[img]958|left|Alex Campbell||no_popup[/img]Dateline Boston — When I was eleven, people often mistook me for a boy. I was flat chested, I had short hair, and I went by the name Alex. Go figure. I hated being mistaken for a boy, hated it. Sure, I could have grown my hair long, but I liked it the way it was. I just didn’t like the assumptions. I was also small for my age, so at eleven, people thought I was seven or eight. Grrr. Even today, I use my full name, Alexandra, in professional settings, so people will know I’m a woman. You could say it’s a thing.
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My S.O. has a son; I’ll call him C. He’s small for an eleven-year-old. He has long hair, past his shoulders. People often mistake him for a girl. It drives me crazy. Amazingly, it doesn’t bother him. One time he and I were out by ourselves, having lunch. A waiter came by and addressed us: “Hello, ladies!” I grimaced, and C laughed. I asked him, “Doesn’t that bother you?” He said that it didn’t, and explained it this way: “It doesn’t bother me if I’m not gonna get to know the person. I’m not gonna get to know him,” (he gestured towards the waiter). Wow. I was impressed.
Another time, C and I were leaving a store. He held the door open for a woman, and as she walked through, she said to me, “You’ve taught her well!” When she was out of earshot, C muttered, “Number one, she’s not my mom. Number two, I’m a boy. And number three, it’s just plain manners!”
Etiquette with a Big ‘E’
When we go out (S.O., C, his older brother, N, and I), we sometimes joke about C’s mistaken identity. The other night, we got a whopper. We went to a restaurant and everyone except for S.O. had leftovers. The waitress, who was not a spring chicken, asked if we wanted her to put the leftovers in the containers, or if we wanted to do it ourselves. Thank goodness we said she could do it, or you wouldn’t be reading this right now.
She came out with N’s container first. On it, she had written, “Son.” Hmm. Next came my container, “Mom.” Okay, I could see the assumption there, but still. For all she knew, S.O. and I could have been brother and sister! The boys took it well and laughed, and then we all realized with horror that C’s container was going to say, “Daughter.” We giggled and shook our heads, knowing that the clueless waitress thought C was a girl.
She did us one better. She brought back the container and laid it proudly on the table. It didn’t say “Daughter.” It said, “Princess.” We almost couldn’t stifle our guffaws. We got out of there fast.
For the rest of the weekend, every once in awhile, C would say something like, “Can I have a snack, Mom?” I’d answer, “Yes, Princess.” We turned it into a game. If he’s comfortable being called “She,” then I guess I am, too. Just don’t do it in public where I can hear.
Ms. Campbell may be contacted at her new address, snobbyblog@gmail.com
