Raising Young Diplomats in a Divided World: Pronouns, Rodeo, and Openness

“In math, we’re not supposed to say a line is straight.  We say it’s ‘linear’ instead.  My teacher says that calling anything ‘straight’ is offensive.”

So reported Heloise on Saturday.  My daughter is in 7th grade at Girls Academic Leadership Academy (GALA), the only all-female public school in Los Angeles County.  She’s thrilled to be back in “real school,” even if she finds the district’s mandate to wear masks at all times, including outdoors, to be tiresome.

GALA is a progressive place, which is eye-opening for a child who spent her earliest years in an Orthodox Jewish day school.  Many of her classmates declare themselves lesbian or bi, while some are non-binary.  On her first day of school, Heloise was asked to share her pronouns, which she did without complaint. My daughter rolls easily with all of this, which pleases me.

At 12 and a half, however, she finds the (genuinely serious!) refusal to use the word “straight” to describe lines to be precious and excessive.  (I found her claim so astounding I checked with another parent, and it is true: “straight” is considered an unacceptable term at GALA in any context.)  Heloise’s objection is admirably aesthetic, and not at all political: “linear lines” grates on her ears, as well as it should.

That same Saturday night, I took the children to the Professional Bull Riding event in Anaheim.  I grew up going to rodeos, and have taken my kids to a handful of Western events – but this was their first chance to see the top flight of PBR cowboys in action.

We had stepped into a different world from West Los Angeles.  The indoor mask mandate does not apply in Orange County, and in a crowd of perhaps 8,000 in the Honda Center, I saw fewer than two dozen folks wearing face coverings.  The crowd was roughly 50% white and 50% Hispanic, and there was a glorious display of boots and buckles, Stetsons and Resistols, bolo ties and ironed Wranglers. Before the event began, the PA blasted a tailored mix of norteño and pop country; there was dancing in the aisles to Chuy Vega and Morgan Wallen. 

Coors was the official beer, and the only one available for purchase. 

The children marveled at how many people said, “Excuse me,” and “Thank you” as we navigated concession lines.

When the event began – and after a long and stirring tribute to the heroes of 9/11 -- the emcee requested, “Gentlemen, please remove cover.” 

David looked at me.  “That means take off your cap, bunny boy.  That’s the way some folks say it.”

A pastor stepped up and offered a lengthy, thoroughly evangelical invocation.  As he began, Heloise whispered, “Is this the part where we put our hands over our hearts?” 

“No,” I replied.  “Not yet.  They’re praying.  Look at your shoes and think about how many people love you.”

The children did so, as the pastor prayed for everyone’s safety (including, happily, the bulls themselves) and for our nation to return repentant to a God of whose love we apparently remain unworthy.  The children studied their shoes intently.

The children loved the bull-riding itself.  They exulted when a rider stayed on those precious eight seconds, and gasped when two brave young cowboys required medical attention and assistance to leave the arena.  They laughed at the antics of the rodeo clowns.  (The PBR tour now wishes to call these fellas “bullfighters,” but older folks, we know better.)  Heloise and David enjoyed the lusty singalong to Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down,” a delightfully malleable anthem of defiance that speaks to folks across the entire political spectrum.

One major sponsor of the PBR tour was US Concealed Carry Association.  Neither child knew what the latter term meant, and I explained it.   My son began to scan the crowd eagerly, hoping to see the butt of a weapon poking out of someone’s trousers; I reminded him we’d gone through metal detectors to enter the arena.  David looked disappointed.

Another sponsor – their logo emblazoned on the shirts of the rodeo clowns – was the United States Border Patrol.  Heloise blanched when she first saw the emblems, and I asked her to think why that outfit was a congenial fit with this sport.  After a pause, and referencing both the federal agency and concealed carry folks, my child observed, with admirable tact: “Everyone here really seems to want to protect something.”

On the way home, David fell asleep.  I asked Heloise if she would tell any of her friends that she’d been to a bull-riding show.  She snorted. “No, papa.  They’d think it was cruel and wrong and weird.” 

I asked her what she thought some of our fellow PBR fans would think of her school’s new rule about avoiding using the word “straight.” 

“I think some of them might be okay with it, but a lot of them might say rude things and make fun.”

We drove on in silence a little longer.  I felt a sudden pang of doubt. 

Am I doing this right?  I want so badly for my children to be at ease in any environment, to master the lingo in any place in which they find themselves. I want them to be at home anywhere, unfazed and unthreatened in the most liberal or most right-wing of arenas.  I’ve emphasized manners over moral convictions.  Am I making a dreadful mistake, trying to raise up polite and engaging diplomats, rather than activists?

My right-wing friends might raise a stink over GALA’s preciousness around nomenclature.  My left-wing friends would not spend their money to support a cruel sport sponsored by the godforsaken Concealed Carry Association.  Meanwhile, I keep emphasizing the importance of trying everything and fitting in everywhere – but to what end?  If everywhere is home, is anywhere home?  Surely there’s more to life than social graces?

I’m such a failure as a dad.

Self-doubt becomes self-loathing in a matter of seconds in my universe.

In the space of one song on the radio, all these thoughts raced through my head.  I know enough not to verbalize all these anxieties to my kids, but they probably pick up on my worry.

Heloise broke into my self-involvement.  “Thank you for tonight, papa.”

“Great!  Do you want a pair of cowboy boots for Christmas?  Can I put on country now?”

My wise girl shook her head.  “No.  I’m not every going to be a country girl, no matter how hard you try.”

Oh.  She knows who she is.  All these experiences, presented without judgment, are not leaving her or her brother rootless or confused.  Their sense of self is more stable than their father’s; my children’s boundaries are not as porous as mine.  Somehow, they have an anchor I never did. 

Maybe I’m not doing this so wrong, after all.

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On repeat while I wrote this is the brand-new, gorgeously traditional single from Amanda Shires. It’s about the courage to stay - and in this Suicide Prevention Month, it’s a very welcome message.