Arlo
Let’s workshop this story (extremely rough draft) about a boy who is inadvertently groomed into a transgender identity by his well-meaning but ideologically consumed adoptive parents
scent of the day: Triad, by Bortnikoff.—A woody-floral fragrance that—through its celebration of pink rose in all its fruity-sour-green, and later soapy-sour-green, glory—transports me (as does Dia Man to some extent) to the Sino-Thai setting (Pak Chong) of Bruce Lee’s The Big Boss (a cloudless sky of washed-out blue stark against background mountains; dusty ochre roads lined by the wooden carts and makeshift stalls of Chinese-emigrant vendors under the meager shade of swaying coconut palms; sun-drenched sugarcane fields and expansive green lawns; Theravada monks bowed in robes of saffron orange; bleached Thai temples of breezeblock ventilation; tropical florals tucked behind ears and woven into hair), Triad—paradoxically more celebratory of rose than even the rose-richer Oud Maximus (which, tangled in orange-spicy-skanky complexity, lacks Triad’s dialed-in purity of focus)—seems easy to “misinterpret” as having more the structural style of Tabac Doré (where oud seems a bit recessive) as opposed to the structural styles of either Oud Maximus (where oud and rose are co-stars) or Lao Oud (where oud is the superstar, flanked by coffee and other elements) when the truth of the matter—in alignment with the oud-glutted pyramid—seems otherwise: a fact that can go hidden because the dominant ouds here (mainly Sri Lankan and Thai) do not broadcast themselves in the fermented-barnyard-rubbery-smoky modes of Oud Maximus and Lao Oud, but rather in the grassy-citrus mode (like the two florals that make up the first element in the triad, (1) a quaint and powdery May rose and (2) a lemon-berry magnolia whose champagne effervescence plays a big part in making Triad one of the strongest projectors and longest lasters in Bortnikoff’s lineup), a bitter-vegetal-lemony mode of oud that carries the whole not too far even from leafy-green staples like Amouage’s Beach Hut Man (despite, yes, obvious differences like that Triad has rose and comes with that antique-wood feel I adore in Bortnikoff compositions, to say nothing of its opening Chinese oud—a fungal nod to the Chinese Mafia behind the name—and its musky-leathery hyraceum in the deep dry down)—the overall result, although easiest to describe visually as a hyper-detailed 8K zoom-in on May rose (resolution so crystal-clear it is like seeing the borders of contact lenses against the film star’s sclera), is in reality a mutually-reinforcing oud-rose interplay, where the various fresh-woodchip ouds (second element in the triad) amplify the May rose into Taif-rose intensity without spoiling its distinctive delicacy or creating some synthetic caricature (a feat achieved through the airy sparkle imparted by the magnolia and the wild earthiness, the sensual musky aura of naturalism, imparted by the third-element combo of hyraceum and tonka and benzoin).
Arlo
Arlo is the newest hunk of clay in the Thompson household, adopted as a toddler by Becky and Karen. The boy would naturally draw anyone’s focus: a bright smile and dimples, not to mention a willingness to hug any friend on the playground who fell down. To understand him at his core, however, the place to start would be with the hands that shape him.
Becky and Karen are progressive—“progressive,” understand, in the jargonistic doublespeak sense (quite detached from more traditional connotations). Their progressivism is suggested by their lesbianism and also by where they live, which is just outside of Boston. But in a day where optics matter most for social capital (your employability, what sounds you are permitted to utter, and so on), their progressivism is perhaps best represented in their Kia and their tartan scarves and, most vividly of all, their matching purple hair.
That hair tells so much in this partisan age. For outsiders to the space and time of the tale it might seems ridiculous (and one does hope and pray for such outsiders even if it means the tale itself seems baloney). But the hair alone tells us, for example, that Becky and Karen believe, and with at least as much sincerity as can be engineered through the best of ideological hypnosis, that January 6th was—in line with the shock-means-money framing of all the major media outlets crying “insurrection”—“an organized attempt to takeover the government.” Despite the lack of any plan for governance (aside from disrupting congress for a few hours), and despite the lack of organized armed force, and despite most of the “coup operatives” walking around confused and taking selfies (as expected by the typical dumb pop-music listening and pop-soda drinking Americans they are), and despite the only related death being a result of a cop shooting one of these dolts—yes, the hair alone tells us they sit teary-eyed around the dinner table, finger-stroking hand holding and all, repeating (even years later) how much of a “national tragedy” it was, that it was “the most destructive act of internalized terrorism the US has ever seen.”
