071: Raise Boys and Girls the Same Way

First came joy, then came the fear of how to raise a conscientious child

One of a series of Jenny Holzer’s 1993 Marquees in Times Square, 1993, adapted from her Truisms.

For years I knew I had wanted to have a child, but I didn’t have a strong preference for whether I wanted that child to be a boy or a girl. By the time there was light at the end of the tunnel of infertility, I really didn’t care; all that mattered to me was having a healthy, viable pregnancy. After receiving results for the NIPT, a blood test which detects chromosomal abnormalities recommended for IVF pregnancies, my husband and I decided we wanted to know what the baby’s sex was. Hunched over my phone, devoid of any pomp and ceremony, no gendered-confetti to shoot into the stratosphere, we clicked on a link.

As the greeting card goes: it’s a boy!

Days after the elation settled, a troubling thought entered my mind: I had no idea how to raise a boy. I had never raised a girl, of course, but I felt that I had some lived experience which made me feel confident that I could, at the very least, sketch an outline for what it is to raise a girl – taking a bit more of this, a little less of that from my own upbringing and from how I navigated this world as both girl and woman. After feeling well enough to log back online following my first trimester – my child, a luddite, had a deep revulsion to screens – to catch up on the state of things, during the time I was out of commission, young men were taking hammers to their faces, a new strata of absurdity reached in the world of masculinity, a stepping stone towards spawning a legion of flesh-and-blood Patrick Batemans. A preview of Louis Theroux’s Inside the Manosphere left a hard knot in my stomach. Casual and virulent hatred of women continues to be platformed, free speech weaponized as a tool for violence and for profit. The state of toxic masculinity wasn’t new to me, but in the unmerry bubble of constant morning sickness, I had found a brief reprieve from its horrors.

When I told my parents the sex of our baby-to-come, my father shared that when my mother was pregnant with me, he wished to have a daughter. I have the sort of father who always wanted me to be highly educated with a job in a powerful role, preferably in politics – neither of these came true, sorry dad. He loathed whenever my mother and I trailed behind, not wanting to seem like someone who thought women and girls should be ten paces behind men. It drove him crazy that I was unbothered about learning how to drive – for him a gateway to self-reliance, for me an additional cost I’d rather not pay for – and was determined that I excel in mathematics. Again, neither of these happened. Sorry dad! My father rightfully had no treatise for how my mother, who had been working since before I was born, should be, nor how she spent her hard-earned money. He was responsible for our weekday breakfasts and packed lunches, something of an anomaly for men of his generation. Yet, there was certainly a gender imbalance to how domestic responsibilities were divided, a significant portion of which was shouldered by my mother.

Socially, my parents were very strict. No boys, no parties, home before sundown. In the society I grew up in, dignity was often conflated with reputation, the latter of which could easily be tarnished for a girl no matter how good. It was uncommon for anyone to bat an eyelid over how their sons may have played a role in any such alleged damage. My family constantly fretted over my reputation; how a girl was perceived was of utmost importance. Boys and girls were certainly not viewed nor raised the same way. Even though women were actively participating in the workforce, receiving higher education, and it was not uncommon for them to financially support their families, what was at stake for girls as opposed to boys was starkly different.

I grew up around male cousins, uncles and friends who were granted generous clemency, with far less rules and expectations imposed upon them. They were ambiguous about where they were going and with whom, stayed out late, and did little to nothing to help out at home. As a girl, I had a far higher set of standards to live up to, which set the tone for how I would live out most of my adult life, interiorizing arbitrary rules to live by. The weight of doing my very best and knowing that it could all be upset by any slight in a way that would never have an effect on the boys I knew felt unfair and, at times, crushing.

On any given day, my fears range from, “What if my child is a woman-hating psychopath?” to “What if all the messaging about masculinity that surrounds boys from a very young and formative age denies him the security of being able to express himself however he chooses?” Having experienced firsthand how differently boys and girls are raised, the liberties they are granted and denied, the respect bestowed upon one as a birthright while the other must fight for it, has made the thought of raising my own son rather daunting. It is, of course, ludicrous to consider a child a means of correcting all wrongs and misgivings, but I do think about how to both honor my son and to impart upon him the importance of honoring myself, as well as those like me and who we once were.

Upon sharing with anyone the news that I am pregnant, I am usually immediately asked if I know whether I will be having a boy or a girl. My response is typically met with the sweet but somewhat misguided generalization that little boys adore their mothers. How do some of those boys grow up to embrace misogyny and blame women for everything wrong in their lives, I wonder. How do we imbue them with sustained respect for girls and women, long after they have grown from boys into men?

While so much is terrifyingly beyond one’s control, there is something to be said for the lessons taught at home, and how meaningfully they are conveyed. To fortify my child from internalizing traditional and toxic masculinity, I would need to, first and foremost, interrogate and extricate myself from my own internalized misogyny: how had I positioned myself, for example, and subsequently limited myself as a woman, or the knee-jerk propensity to judge others. It would require my husband and I to take a long hard look at the delineation and assumption of gender roles within our own home and of our gendered perceptions of care. It’s not a cure-all, but it is a start.

Our best chance of raising a conscientious little boy, I hope, is to lead by example, to build a home life that upholds inclusion and compassion – the building blocks of integrity – and create a strong interior world that respects and values little girls and women. Just as I once was, just as I am.