Member-only story
Second Grade Wisdom
Even as a child, I knew he wanted sons — not the two daughters he had instead.
Kids know.
There’s just no way around it. Sometimes I wonder if my parents knew how much I knew.
I remember standing in line at recess in the New England winter that I certainly should have been accustomed to, but most definitely wasn’t. There is something lifeless about the cold: whatever it is that stirs in other seasons is still in the winter. In lieu of the chirping of birds that, interestingly enough, my mother strongly disliked, was the chit-chat of my classmates: little bursts of sound to punctuate the silence that is so typical of the months between November and March.
“I swear to God, I wish I was a boy!” I remember exclaiming, much to the surprise everyone except for myself. I can still hear the laughter, but more than that, I remember how serious I felt. This feeling had absolutely nothing to do with comfort in my own body: I’d been born a girl, would die an old woman and had never been one to reject femininity. My statement was born out of an understanding that my father wanted sons and had none. My sister and I were born second rate and there never would be a child to fill the first-place void.