The purple hair, and the dyke cut seals the deal, tells us that Becky and Karen view the BLM riots as—to give the requisite media talking phrase—“largely peaceful,” largely peaceful despite the raging fires licking at the back of the gaslighting news reporter parroting the phrase; largely peaceful despite the drugged out guy holding a Gatorade bottle filled with 87 unleaded sticking his face suddenly into the camera to make the threat be known (“We killin’”); largely peaceful despite the grim realities we now understand with hindsight: at least fifty killed, billions in damages, businesses looted and torched—the various rioting groups, all centralized ideologically around the race-monger lie (the lie that insidiously baits reality, given human reactive nature, into conformity) that white supremacy has reached unforeseen heights, enjoying the leverage of institutional backing (corporate, political, media). And this is to say nothing of the long-term effects: one of the most conspicuous being, of course, the defunding of the police in many black communities, communities so ravaged by crime that police presence was actually one of the last stopgaps of implosion into a cesspool of Mad Max blood—the disproportionate hurt here to black communities then insidiously spun (you cannot make this up) as further evidence of white supremacy’s throttling grip, and more fuel for the anti-agential victimology narrative that only further keeps black people down (which is then spun as even more evidence of white supremacy’s throttling grip, and thus further fuel for more race-mongered protests). But the vicious cycle is fed, the narrative reinforced, and Becky and Karen grieve it all with the piety of true believers.
Becky and Karen both have great jobs, which they chalk up largely to white supremacy’s rigged game—their white privilege being a birthright they constantly mourn and consciously “pay back” by supporting black business. Becky is a graphic designer who works from home—and yes, she does walk the walk of reparative justice, always doing pro-bono work for “vulnerable populations.” Her latest freebie, for example, was the typography and layout of the phrase “Nasty bitches over here” for a local black-owned sticker business.
Becky is the momma bear, so to say. So she is the one who goes to the PTA meetings, for example. She is outspoken in these meetings. And her words have had impact. For example, she spearheaded the campaign to the retire the “Work Hard, Be Nice” slogan of the school system attended that Luna, her other child, attended when Arlo was still a baby. The twofold rational she wrote up seems worth quoting to give you the gist of her spirit.
(1) “Not only is hard work a white-supremacist value alien to Black bodies, there is also a long history of white people controlling Black bodies with the traumatizing lie that hard work will pay off in some so-called ‘end.’”
(2) “White people have displayed a long history of being offended by the native sass and wild bluntness of Black bodies, and so our school—which encourages Black students to disrupt the white-supremacist system that controls them—should never again participate in the violence of ordering Black students to be kind and play fair.”
Karen is a counselor specializing in youth mental health—and yes, she does walk the walk too. Karen only rarely will take on white patients. The idea is that white privilege makes white people much more able to bounce back from hardship and trauma, much more enmeshed in a support network that guarantees a bright future no matter what. The idea is that, so she might articulate after a few glasses of red, “this country is already structured to promote white health above all” and so—since “whites pose an existential threat” to black lives anyway—“it violates the dictates of equity-oriented healthcare” to devote more energy toward helping white populations: “there are just too many black folk in need!”
Karen thought this way since college. When she was raped as an undergrad by a gang of black men, she refused to report it. Her silence, in her mind, was an “impersonal duty to social justice.” She did not want to become complicit in perpetuating the stereotype of black hyperviolence, let alone become complicit in the “black-inmate industrial complex" of a nation “so hellbent on maiming and killing the black body” that it would “violate [her] conscience” if she further harmed the “true victim in this case” by “taking part in a long history of weaponizing white damsel tears to stoke a modern-day lynch mob.” She actually thought about pinning the crime on her white lab partner, as a form of militant payback, while the perineal trauma—a lightning gash that zagged through muscle and even into her anal sphincter—was fresh. But it was not in her capacity to hurt someone like this, especially considering how—in her words—“hurting white men only spells destruction to vulnerable populations, sooner or later.” (And as she also thought, although it floated largely below the threshold of conscious thought, she did not want to disrupt one of the important counterbalancing stereotypes—encapsulated in the phrase, used later much more freely even in mainstream media, of “white dick energy”—restraining white men from unrestrained genocide: that white men have small penises. Both of her rear-end holes were just too ravaged for her to suggest that her dorky freshman lab partner was the culprit, even though there was likely no way that the detail would get out.)
