Gender Identity Disorder,Cheerleading,and Devil Worship

My seven year-old daughter has claimed to be a boy since she was old enough to stake such claims. Since I'm Nazi-like in my policy of letting my children be whoever they are, I just go with it, much to the dismay of some of the people in my daughter's realm,who would rather me force her into pink dresses and a sugar-and- spice mentality. They can give it up,though, it will be a cold day in Fairytopia when I turn my tomboy into a reluctant princess.

Part of my staunch unwillingness to comply comes from my own mother's horror over my very unMalibu Barbie-like persona. I was brooding, anti-social, and wanted to wear all black. In my small Bible-Belt town, this was frightening to my mother,especially since all of those things fell under the broad category of things that she claimed made me seem like a "Devil Worshiper". Being a Devil Worshiper was at the top of my mom's list of things that were socially unacceptable. It just wasn't "done".

Aside from her fear that I would start collecting black cats to sacrifice of a Saturday night, she also wanted to live through me. Her own teen years were interrupted by my rude and untimely choosing of her womb to develop in when she was only 16. Not only did she resent me for such a SNAFU, she wanted to be me, I think. Since she was a baton twirler and pep squad member (don't ask me how she achieved those two activities simultaneously, my only guess is that that's how they rolled in the seventies), she expected me to continue the cheerleading legacy that she and my grandmothers and aunts before her had left. Especially since my parasitic-like newborn neediness didn't allow for such frivolity, she had unfinished pep-squad business, besides it was the least I could do since I had the audacity to be born at such a bad time.

It was pointlessly futile on my mother's part to try to force such an extracurricular activity upon me. Not only did I not have the social standing that effervecently jumping around half-naked and hollering in public required, I was also cripplingly shy. There was no way that I could, stone-cold sober, dry hump and writhe to the tunes of C+C Music Factory, in front of our town's football watching crowd. It would've taken at least a bottle and a half of Boone's Farm, and then I would've been sloppy and likely would've exaggerated all my moves and chants in the name of sarcasm. My mother should realize that my looking like a feared Devil Worshipper was far less embarassing to her than the realization of her cheerleading dreams for me would have been.

My daughter has her grandmother to thank for her freedom to be butch,though. If it weren't for my mom's constant pecking at me to be someone I wasn't, maybe I wouldn't be so laid-back about the situation at hand. And anyway, contrary to what I may have said decades ago, there are worse things than being a man. My daughter is such a sweet,smart, and entertaining little guy,too. You can't not love her gender confusion,and all.