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Not Thinking Straight by Madelyn Arnold

Children are Queer Little Things...
"Homosexuals are so sentimental about children," says a sour character in (yet another) strange straight British novel. I've often wondered what percentage of that statement is true. Of course it's true that a percentage of Gays do get a kick out of denigrating kids (and their parents): "rug rats", "ankle biters" and "poop machines". And, then, there are some others who rhapsodize over kids: "fascinating little machines, amazing mirrors..." Not, really, mirrors. USED TO BE Lesbian mothers have long complained bitterly about their treatment by other Dykes. They're called everything from closet straights to traitors. Between the 70's and 90's, having kids live with you practically ensured you'd never get a date, but quite naturally most mothers want to keep their kids (dads too). On the other hand, there was virtually instantaneous loss of custody if the courts heard a parent was Gay. There didn't seem to be a place for Gay parents. But this is one area where we have made gigantic strides. While there is still prejudice on the part of Family Courts, it is no longer true that we are automatically excluded as guardians of our own kids. There are among us the - fusty old Queers who find children annoying - generally the same ones who won't touch a kitten lest they pick up germs, or, still others, who constantly have to be the centers of attention. Being a natural product of the human race, children naturally are centers of attention - a fact, which drives egocentric adults just nuts. These are the same people who declare children's prattle stultifying... but then, you'll find they only like conversations on subjects they themselves happen to mention. We can now fight in court for our children and a greater proportion of Gays deliberately make them. This isn't driven by some mysterious drive to procreate, it's that society has agreed that adults don't have to get married to have kids. So, those of us - Gay or straight alike - who like them, are more likely to have them. Bastard is no longer a technical term, just an epithet. There are those of us who either really despise kids or who pretend to; there are those of us who produce kids; then, there are the rest of us who like (or tolerate) kids, but for some reason don't have them. It's hardly unusual to like the company of children. We enjoy watching the ways they think; maybe it brings out a childlike part of us. MY BOY Right after we all moved to Seattle (1975) a friend surprised us with some newborn baby feet, kind of like a little boy with snowshoes. His head was big, his body was small, and he had blocky little fingers and toes. My lover and I saw a very great deal of him, in part because his mother was a hippie and, almost, completely irresponsible. The day he was brought home from the hospital, he seemed preternaturally pert. Before taking our friend and her baby home, we stopped In a small café. Boy eyeballed a flower in a vase in the middle of the table. He seemed to like it. Everyone was talking, eating and drinking, and just beneath notice was the baby, striving to coordinate his wildly wayward arms. He swung one arm wildly: this way, that way - forward, ever forward - until finally, the flower was nearly touchable. Someone leaned over and moved the vase. He gave a howl of outrage and somebody said: "That's the world, Kid. Get used to it." His third word was "SOME" (which he thought meant butter or ice cream), and the fourth, when he was at the Aquarium with me, was "Fsssssssss". The Fsssssses fascinated him. Definitely from Seattle. My lover and I saw a great deal of him for a number of years. He was very creative and very clear about what he did and didn't want. I took him to Star Wars and Ferris Beuler and E.T, and found him a boon companion. And, then, one day, my lover and I broke up, and I had to tell him I wasn't going to live with her anymore. Soon after, his mother declared that I was using him to get at my lover, which was ridiculous. And, then, his mother joined a group of folks who hated Queers, and I've never seen him again. Child-rearing traces the same sort of yin-yan drift as hem lengths. SOMEBODY ELSE'S CHILDREN People ask why I don't get involved with kids, by which they are usually refering to Gay youth. Well, I've been a teacher, and that was interesting, but I am [likely], personally, more on the emotional level of a six-year-old. Why don't I get involved with young children? I'm asked. Growing up, I was a "parental child." I had no idea this was psychologically horrid, and as useful as incest in studying patterns of psychiatric error. I liked my siblings and enjoyed their childhoods. But after my exposure as Gay, I wasn't welcome at "home," and my siblings were deeply ashamed. I missed contact with kids. So, after restarting school in Indiana, I was pleased to read an appeal for volunteers at a day care center. Soon, I was a part of the staff several days a week. I had been emotionally frozen since being locked up for homosexuality. I liked the staff and the kids were bringing me back to life. And, then, one day, while I was teaching a Geologist's son how to tell one moss from another, a woman exploded all over me. That I was blocking another child's [hers!] creativity... (a toddler who had been trying to push his fingers into an unblocked outlet. I had pushed a couch in front of it.) That I had a macho aura, making the kids act "masculine" and I made her sick. Other staff members stood as if holding their breath. Things had gone so well that I half expected them to defend me, but she was saying all the right things for that time and place. When she spit in my direction, I turned and walked out and didn't stop till safely back in my room. I started to cry. I hadn't been able to laugh or cry or anything since being locked up; now, it seemed as if I couldn't stop for days. I swore to myself I would never deal with children again. I violate that vow as often as possible. WHY AND WHAT I think what I like most about children is the view through their eyes, remembering what it is like to have to learn to walk, learn the names of things, be confused about the least important aspects of life. I like relearning that life is mysterious and worth enthusiasm ... and that the small tragedies of life are just as painful to others as they once were to me. And that the joys, of course, are joys.