Of Labels and Love

As I was cleaning one of the the classrooms where I teach this morning (I am both teacher and janitor here), I overheard a parent say something to his child's teacher about his two sons.  Here's the crux of what he said:

"Mick (name changed to protect the innocent) likes all the normal stuff like girls and sports.  Rick (also changed) likes all the weird stuff like gymnastics and weather."

His comments caught my attention immediately, as did the inflection and cadence of his voice when mentioning each individual boy, and they made the ire in me start to rise.  There was unmistakable disdain and disappointment in his words for his perceived gymnastic meteorologist girl-hating son.  I'm sure my ears were turning red.  It was all I could do to finish sweeping the dirt out of the doorway and scuttle about my business as what I really wanted to do was to have a strongly-worded conversation about the jerk thing he just said.  Instead, I'll have that conversation with you.

Normal?

Weird?

Can we say, "labeling" or maybe "stereotyping"?  How about, "making one kid feel like crap because he's not as good in your eyes as the other"?

I have fought labeling all of my life as I do not fit the cookie cutter stereotypical "American Male" template.  By this dad's implication, I was also the weird one.  By his implication, I still am.

I don't like organized sports.

I don't hunt or fish.

I don't go out drinking with the boys.

I don't go on and on and on about my sexual exploits or rehash old war stories for the thousandth time.

I will choose "National Geographic" over "Hot Rod" or "Sports Illustrated" each and every time.

I like opera and jazz and folk music.  I direct choirs!

I'm a little dumpy and nerdy, and I am completely uncoordinated (although I can conduct the heck out of piece of music with both hands doing their own thing and the choir or orchestra never missing a beat).

I wanted to be a meteorologist in fourth grade (along with paleontologist, archaeologist, brain surgeon, actor, and many other decidedly less "manly" pursuits).  Ultimately, I became a teacher.  Some day I'll be your boys' teacher, Mr. Macho Dad.

Words hurt-- don't ever forget it.  It doesn't matter if you said your hurtful words to someone else without your intended boy being in the room because chances are if you said those words to someone else, you'll say them at some point or other to your son's face too.  That will hurt-- I suspect it already does-- and that type of hurt lingers long after childhood.

Parents, accept your children for who they are, even if you don't necessarily like or understand their likes and dislikes.  I'm sure my dad would have loved having another football fan in the house.  Instead, he got the kid that would rather have his nose buried in a science fiction novel.  He loved me anyway.

Words hurt.  Love rocks.  Love your kids unconditionally, regardless of who you're talking to.

If you can't, keep your mouth shut.