| When my nephew, Jack, was about to turn
ten, I called my sister well in advance of the actual date and asked her what he would
like for his birthday. The tenth year is a big one for any child, marking a transition
between the dreamlike world of kick-the-can and paper dolls and the horrors of adolescent
life like spontaneous erections and big bullies named Kurt, and it should be commemorated
accordingly. I still recall vividly the gold eagle pendant my cousin David, my childhood
hero, presented me with on my tenth birthday. I wore it religiously, until one sad day the
clasp snapped and it was lost forever, improving dramatically my choice of accessories but
leaving me cheerless. I wanted Jack to have such a moment to remember. Karen knew
instantly what Jack would cherish above all else on this earth. "CDs," she said
promptly. "He’s really into music now."
This was good news. Children as a rule have no taste
whatsoever, so when buying music for them, it’s just a matter of going to the record
store and picking up whatever is hovering at number one for that given week. Even if they
have no idea what it is, kids will play it loudly and thrash about in some semblance of
dancing, feeling very grown up and pleased with themselves. The week of my tenth, it was
the soundtrack to Grease burning up the charts, and I received it with delight and some
surprise, considering that my mother had forbidden me to actually see the movie after
learning that the word "shit" was uttered freely. I played it endlessly,
naturally taking Olivia Newton John’s solos, and to this day I wonder how my life
would have turned out if, instead, AC/DC or Bruce Springsteen had ruled the airwaves in
the fall of 1978.
"So what should I get him?" I asked.
"Hootie and the Blowfish? Coolio? Maybe Garth Brooks?"
Karen laughed. "Oh, no," she said cheerfully.
"Nothing like that. He likes soundtracks."
"Great," I said, visions of Grease filling my
mind. "So maybe the music from The Lion King would be good." I had this vague
notion that every 10-year-old thrilled to all things Disney.
"Actually," Karen said, "He wants the
soundtracks to Cats and Les Mis."
I was speechless. I wondered if my sister had any notion of
what the implications were of what she had just said. Maybe, I thought, I’d just
heard her incorrectly. "You mean the Broadway shows?" I asked doubtfully.
"Yep," she confirmed. "He loves
those. We went and saw a touring show of Cats, and he’s been humming the songs ever
since."
I didn’t know what to say. This was my sister talking,
the one whose only response to my coming out was, "Well, you know I’m okay with
it, but God says it’s wrong so you’re probably going to Hell." Now she was
telling me, in effect, that her very own son was exhibiting early signs of becoming a
raging queen, and not only did she not seem to mind, she was enthusiastically supporting
his bid for queerdom.
Okay, I know the stereotype of the gay man singing showtunes is one many people find
offensive. I know I don’t happen to like them very much. And we all go out of our way
to reassure kids that just because some boys like ballet and some girls like softball they
aren’t necessarily going to end up with rainbow flag stickers on their Volvos and
mineral water in the fridge. But really, when’s the last time you saw a little boy
who could belt out "I’m Just A Girl Who Can’t Say >No’" grow
into a fascination with Pamela Anderson Lee’s breasts? Can you blame me for being
suspicious?
Still, I knew I had to be careful. I certainly didn’t want to out the kid to his
mother, especially so near to his birthday. If he really was tripping gaily on the heels
of Dorothy’s ruby slippers, I didn’t want her to freak out, which I knew she
would. She was already worried about the effect it might have on him being raised by a
single mother, and she’d probably go out and buy him a rifle to compensate. She still
harbors a suspicion that I’m gay because our father never built a tree fort with me.
"Um, Karen," I said, trying to determine
exactly how serious the situation was. "Does Jack just kind of hum the music, or does
he know all the words."
"It’s amazing," she said ingenuously.
"He knows every word to every song. He hears them once and has them down. He can even
do the motions Grizabella makes when she sings >Memory’. You should see it; it
almost makes me cry. Why?"
"No reason," I said casually.
"I’ll see what I can do."
I hung up and ran to the record store. Now, I’m not
saying it’s right to actively hope that a young child is gay, and far be it from me
to suggest that we push those showing the slightest indication of a queer aesthetic along
in any way. All I will say is that I skipped with a glad heart to the soundtracks section
and snatched up Jack’s requested discs. For good measure, I added Phantom of the
Opera, and briefly paused at Gypsy before deciding that would be too much even for me. He
had to be broken in slowly.
Once home, I wrapped the CDs up and shipped the whole mess off to my sister with a
prayer to the Patron Saint of All Young Queens - Charles Nelson Reilly. On Jack’s
birthday, I called to see how things were going.
"Hello?" Karen shouted when she picked up
the phone. In the background I could hear the swelling tones of "Music of the
Night" filling the apartment.
"Hi," I said briskly. "How’s the
birthday boy?"
"Just great," Karen said. "He’s
absolutely thrilled with the CDs. You didn’t have to send so many, you know."
"That’s okay," I said. "You only turn
ten once. What’s that shrieking." In the background I could hear what sounded
like a recent castrato bemoaning its fate.
"He’s singing," Karen said proudly.
"All morning it was >On My Own’ from Les Mis. Now he’s learning
Phantom."
I tried not to crow in triumph. "That’s really
great," I said. "He’ll be a singer in no time." I imagined what my
sister would think when Jack started renting Joan Crawford movies. She’d probably
blame it on me, but I didn’t care. Score one for our side.
"Oh, he already is," Karen said. "You
should hear him try to do >Evergreen’."
This was more than I could stand. "He sings
Streisand?" I said incredulously.
"Oh, yeah," Karen answered.
"He’s been getting into my Barbra records since he was six. In fact, my present
to him was his own copy of The Broadway Album. We sing it together."
I had to hang up.
So maybe ten is a little young to know for sure. Still, I think the fact that I asked
for an Easy-Bake oven when I was seven was probably some kind of early indicator, sexist
or not, of what would come. My friend Anne agrees. She gave her Barbie a crew cut and
rechristened her Alix when she was four. Now Anne drives a UPS truck and plays rugby for
her wimmin’s collective team. You can’t ignore the facts. Jack’s birthday
is coming up again, and this year he wants to visit the Smithsonian to see the exhibit of
first ladies’ gowns. Karen says she’s glad he’s showing such a healthy
interest in American history.
Michael Thomas Ford is the author of Alec Baldwin Doesn’t Love Me
& Other Trials from My Queer Life. He welcomes e-mail at Shopiltee@aol.com.
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