The men’s soccer season ended last weekend, and I feel like I speak for more than just myself as I thank the seniors for helping to provide four years of super and sometimes-somnambulistic Saturdays. But, for the first time since Wesleyan was exclusively for men, the University will “return to normalcy” this weekend and resemble other prestigious schools; many eyes will be focused on the football field and the many American Studies majors (and likely Phys.-Ed. grad students) who comprise our now-winning team.
One of my goals in life is to be a be a rich d-bag, and I’m sure you’ve noticed over the years that I already have the easy part taken care of; but as I was unable to conjure a clever costume for Halloween, I’m similarly struggling to think of ways to make you feel self-conscious this homecoming weekend—-when poor, average and acrobatic alumni will descend upon campus alongside many affluent and proud parents of rebellious students. As these people of both culture and clownery (and probably cuckoldry, too) visit Middletown, many have young children and senior citizens (of the same mental capacity) in tow. And, as my grandmother either soils her Depends or spits towards the television when I flip to UPN, BET or a Saturday matinee of “Soul Train,” I’ll share the experience of showing my young and curious cousin around the question mark of a college that is Wesleyan.
Andy visited last autumn, and we walked hand-in-hand around campus like an abusive father would with his young daughter. But rather than thinking about ways to not get me angry and/or aroused, the little booger-eater commented on the architecture, specifically “the big buildings and the one that looks like a spaceship.” As we waltzed through WestCo, hopped past Hewitt, scratched our heads in the CFA and caroused outside the campus center, he asked a series of questions characteristic of a toddler with a speech impediment wanting to learn the ways of the world.
Upon seeing a couple kissing, Andy asked, “Why awe dose two guwls keesing each owduh?” I then explained to him that one of the tonguing beasts was in fact a male. Confused, he approached the androgynous individual, tugged hir tanktop and asked, “Awe you a boy ow a guwl?” After the ze defended hir masculinity, the little whippersnapper snapped back saying, “Youw a boy, you don’t got no faciuw haiws.” Slightly embarrassed, but overwhelmed by the boy’s infantile speech impediment, the ze leaned over and explained how ze used to be a female, but is now a male. Still confused, little Andy asked if ze had had a medical procedure; and after ze responded “no,” he frustratedly asked, “Den hows awe you a boy?” The ze was growing uncomfortable, but Andy became relentless in his search for the truth, probing, “Do you steew get youw pewiod?” Embarrassed and probably confused, the ze and hir girlfriend walked away. Although Andy has only graced this earth for a mere eight years, he is extremely well versed and is probably the real life version of Doogie Howser (but probably won’t develop the serious cocaine and phallic fixations).
I tried to talk about school and sports as we continued to walk around campus, but he was only able to mention Smith College and the WNBA: it was clear that the encounter with the ze was still on his mind. As I’m supposed to be older and wiser, Andy looked to me for the knowledge he was so desperately seeking: “If she’s a boy, doews she cubbew hew chest wid a towel when she walk to duh showuh?” I told him I didn’t know. “But Uncwe Bawbby has boobies, and he doedn’t cubbew dem;” “If she keeses guwls, isn’t she just a wesbian?” I tried to tell him that being a transgender was different from being a butch, but then he asked the biggest brain-buster of all: “Doews she use duh boys woom ow duh guwls baffwoom?”
I tried to explain the gender “trinary” with respect to the male, female and transgender bathrooms, but eight-year-olds can be quite obstinate when it comes to gender identification. And as he wailed, “But it doewdn’t make any sentse!” contesting the “trinary” that exists at Wesleyan and the Village Voice office, I too was growing cranky. Unlike some males, however, popping a Midol wouldn’t ease my temper.
So, as it’s Homecoming weekend and an overwhelming majority of students and visitors will be subscribing to the binary which is regularly told to “fuck itself,” the transgender bathrooms will surely cause unnecessary hassle for your standard vagina-bearing and penis-wielding folk. Apart from this weekend of joy for most and shame for others, why not use the men’s room if you identify as a man? You may feel uncomfortable, but at least it will exhibit that you’re serious about being identified as a male rather than an asterisk or one in “gender limbo.” Look at Joan of Arc: you don’t have to have a dick to have balls.
As I acknowledge that this week’s increased traffic could potentially lead to a better career opportunity than working at Disneyworld did for Dateline’s Chris Hansen, I would like to address Wesleyan’s weekend visitors: if you haven’t given to Wesleyan (which seems to be adequately allocating funds) as a result of it being a “tough year,” please stop reading. If you appreciate my sermon and have the means and the good will to offer me a job that would allow me to live the lavish and shallow lifestyle I’ve been dreaming of, please feel free to e-mail me.
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