When I was a very young boy, I always looked forward to my dad bringing a reel-to-reel tape recorder home from the language lab where he taught French at a high school in St. Paul. On Christmas Day, he’d gather all of us kids and interview us, asking us what toys Santa Claus got for us, and encouraging us to sing a song together or play the piano. 

One of the first recording is from 1964. I was five years old. I cringed a bit when I heard my voice.  In addition to being full of frenetic energy and unbridled joy, I could hear the “girly” part of my voice pattern – the melodic lifts and sighs that are usually associated with little girls. 

Even today – even after starting this blog on self-acceptance – I cringe. Why? Because I’m listening to a little boy who didn’t sound like most other boys. I’m listening to that little “femmy” boy. I cringe also because I remember what that little boy had to go through in his childhood - how he’d quickly realize that in addition to being lots of fun, he would also be made fun of lots of times. It seems like my vocal patterns were a natural part of me from the start. I certainly didn’t choose to talk that way.

I remember some of my adult relatives occasionally making comments about “those men” or “fairies.”  When they did, I could feel my stomach fill with acid, weight, and sadness. I didn’t fully understand what they were talking about, but I knew that they were talking about someone like me. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my relatives very much, and I know they loved me too. I’m wondering if they weren’t trying to call attention to my “flaw” with the misguided hope that, if my parents realized this early enough, they could do something about it.  

Flash forward a few years. I vividly remember a visit with my cousins up in rural Minnesota.  My mom and aunt were doing the dishes. I was in the family room playing a game or something – with an ear open to my mom and aunt’s conversation. I was probably about 10 or 12 years old.  

My aunt looked toward me, then back toward my mom a couple of times. I suspected that she was talking about me. Then I heard her say that “those kind of people” part their hair on the right side of their heads. Have you heard of anything so silly? (Don’t answer too quickly. I just did a quick Google search and the first thing that popped up was a study that researched the possible co-relation between counter-clockwise cowlicks and homosexuality in men!)

After my aunt said this, I remember my mother shrugging off her comment as ridiculous. Still, I was silently embarrassed and pretty silent quiet the rest of the night, realizing that I parted my hair on the right side of my head – that I was one of “those people.” I knew whatever that meant, it wasn’t good.

That night, and for many nights to come, I would wet down my hair, take a comb, part my hair on the left, hold the part line tightly with one hand, and lay my head on the pillow – hoping that I wouldn’t move all night. My hope was that, in the morning, my part would stay on the left, and I would be perfectly normal. It didn’t work. My counter-clockwise cowlick on the right side of my head had a stronger will than me.

It’s frightening to think that a young boy would try to change himself in such a way. It seems we are conditioned to please others and fit in. But, as always, nature wins out. Thank God. Who knows what my life might have been like had my hair-parting experiment worked!