Becky and Karen’s contributions are small and local, and done from an underlying tragic outlook that “whiteness is a virus that can never be defeated.” But what else can you ask of them? All the people in their neighborhood drink from the same Kool-Aid: sugared just enough to respect “black ways of living” and yet not—lest they be charged with appropriation—to the unbearably sweet point where there is an inch of sediment on the bottom. They drink but what they do with all that glucose energy is mainly talk. Becky and Karen, on the contrary, enact change.
“Becky” and “Karen” are, of course, two extremely unfortunate names in this era where white-bashing enjoys widespread social and institutional sanction—even as the other way around is considered, quite tellingly to the war on black dignity done in the ironic name of “antiracism,” the equivalent of kicking a mentally disabled kid in the face: a no-no of punching down monstrosity. But good allies as they are (trying daily to remind themselves of the white guilt they should have, the way that healthy people try to remind themselves of the gratitude they should have), they roll with the punches by being the hardest punchers of them all—saying things like “I see no lie: Beckys and Karens do have trouble zipping their lips and letting black voices lead” (their tone flirting with black-girl swagger, only held in check so as not to feel like they are committing the cardinal sin of appropriating, of stealing from the down and out).
Becky and Karen pride themselves on “open-mindedness” and “commitment to social justice”—or at least what they mean by these terms, which lucky for them is what the media and Disney and the universities and the rest mean (a good position to be in, no doubt). They attend protests for racial justice and LGBTQ+ rights. Their home is filled with books on diversity, equity, and inclusion. They go to orchestras (complaining the whole time, predictably, about how white the musicians are—the “white” always stressed, in line with the fashion of the times, like it is a pejorative). On the matter of orchestras they agree that meritocratic blind auditions, once considered a major step forward, is a step backwards. As Karen puts it, “Equality was MLK’s dream, but equity—redress for the past and persistent hobbling—demands special treatment. MLK likely could not have fathomed how intense and invisible antiblack racism would become in America” (and, as is clear by how she stresses the “C,” she means triple-K America).
They are a pessimistic about how much positive change their efforts can make. This is understandable given that they hold sacred two dogmas that have long spread through social media from the universities to the world at large, warped thinking actually resulting in warped policy changes and cancellations in the real world: (1) whiteness is an illness baked into the very DNA of this country, which implies that the only way to cure this place is to kill this place, and (2) white people, even the most well-meaning of allies, are likely to spread the disease. Hence the reason why it is important, although not failsafe since black people too can be stricken by whiteness (as in when black cops beat black men), that white allies always follow the lead of black voices. That is what Becky and Karen always do. They carry around not a tissue box but a notepad in their plight to move beyond the high-ranking white-ally identity they have now, which they see—by all reasonable measures selling themselves short—as merely “white critical” (meaning they have purged themselves of all white denial and attack the white world order with their words). It is easy to laugh it away as just as silly as boy scouts trying to collect more and more badges. But it is important not to kink shame, as the saying goes. Karen an Becky hope to reach the highest tiers of virtue that a white person could hope to reach: “white traitor,” which is a white person who refuses all complicity in white institutions, or perhaps even “white abolitionist,” which is a white person who makes it a point to eradicate whiteness in all is cunning guises. That said, they do believe the biggest change they can make is through their children.
Becky and Karen have two children, Arlo and Luna. That is where they mainly devote their energies. “Social justice, after all, starts in the home!” Correcting for racism is a biggie in the home: training Arlo and Luna to be hyper-aware of race to avoid saying anything “problematic”; encouraging them to become allies to black people, which means never talking over them and not trying to control them or lead them but instead to follow them with open hands to receive their wisdom; teaching a zip it and learn mentality that prioritizes the elevation of black voices in discussions rather than inserting their own opinions of harmful privilege; reprimanding them of they hold black peers to their own standards of privilege and respect; reminding them that there are black ways of knowing they can never be privy to; making them aware of the invisible scarring that can come from holding blacks to the Caucasian standards of punctuality and decorum, which only replays the tragic story of the western world’s preoccupation with controlling the black body.
Becky and Karen do know, however, to stay in their lane. They know not to overreach. What that means in this case is that they focus more on the part of the garden they have most control over, as the Buddhist saying goes. They focus on child rearing. In their child rearing an even greater focus is devoted to LGBTQ+ issues. Dismantling traditional gender norms is a key focus. “What healthy parent wouldn’t want to encourage their children to be whoever they want to be, free from societal expectations?”
