Legos and Dolls
Our child hands are busy building little Lego vehicles: planes, spaceships, cars, boats. We don’t notice the door to the classroom open. A teacher from another class is standing in the doorway. They sometimes check on us when our teacher is out of the room. I don’t know her name, but I know I don’t like her. She has short brown hair that’s curly on top and she wears glasses. She’s holding a coffee cup in her hand as she stands half-in and half-out of the room. Her voice breaks the sound of our play, “You’re not supposed to be in here. You’re a girl. Go play with the girls in the other room.” We all turn to face her, and we know exactly who she’s talking to: me.
* * * * * *
Miss Carla has left the classroom for a few minutes, but before she leaves she dismisses us to free time. The girls go into the other room, full of dress-up clothes, toy kitchens, and baby dolls. The boys stay put and get out the Legos, Toss Across, Nerf Basketball and Lincoln Logs. I always stay in here with the boys. I don’t like dresses or dolls like the other girls. Nobody bothers me about it, not even our teacher. The boys like me too; they like the Lego cars and planes I build. I run faster than all of them too. And I can beat them up.
We’re sitting along the table by the window that overlooks downtown Little Rock. The brown cardboard bucket of Legos is sitting on the table. The lid is sometimes hard to get off, but we always get it open. Everyone’s eyes always look for the red ship pieces. There are four in all; put them together and it makes a long red Lego battleship to build on top of. I’m going for the ship today.
As the lid is pried open, I dig my hand into the bucket, and the sound of smashing plastic Lego pieces cheers me on. Got one! My other hand follows my eyes like a dart to a second piece of the prized red ship. Two! The others give up and the last two pieces are handed over as a sign of respect for my Lego building ability. The others will make smaller boats, planes, and cars to ride and land on my ship.
Our teacher isn’t back yet. We aren’t making any trouble either; just sitting here building a fleet of ships and planes out of Legos. I don’t know what the girls are doing; probably singing and dancing, and dressing up in blouses, skirts, and high heels. Yuck!
The boys and I have decided a car will sit on the front of the ship and a plane will land on the back. In the middle, I’m building cannons, guns, and satellites for communication. I don’t have a ship like this at home, so I feel really lucky that I get to play with it today.
I have a big box of Legos at home that I play with though; big ones and little ones. I build houses with secret rooms, and trucks that can drive over anything. I also have a lot of toy guns. My favorite one shoots a bazooka missile. For my birthday I got Transformers. “Transformers! More than meets the eye.” I also play Barbie. I like to put Ken and Barbie in the red Barbie Ferrari and send them crashing into walls and flying down the stairs. One of my Ken’s has his leg duct taped on because it broke off and wouldn’t pop back in his leg hole. He’s my favorite; he has battle scars. His name is Derrick.
* * * * * *
Her mean eyes are looking right at me. I can’t speak. My friend, Billy Campbell, is sitting next to me. He turns his head of blonde hair and narrows his eyes on the intruding teacher. With anger he says, “She’s allowed to be in here. She always comes in here.” The other boys around the table sound off in agreement.
“No. Go in the other room with the girls.” She points to the other room. She has the face of evil; she’s serious. I don’t defend myself; I don’t know how to react to being pointed out as different. All I feel is embarrassed.
I give up my prized red battleship to Billy. The faces around the table are stunned as I stand up from the table. The room that was just full of cheerful noise is now silent. I walk to the other room with my head down, eyes on the floor, in shame.
* * * * * *
Crossing the doorway into the other room, I feel so uncomfortable and strange. I don’t belong here. The girls don’t see me come in at first. Some of them are in skirts that drag the floor, getting caught in high heels too big for their feet. Others are holding peach colored dolls with frizzy blonde hair.
I walk to the back by the window and climb the stack of green cots towering by the wall. A couple of the girls see I’m in their room. “What are you doing in here?” they ask.
“That teacher down the hall made me come in here,” I respond.
“Why?”
I shrug my shoulders and look at the ground. “Because I’m not supposed to play with the boys.”
“That’s stupid. She doesn’t know you. Just go back in there.”
“No…it’s ok.”
“Come play with us then. You can be the dad.”
I find a blue denim vest at the bottom of the closet of dress-up clothes. I quietly sit on the window sill next to the miniature wooden kitchen, arms folded across my chest. The girls, pretending to be women, are cooking, changing in and out of dress-up clothes, and caring for different babies. One of them hands me a plastic plate of plastic food. I hold it in my hand wondering what I’m supposed to do with it. Do I pretend to eat the fake food? I’ll just hold it for now.
They feel sorry for me. I wonder if they sense my embarrassment, my shame. They know this isn’t where I want to be. Like good Southern women, they feed me and talk to me like I’m not completely out of place.
It is night in their room now, and time to put the babies to sleep. I find myself with a baby in my arms wanting to be rocked to sleep by its father. I slowly sway my arms back and forth. The baby falls asleep and I gently lay her in her bed.
The women are becoming little girls again with each piece of dress-up clothing that fills the closet back up. The babies will sleep until tomorrow when the girls wake them and take care of them once more, just like they took care of me today.
* * * * * *
Yesterday the girls were nice to me. They didn’t make fun of me for being different from them; neither did the boys. I like boy things, not girl things. They are ok with that. Nobody asks questions about it.
I really don’t want that mean teacher to come back and find me with the boys again though. Why did she have to come in there? Why did she have to make me feel like that?
“You’re not supposed to be in here.”
Maybe I’m really not supposed to be with the boys, but I don’t like the girls room.
“You’re a girl.”
I’m a girl, not a boy. But I’m different.
“Go play with the girls in the other room.”
Today I will go into the girls’ room again with them during free time. I can wear that vest and be the dad again. I can play with my boy toys at home, and here I will play with girl things.
I don’t want to feel different anymore.