also never been the subject of rude stares, points and giggles, or flat-out disgusted looks because I don’t fit into somebody else’s idea of what I’m “supposed” to look like. And, to be honest, neither has Clementine. Which makes it all the more amazing that she recognizes that this is exactly what does happen to so many of her peers.

Last week was the Transgender Day of Remembrance. And because I am lucky enough to have a daughter who cares about things like that, I knew it, and was able to spend a moment or two reflecting on all the little ways we could try and make life easier for people who aren’t quite as “common” as the rest of us. Small things, really, like agreeing to call someone by the pronoun they feel most comfortable with (hint: most people do not feel comfortable with “it.”) And also, agreeing not to “out” people who do not feel ready to be outed.

The second one is why I made sure to okay this column with Clementine before I wrote it. After she gave me her permission she asked me what had been my inspiration for writing it, and I told her the “I’m a Clementine!” story. She hadn’t remembered it herself, and laughed to hear it.

“Well, what was your response?” she then asked me.

I thought about it for a moment, and then told her, “I think it was, ‘Right on, Clementine.’”

And now that I think about it some more, that is still my response. Every single day.

Both of my children started playing the violin at a very young age: Clementine when she was four, and Clyde when he was five. (We waited an extra year for Clyde because he needed time to work on his fine motor skills. And by “fine motor skills” I mean the ability to hold still for longer than five seconds without vibrating from all of the unshed energy.) Despite starting at different ages, however, it took both of them about the same amount of time—a month—to decide that they wanted to quit. (I think a month is about as long as it takes anyone to realize that the difference between wanting to play the violin and actually playing the violin is about a thousand hours of practice. At least.)

Clementine’s method of telling me she wanted to quit was to throw herself (and her violin) down on the ground, clutch at her head dramatically, and moan out the words “I don’t want to play the violin. I wish I was dead.” Clyde’s method was a little different: he looked up from his bow one afternoon and quietly said, almost under his breath, “I don’t want to play the violin.”

My reaction to both was the same: “I don’t care what you want; you’re playing the violin.” Harsh, I know, but really, it was the truth: I didn’t care what they wanted. Of course, this was (and still is) true about a lot of things. I didn’t care that they wanted to stay up all night, I didn’t care that they wanted to put every candy bar in the checkout line into our grocery basket, and I didn’t care that they wanted to wear their bathing suits to school in the middle of winter. Compared to that list, not caring that they wanted to quit the violin was pretty minor. Or, at least it was minor to me.

Of course, other people didn’t see it this way. Whenever I mentioned the fact that I was forcing my children to take music lessons you’d think I was admitting to hauling them down to the local Scientology center every weekend. People couldn’t wait to tell me their horror stories of being forced to play the piano, and the lingering resentment they still felt about it as adults to this day. And the reaction I got about it at home wasn’t much better. “Do we really need to go out and look for more things to fight with them about?” my husband asked me plaintively one evening in the midst of a violin induced tantrum.

“They’ll stop fighting about it eventually,” I replied. “When they learn they can’t win.”

Okay, so I was a lot more naïve back then. Because they didn’t stop fighting. But then again, they didn’t win, either. Although Clementine did manage to switch instruments on me, she only switched to viola, which she still plays thirteen years after the first meltdown. And Clyde is still playing the violin after seven years. Have they always been happy about their enforced music lessons? Of course not (although, really, at seventeen I have about as much chance of making Clementine play an instrument as I do of making her vote one way or another. Which, is to say, no chance at all.)

Honestly I think most of their complaining at this point is all for show, a fall back of sorts if their friends ever ask why they are still taking music lessons (“because my mom makes me”). Although, really, that might just be wishful thinking on my part. Who knows? Maybe twenty years from now they will be telling their own sad little stories about how their mother forced them to play violin all through their childhoods.

Maybe. Of course, that won’t matter to me. I still won’t care.

Both of my children started playing the violin at a very young age: Clementine when she was four, and Clyde when he was five. (We waited an extra year for Clyde because he needed time to work on his fine motor skills. And by “fine motor skills” I mean the ability to hold still for longer than five seconds without vibrating from all of the unshed energy.) Despite starting at different ages, however, it took both of them about the same amount of time—a month—to decide that they wanted to quit. (I think a month is about as long as it takes anyone to realize that the difference between wanting to play the violin and actually playing the violin is about a thousand hours of practice. At least.)

Clementine’s method of telling me she wanted to quit was to throw herself (and her violin) down on the ground, clutch at her head dramatically, and moan out the words “I don’t want to play the violin. I wish I was dead.” Clyde’s method was a little different: he looked up from his bow one afternoon and quietly said, almost under his breath, “I don’t want to play the violin.”