It is important to understand, channeling Becky and Karen for a moment, the intersectionality of oppression. It is important to understand, that is to say, that the LGBTQ+ cause is not separate from the antiracist cause. For while it might manifest more conspicuously in the Trans-Atlantic slave trade and all the horrible nuances that unfolded afterwards, white hegemony—its heterosexual norm (gay is the wrong way to be), its dualistic framework (white versus nonwhite, man versus woman, heterosexual versus nonheterosexual)—sits ultimately behind all the hardships of LGBTQ+ folk too. Whiteness, using binary logic as an instrument of oppression, is the chief force that has held back and ridiculed and maimed not only black bodies but also those who do not fit within heteronormativity, heteronormativity being just one of the many tentacles of white dominance. As made clear by what resulted from colonial invasion (binary gender roles and heterosexual family structures imposed everywhere a white ship landed), whiteness is what opposes the indigenous mode of being—a mode of being, so at least goes the talking point, that did not presume that sexual relationships are ideally between men and women and which definitely did not structure institutions and cultural narratives and everyday interactions around this expectation. Whiteness is not just what rapes the black body, but what assumes that children will grow up to be heterosexual and that children will live out a script dictated by their sexual organs. That is the idea anyway.
Becky and Karen’s social circle is similarly progressive. Their friends are Kia owners. Their friends identify as non-binary, trans, or queer—and if not, have demonstrated radical commitment to allyship: engaging in demonstrations and acts of civil disobedience to challenge discrimination and fight for policy changes and secure safe spaces for queer gatherings; providing housing, financial support, or other resources to LGBTQ+ individuals, especially “all the beautiful trans people who face disproportionate economic hardship and violence (who cannot even go to the backroom without feeling safe)”; confronting homophobia and transphobia in public and private spaces, even at great risk to their reputation and relationships; offering their own homes as sanctuary spaces for trans youth or engaging in legal battles on behalf of LGBTQ+ asylum seekers; using their heter-priveledge to amplify queer voices (while always makign sure, however, to resist the urge, especially if their allies happen to be infected by whiteness, to tokenize or co-opt their struggles); raising children not only without enforcing traditional binary roles but also with positive representation of those who fall outside of the norm (perhaps the most important work of all to ensure a bright future). Whoever their friends are, whatever their preferred identities might be, through any superficial diversity there is an essential uniformity. Their friends, whether over for dinner or out at the playground or out at a drag brunch, repeat most of all—knowing how oriented Becky and Karen are to child-rearing—that it is “super important” (heads nodding all around) for parents to “always affirm a child’s identity”—“always affirm a child’s identity” being a slogan repeated more often in the Thompson home than even “whiteness is a disease.”
The Thompson home, it goes without saying, is appropriately decorated. Instead of the standard rainbow, they use the progress pride flags (which has the black and brown stripes added to draw attention to the fact that the LGBTQ+ struggle is enmeshed within the BIPOC struggle). They have “act up” bumper stickers that say things like “Silence = Death” and “If you’re not angry, you’re not paying attention” and “Queers Against Police" and "No TERFs, No SWERFs, No Cops."
the number of stickers growing by the year. The bookshelves are packed with radical queer theory (especially works by Judith Butler and bell hooks) and trans survival guides. Above their bathroom is a sign “All Genders Welcome" or anti-cop messaging like "Queers Against Police" or "No TERFs, No SWERFs, No Cops." However performative a critical eye might find all of this, the decorations are not just decorations. They often serve as talking points. And it also goes without saying that the household is rife with discussion of topics like toxic masculinity, gender fluidity, and—most of all—the importance of affirming children’s identities.
Karen and Becky do not explicitly push these views on Arlo or Luna. But while they are more careful than most about letting their children find their own truth, their values permeate the household in various ways. How could they not? Indeed, loaded as they are, their values are spreading even just through these seemingly let-a-thousand-flowers-bloom phrases (“my truth” and “find your truth”), to say nothing about witnesses their mothers pulling out their hair about the importance of hormone access. To be fair, a parent can never avoid spreading their values. And besides, is it not precisely the point to spread their values, at least in some fashion? Otherwise rearing children would be like an artist creating a painting but without letting any of his own personality get in there. The case should not be understated, though. While Beck and Karen do not want to be authoritarian, while they must watch lest they reenact the white supremacist modes of thinking and parenting (thereby perpetuating the cycle of violence to all nonwhite and nonheterosexual populations), they do want to see their children be the change. Can you blame them?
