As I lounged on the couch with my 8-year-old son, engrossed in an episode of Pokémon, he suddenly exhaled deeply and confessed, “Dad, I really like pink.” His eyes darted away, as if he were revealing a deep secret, and I couldn’t help but reflect on my own childhood experiences.
I didn’t have a close relationship with my father. He left when I was just 9 years old, but before that, he grew wary of my interests. This was the early ’90s, a time when my lack of traditional masculinity raised eyebrows. I was never drawn to sports, trucks, or anything deemed “manly.” In fact, I might have once mentioned that I liked pink. It’s hard to pinpoint what exactly triggered my father’s concerns, but I remember the pressure I felt when he enrolled me in wrestling classes at the local community center, convinced it would “man me up.”
Dressed in a green leotard, I found myself rolling around on a mat with other boys, and I can only imagine how my father watched, torn between his desire for me to conform to his expectations and a vague sense of compassion. For me, wrestling was a nightmare, not a remedy. I was a gentle, easy-going child who didn’t fit into the tough mold he envisioned.
Now, as a father, my son’s sexual orientation isn’t a concern for me. What troubles me more is the subtle pressure he may feel regarding his preferences, especially as he confessed his love for pink. Did he fear I’d judge him like I once feared my father would?
It struck me that somewhere along the way—maybe at school or even from me—he learned that liking “feminine” things was frowned upon. This fear was evident when he’d watch his sister enjoy Frozen but quickly deny any interest, insisting, “only girls like that movie.”
I had hoped we had moved past these outdated stereotypes, but as I sat there, waiting for my response, I realized we still had a long way to go. Instead of worrying about his orientation, I became concerned about my own reactions. I faced a choice: I could either encourage him to proudly embrace his love for pink, potentially facing ridicule at school, or I could fall into the same trap as my father, insisting that pink was for girls and trying to “man him up.”
Instead, I chose to respond with kindness. Looking downcast, he shared, “Rick likes pink, too. He’s the only other boy I know.” I seized this moment to say something I wish my father had said to me: “I like pink too. Now you know three boys.”
He smiled, snuggling closer as we continued watching Pokémon together.
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In summary, navigating gender stereotypes with my son highlighted the importance of open communication and acceptance. Rather than perpetuating outdated norms, I aim to create a space where he feels free to express himself without fear of judgment.