My reaction to both was the same: “I don’t care what you want; you’re playing the violin.” Harsh, I know, but really, it was the truth: I didn’t care what they wanted. Of course, this was (and still is) true about a lot of things. I didn’t care that they wanted to stay up all night, I didn’t care that they wanted to put every candy bar in the checkout line into our grocery basket, and I didn’t care that they wanted to wear their bathing suits to school in the middle of winter. Compared to that list, not caring that they wanted to quit the violin was pretty minor. Or, at least it was minor to me.

Of course, other people didn’t see it this way. Whenever I mentioned the fact that I was forcing my children to take music lessons you’d think I was admitting to hauling them down to the local Scientology center every weekend. People couldn’t wait to tell me their horror stories of being forced to play the piano, and the lingering resentment they still felt about it as adults to this day. And the reaction I got about it at home wasn’t much better. “Do we really need to go out and look for more things to fight with them about?” my husband asked me plaintively one evening in the midst of a violin induced tantrum.

“They’ll stop fighting about it eventually,” I replied. “When they learn they can’t win.”

Okay, so I was a lot more naïve back then. Because they didn’t stop fighting. But then again, they didn’t win, either. Although Clementine did manage to switch instruments on me, she only switched to viola, which she still plays thirteen years after the first meltdown. And Clyde is still playing the violin after seven years. Have they always been happy about their enforced music lessons? Of course not (although, really, at seventeen I have about as much chance of making Clementine play an instrument as I do of making her vote one way or another. Which, is to say, no chance at all.)

Honestly I think most of their complaining at this point is all for show, a fall back of sorts if their friends ever ask why they are still taking music lessons (“because my mom makes me”). Although, really, that might just be wishful thinking on my part. Who knows? Maybe twenty years from now they will be telling their own sad little stories about how their mother forced them to play violin all through their childhoods.

Maybe. Of course, that won’t matter to me. I still won’t care.

I’ve heard that one of the best ways to get over an allergy is to slowly desensitize yourself to whatever it is you are allergic to. For example, if you are allergic to bee stings you should expose yourself to a tiny bit of bee venom every day, increasing the dosage until you got to the point where you aren’t affected quite so adversely. Or, I suppose, if you continue the desensitization, to the point where it doesn’t affect you at all. Heck, if you keep it up I bet you could get to the point where you could just stick your whole arm into a beehive and walk away unaffected. Or, to put it in terms that are more relevant to my family and our situation, get to the point where you could walk into the killing fields we call Middle School and walk out unscathed. Because that’s exactly what has happened to my son, Clyde. And he owes it all to his older sister, Clementine.

I must admit that at the time I didn’t really appreciate that Clementine was putting Clyde through a desensitization regimen: I didn’t realize that Clementine’s daily barbs and slights from the time Clyde was old enough to understand language were not, in fact, some evil, twisted torment dreamt up by a sick and vicious mind, but instead were daily inoculations against bullying. That her constant assault on Clyde’s sense of self-worth and dignity was not a sociopath grooming her victim, but rather the loving prep work of a caring older sister who was worried about her sweet, sensitive younger brother dealing with the viciousness that was waiting for him just down the road. However, now that he is right in the thick of that fresh hell we call Middle School, I can see that that, in fact, was exactly what she was doing.

Desensitizing him.

It almost makes me feel sorry for the kids who might try and bully Clyde; after all, what casually hurled insult shouted out across a crowded school bus could possibly compare to having your older sister whisper into your ear each and every morning, “No one here ever really wanted you.” For that matter, what slander scrawled across a locker door can ever compete with having every word that comes out of your mouth from the time you are two until you are old enough to fight back replied to with “Shut up, Clyde.” Your average 13 year-old bully is a rank amateur compared to an almost-always-pissy older sister.

In fact, I can just imagine Clyde’s reaction to being taunted at school the first time. He probably stood there patiently waiting for the warm-up act to finish so that the real torture could begin, only to be confused when his would-be tormentor finally walked away.

“Wait a minute! “I’m stupid, ugly and what? Where’s the rest?”

He did actually tell me about a few times when he was still taking the bus to school that older kids attempted to bully him, but I got the impression that it took at least three times before Clyde was even able to figure out what was going on. “There’s this kid on the bus that seems really unhappy all the time,” he said. “I have no idea why.” (It was only later, when I found out that “really unhappy” was Clydespeak for “said he was going to beat me up” that I finally got the picture. Even if Clyde never did.)

Still, as successful as the “Clementine Method” has been, I’m not sure that I would recommend it for everyone. Having watched it in action over the last ten years, I would suggest starting out with something easier instead.

Like maybe sticking your arm inside a beehive.