The only boy in the home, Becky and Karen direct extra effort toward Arlo, who is five. The extra effort is not a result of crab-finger sit-down machination. It is just organically how it has been playing out. Arlo is the most different from the rest (being a boy) and he is the youngest. Moreover, Becky and Karen feel better equipped and confident to parent now that they have been broken in with the raising of Luna, which is eleven.
Arlo is a sensitive, imaginative child who loves drawing, playing pretend, and building elaborate Lego fortresses. He is quieter than most boys his age and prefers creative activities over rough-and-tumble play. At preschool, he gravitates toward the dress-up corner, where he sometimes wears tutus or princess crowns alongside other children, both boys and girls. His teachers note that he is empathetic and gets along well with everyone, but he occasionally feels left out during more competitive games.
Becky and Karen notice Arlo’s preference for “feminine" activities and are delighted. Becky, in particular, sees this as evidence that Arlo is “breaking free" from toxic masculinity. She shares a photo of Arlo in a tutu on Instagram with the caption, “Raising a boy who isn’t afraid to be himself #BreakingFree #SmashThePatriarchy." The post gets dozens of likes and comments like, “Love this! Let him explore!" and "What a beautiful soul." Becky replies to each with lines like “White world order, watch out!” Karen and Becky make a point to praise Arlo whenever he engages in activities they perceive as gender-nonconforming. When he considers the sparkly pink backpack at the store instead of (as Becky puts it) “that, ugh, so-basic boy color”(stressing the “boy” in the same pejorative sounding way she says “white”), Becky beams and says, “I love how you’re not afraid to choose what makes you happy!" (tucking down any creeping suspicion of conscience that “to consider” is not the same as “to choose”). When he plays with Luna’s dolls, Karen says, “It’s so cool that you’re not stuck in boring boy stuff." These comments are well-intentioned, meant to affirm Arlo’s choices. It would be silly to deny, however, that they carry an implicit message: “Feminine" choices are special and worthy of extra praise.
When Arlo shows interest in stereotypically “masculine" activities—like playing with toy trucks or watching superhero shows—Karen and Becky are less enthusiastic. Karen might say (with a kid tone, as if representing the child’s own internal voice), “This show’s kinda violent, huh? Maybe”—she turns the channel away from Ninjago to Powerpuff Girls—“we can watch something more healthy, more creative." Becky, meanwhile, avoids buying “boyish" toys, filling the house instead with gender-neutral or traditionally “feminine" items like art supplies, dolls, and dress-up clothes. No, they do not ever explicitly discourage “boy" activities. But their lack of enthusiasm is noticeable to Arlo. Any child is highly attuned to parental approval. But call it a function of genes or of the early experiences and hormone ratios in the womb, Arlo—his skin extremely thin, his momma’s boy sweetness nearly cloying—was especially attuned.
Arlo’s kindergarten is steeped in progressive ideology. Group games avoid reinforcing competition, hierarchy, or aggression (the key staples of whiteness) instead emphasizing collective play and fluid roles—and, of course, in an extra middle finger to whiteness never at set times. Aside from some key mainstays (like Ms. Carter, the head teacher, starting each class with the static-identity-stomping question “What does it feel like to be YOU today?”), the day is rather unstructured. Kids can move freely between activities based on curiosity, rather than following strict schedules or hierarchies.
The teachers are trained to the gills in gender-inclusive education. And it most definitely shows Aside from bestsellers like Julian Is a Mermaid and I Am Jazz, the classroom has various books that depict chosen families, communal child-rearing, and nontraditional caregiving models. Here teachers encourage children to explore their identities. There is, in fact, a whole half hour of time devoted each day to “Identity Exploration.” This often involves self-portrait mirror work, where kids are encouraged to draw themselves “however they feel inside” (emphasis on the “however”). “You can be a horse even in a world that says you are human. And you can be a boy even in a world that says you are a girl. Because,” so Ms. Carter says (as the class aids mentally take in her modeling for them), you can always change. Did you know that a clownfish like Nemo can become a girl in some situations?”
