Boys Don't Play Dress-Up

“If you had only listened to me, I would be Billy Elliot by now,” my son says as he unravels out of his triple pirouette.

It’s true. But how was I to have known all those years ago that my dancing-insistent kindergartener, now an almost-grown young man, had been born to do one thing and that he had realized it before he took his first step?

It had seemed a responsible parental move at the time. After all, Max could not possibly understand the consequences of being The Boy Who Took Ballet. I loved that he didn’t care what others thought, and I respected his drive for individuality, but I knew the rough crowd that lurked within every school bus. I reasoned that skating was just dancing on ice and if he still wanted to start ballet when he turned eight, I promised that I would be all for it. In the end, sending my creature-comfortable kid into the cold every Sunday afternoon did nothing more than cement his refusal to attend his best friend’s 7th birthday party at the ice rink.

Max was born to perform. It wasn’t only movement he loved: he was enamored with the spectacle of performance. From belting ‘BaBa Black Sheep’ at age two in perfect time, to donning coconut husks and singing ‘Pearly Shells’ to the delight and amazement of perfect strangers, Max never missed an entertainment opportunity.

So it didn’t surprise me when our playgroups became neighborhood productions. Max would spend hours planning basement shows and persuading even the older kids that this was something fun to do. The furniture slowly began to disappear from the basement bedroom, replaced with racks and baskets full of Halloween and Disney princess costumes that Max rescued from Goodwill bags and tended to like boys from previous generations did with prize baseball card collections. These unlikely treasures found rebirth behind a door adorned with a sequined ‘Dressing Room’ sign that Max had collected on his inaugural trip to Broadway. Hours would pass, and many wine bottles would empty, before the assigned ticket agent would summon us moms to take our spots on the basement steps.

Of course, not everyone became a fan. Many of our relatives and friends did not approve and even forbade their male offspring from taking part. They thought nothing of voicing their opinions directly to my young son, as if Max’s passion were so undesirable that they personally had to set him on a more masculine course. I remember being amazed that the same parents who demanded every kid on the soccer team receive a trophy had no problem upbraiding Max with their displeasure, their message carrying an urgency that apparently outweighed a child’s emotional well being. Boys kicked balls, they insisted, they did not play dress up. How ironic that it had been Great Aunt Sally who gave Max his first pair of ballet shoes. It had, of course, been a joke: an outgrowth of her Yorkshire-Scottish wit that was meant to be a dig on the ‘little too open minded’ American mom new to the family. Obviously, it backfired.

When third grade —and its mean girls, cliques and skate boarders— arrived, I was relieved that ballet was no longer on my son’s must-do list. I was proud of my preemptive parenting and even talked him into joining a baseball team. He was actually pretty good! So good that I momentarily dreamed of having a son who played second base for the Chicago Cubs. Looking back, the fact that Max was willing to participate in a group sport that required a jock strap should have been enough to tell me that third grade was not going to be his year of clarity.

Now as Max prepares to enter High School, with a resume of lead roles and public accolades, I reflect with wonder and admiration on his incredible gifts. Sure, he is a talented performer, but greater even than his onstage presence is his amazing strength of self. He knows who he is and what he wants to become, and he has the courage and the determination to make his aspirations a reality. This is no simple fantasy: he knows Broadway is illusive for even the most talented — but so too is Harvard Law and John Hopkins Medical School, and Max accepts that learning to bartend and wait tables is an important part of his preparation.

No longer a reluctant fan or an overly protective mother on a misguided mission to pacify a passion, I watch with pride and humility as each performance outshines the last and wonder where he’d be today if only I had listened. I find some consolation and much satisfaction in trusting that I have no doubt about where he’ll be tomorrow.