When Arlo wears a skirt to school one day (borrowed from Luna’s old dress-up bin), his teacher (Ms. Carter) praises him in front of the class: “Arlo, you look fabulous!” She puts a shiny boa around his neck and says “absolutely fabulous” with the same swagger of the drag queens on the YouTube podcast she watches at lunch hour, sometimes in ear-shot of the children. “OMG. I love how you’re showing everyone that clothes are for everyone. Is that what you’re showing everyone?" The other children clap and Arlo feels a rush of pride, especially when Ms. Carter gives him a private look of solidarity and says: “It really fits you!” It could just boil down to a strong dose of caffeine that day, or perhaps it was in the works all along (that would make sense)—whatever the case, Ms. Carter even says “Arlo just gave me a wonderful and beautiful and warm-fuzzy idea. We can make this corner right here,” she says, moving the potted plant, “a zone when you can try on any outfit you want. Can we that Arlo for this wonderful idea, class?” Arlo’s pride, which is undeniable (What kid would not want to be the inspiration for the radical costume zone?)—if we are being honest, it is tainted by a streak of confusion. He lacks the verbal firepower to frame it all this way, but nevertheless he feels it and it the feelings operate inside of him: he liked the skirt because it was shiny, not because he wanted to make a statement.
At home, Becky—perhaps motivated by some of the reports she gets from Ms. Carter—starts reading Arlo books about gender diversity. Introducing Teddy, another bestseller, is the perfect go to, especially since it was already on the bookshelf. Explaining in a kid appropriate way that some people feel they are born in the “wrong body" (using the teddy bear as a metaphor for unshackled self-expression), there perhaps is still no better book at introducing young children to transgender identity in a gentle way. And after finishing the book each night for a good swath of time, Becky repeats “And Arlo, always remember: being yourself doesn’t change how much you’re loved.” Coincidentally enough (or not, depending your frame of reference), Ms. Carter—unbeknownst to Becky (Arlo never says anything)—not only reads this same book in her (and actually couples her reading with a teddy bear), but also ends culminates the experience with nearly the same capstone—as if it were part of some teacher’s manual that came with the book: “remember class, you’re loved whoever, whatever, you choose to be!”
It is one of those sad misconnections, those tragic ironies, in life (like the situation where the boy is getting high in secret in one room while the father is getting high in secret in the other room and wracking his brain, depressed, as to how he could connect with his son): Ms. Carter and Becky do not really know one another (and in fact each one suspects, mistakenly, that the other might not be progressive enough), but they live nearly parallel lives—especially in their pedagogical styles. For example, Ms. Carter asks Arlo open-ended questions, questions that plant seed for later reflection, like: “Do you ever feel different from other boys and if so, how?” and “If you could be any gender for a day, what would you choose?" and “What kinds of pronouns feel the best for you?" and “Do you like it when people call you a boy (or would you rather they call you something else)?" Becky, likewise, asks Arlo these same sorts of open-ended questions like, “Do you ever feel (and it’s okay if you do) like you’re not a boy?” and “When you imagine yourself in the future, do you feel like you’ll always be a boy?" and “Are there parts of you that feel like they don’t quite fit?" She does not push the idea, at least any more than the detective interrogating a little boy about how he has been treated by the parent that the detective is convinced has been abusing the boy. She knows better herself not to be too ham-fisted. A child may not immediately identify as trans or nonbinary, but these questions ensure they have the language and permission to explore those possibilities as they grow. It is important, Beckly knows, to ask without expectation or pressure, making sure that gender identity is what it always already is: a playground (a playground where the child has authority), not a test (not a test where the parent has the authority). Besides, Karen would shoot her a playful-but-serious check-yourself eye anyway if she laid the pressure on too thick. Knowing this is enough to feel Karen’s eye even if she is not physically there.
Arlo, eager to please his teacher and his mom (especially Becky), naturally starts to wonder if his love for sparkly things means he is “supposed" to be a girl. He does not put it that way, of course. It is more latent than that. But latent, preverbal, does not mean unreal: a cat does not say to itself “I want food” and yet that does not mean that it does not want food. Arlo understand gender identity even less. That said, he is aware enough to sense that being “different"—especially in tutu-wearing ways—makes his parents proud. Over the years, the cues—however subtle, however responsibly buried “so that the child retains the say on who or what he is”—add up.
At age seven, Arlo is in the backseat of the Kia as his parents talking about a local family whose child recently came out as trans. Becky says, “It’s so beautiful how they’re supporting her. Kids know who they are so young—we just need to listen." Tears form in Becky’s eyes as she looks back at Arlo through the rearview: “Why can’t we just listen?” Karen adds, “I wish more parents were open like that. Imagine how many kids feel trapped by gender norms. It makes me sick." And then Becky adds, although it draws Karen’s head-shaking smirk of “Now don’t’ be bad,” “I mean, is a boy in a tutu ever just a boy in a tutu?”
Arlo, it goes without saying, internalizes this conversation. With all the priming of the system over the years, the pink flower that starts blooming in Arlo’s brain—well, any sober eyes could have predicted it. Look at it this way. Bombarded by the constant narrative of how victimized they are, seeing all the rewards and social leverage to be gained from accepting that narrative, seeing how it entitles them to special treatment and gives them an out when they fail—in light of all this, countless black people organically develop the idea in their own heads (no matter great they have it, no matte the data) that they have been and continue to be victimized by a white supremacist order. Surely it is easy to imagine, likewise, an impressionable little boy like Arlo starting to think the thought that, at this point, seem like anyone-could-have-told-you-that destiny: “Maybe I’m a girl, and that’s why my mommies are so happy when I wear skirts."
A few weeks later, Arlo shyly tells Becky, “I think I’m a girl." Becky’s eyes light up and she takes on the beaming smile of a gardener who, having planted the seed and patiently watered it just right, now sees it sprout right before her eyes. “Oh, Arlo, I’m so proud of you for telling me.” She hugs him tightly. You’re so brave!" Karen on her shoulder (telling her not to be so outward because it needs to be Arlo’s decision, all Arlo’s decision), she plays it cool. She even throws in a back-tracking “It’s okay to be unsure.” Such autonomy-honoring words of reassurance and postmodern permissiveness are, whether she knows it or not, more effective (right out of the groomer’s handbook, on purpose or not)—more effective than blunt authoritarian command, especially after all the groundwork has been laid: praising his choices to do “non-masculine” things; really praising his choices to do “feminine” things; steering him away from “masculine” things; displaying lack of enthusiasm for his choices to do “masculine” things; all-too-often putting the word “toxic” next to the word “masculine”; framing gender nonconformity as inherently virtuous (“There’s no one braver than a little kid who refuses to let his parts define him”), something thereby any typical child will feel pulled toward (wanting to make parents proud); and so on. First, it makes the identification sink in deeper by means of seeming more like a personal choice as opposed to what seems better to call it (namely, “unintentional” grooming). Second, it makes it easier for the parents to mistake the echo of their own voice as the sound of the child’s own.
Cool as she plays it outwardly, however, Becky gets to business as soon as Arlo goes out to play. Becky opens her laptop and starts researching gender-affirming care (yes, even though she has more than enough resources already on the bookshelf) but gets sidetrack in daydreaming about girl names: Juniper, Opal, or just plan Arla. Soon enough she is joining online forums for parents of trans kids, even buying a book—yet another bestseller—that the household did not already harbor: Raising the Transgender Child. Karen, although initially surprised, supports Becky’s enthusiasm, “You know my view on this. We need to follow Arlo’s lead." Neither parent questions whether Arlo’s statement might be influenced by their own biases—they assume he is expressing his authentic self.
Arlo, starting to use she/her pronouns in the safe space of home, is now called “Lila"—yes, Lila resisted going with Arla, but the two moms (always prioritizing child autonomy) let it be (albeit not without throwing out a few or ten alternatives). Becky and Karen, allies for their children first and foremost, tell his school and the school updates his name and pronouns in the system. Ms. Carter is secretly tiffed that she was not the one that Lila revealed her truest truth to—as Becky would have been if the tables were turned (another of countless parallels).
Arlo enjoys the attention—at least at first. His parents shower him with praise, and his teachers celebrate his “courage." But just as there is with the lovely Instagram photos of couples smiling on vacation, there are always darker parts to the iceberg. Deep down, Lila feels confused. She misses playing with toy trucks. She thinks of them alone in the basement, personified but tucked away gathering dust nonetheless. She cries a little picturing them there. She is not sure, completely at least, if she really wants to be a girl or if she just likes wearing dresses sometimes. And when she tries to say, “Maybe I’m still a boy," Becky’s face reflects a sinking stomach but her words are gentle and affirming. “As I always told you: it’s okay to feel unsure, Lila. Gender can be fluid. Lila, my precious girl, you don’t have to decide now." But the message is clear: staying “Lila" feels like the path of least resistance.
At school, none of the kids tease Lila for wearing dresses. None of them call her “weird." Becky, hearing of the “othering” that happens in other schools around the nation, speaks to Lila as if such transphobia is happening to her: “Many kids will be unable to understand, my sweet girl. But always remember that you’re teaching them to be more open-minded. You have many social duties. This is one—a big one!" Lila feels trapped. She does not want to disappoint her parents or fail in the fight against “the white supremacist patriarchy.” But she is starting to resent the skirts and the new name. She misses being “Arlo." She—or should we say “he”?—misses the old name and yet is afraid to say it, fearing he will lose the approval of his parents.
By age eight, Arlo is showing signs of anxiety. He withdraws from friends, spends hours drawing alone, and has trouble sleeping. His therapist, a friend of Karen and who has been briefed by Karen (and who is already a specialist in gender identity as it is, having helped many children with unsupportive parents find their “glitter families”), interprets the distress as “internalized transphobia." The therapist encourages Becky and Karen to continue affirming “Lila." “This is time of uncertainty. Think of all the pressures pushing Lila to go back to he, to Arlo—to the false shell. If only as a matter of protest, as a matter of diversity, it’s crucial for you two to be the difference, the counterpoint. I’ve seen too many families abandon their children. You two are quite frankly amazing.”
Arlo’s drawings tell a different story. They are filled with images of a boy trapped in a cage, surrounded by smiling adults who fail to see him. He might not understand exactly what is going on. Does any artist when taken up by the muse? It seems quite telling, however, that the cage—and yes, it is a literal cage—is always pink instead of the silver and black that are standard when it comes to Crayola kid cages. Karen and Becky, still unaware of their role in Arlo’s confusion, double down on their support. They attend a trans-youth support group where Arlo meets other kids who seem confident in their identities. He feels out of place but does not know how to articulate it.
With the blessing of the therapist and with Karen (the heel-dragger of the two) in line, Becky starts discussing puberty blockers with a pediatric endocrinologist. She believes that it is the next step to “Protect Lila’s future. It’s now or never." When she says this phrase “It’s now or never” she thinks vaguely—but quite tellingly—of how, after a certain age, the window of imagination and creativity closes down so considerably. She can feel the window closing. If some parents get crazy about making sure their kids starts the piano in such a formative age, just imagine how deeply it hurts Becky to stand before the image of the window closing. It is one thing seeing the window close on your child’s musical talents. It is another thing completely to see it closing on their very spiritual authenticity.
Arlo, sensing the weight of these decisions, feels powerless to speak up. The path, however darker it grows by the second, becomes clearer by the second: puberty blockers at nine and hormone therapy at fourteen and surgery at fifteen, these milestones sanctioned by a society that (perhaps mainly because money-hungry without much foresight into the damage down the line of things like fossil fuels and so on) sees a boy in a tutu as not just a boy in a tutu but a chrysalis waiting to crack into an ice princess like Elsa.
It is hard to demonize Becky and Karen. They are groomers, yes. But we all are. They are manipulators. But even plants are as they dig down for water and reach up to the sun, some even hijacking other plants and stealing their nutrients. Becky and Karen are grooming manipulators, and yet all of it was in line with the social norm—however much they, and others in their network, might have liked to frame it as against the grain to persecutorial degrees (something extremely hard to do once Disney is on board).
A vulnerable child might be caught in their ideological framework, but Becky and Karen are well-meaning. All their massaging of Arlo to identify as a girl was inadvertent, not deliberate grooming but an unintended consequence of their biases. That is important to say. It is also important to say that Arlo is someone to blame, at least in a minimal sense that perhaps takes some of the heat of of Becky and Karen. Being so young and lacking the cognitive tools to fully understand gender identity, Arlo finds it easy as a Sunday morning to interpret the reactions of his parents as a roadmap for earning their love. Being so needy of love and parental validati0n, Arlo finds it easy to follow that roadmap into an identity that feels inauthentic—and even if this mean getting the therapy and drugs and social reinforcement and procedures that will make it harder and harder to feel that this identity is inauthentic, which could lead to various negative results (identity struggles, resentment toward his parents, difficulty forming authentic relationship, depression, anxiety, suicide) at least on the assumption that the drugs and procedures and the like cannot fully eradicate any inner voice that questions the authenticity.
Keeping that inner voice quiet does seem to be crucial in this growing trend of gender dysphoria. It is easy to make fun of the people pulling out their hair and scratching their faces when they are not called by their preferred pronouns. It is easy to demonize these people when they try to hurt others for misgendering them, especially in the wake of the 2016 to 2022 horrors of all the employees and even professors who were fired without due process for just that. But when we empathize with these transformers, empathize with how desperately they need the world to validate their fantasy in order that—since we are all social creatures—that inner voice stays quiet, it is easy to understand why they would rage as if their lives depended on it. Because, in a sense, their lives do. When a fantasy is all that keeps you afloat, the world must play along—or else pay, bigtime, for watching you drown.