It Isn’t a Judgment on People.
Thanksgiving was a mixed blessing. Everyone was healthy, but we couldn’t sit around and chat all day with my parents, who make everything a party. Even though the weather was gorgeous all day, we ate our turkey inside, just the four of us, after it grew dark.
The day started off with a sure high note: Dylan’s COVID test results came back: NEGATIVE. But the numbers are still rising, and it’s likely going to get way worse over the next month. Most of the people I know didn’t “gather” on Thanksgiving day.
But when I walked the dog, 20 guys were playing football in the park. One – only one – wore a mask.
My stepson and sister-in-law, who were previously holed up like hermits, had brunch with us on our back porch, socially distanced and masked. At one point, my sister-in-law, who is mentally challenged, wandered into our house and sat down for 20 minutes. My husband didn’t notice that she’d wandered off, and I was in another room and didn’t see her. I’m not sure we can trust her enough to have her back for Christmas.
Still: having my immediate family alive and well is really all that mattered this year.
But Dylan chose Thanksgiving Day to be moody and mean to me. I was talking to my stepson about the pronoun usage “they/them” for people who believe they are misgendered, because I have a hard time with it, and Dylan jumped in, attacking me.
[As an aside, I have no problem with people who are misgendered; I simply don’t like the use of the plural pronouns for a singular being. I prefer that the American language add a new, all-encompassing pronoun instead of reusing the term we already use for groups. It isn’t a judgment on people; it’s a judgment on language.]
Dylan, however, is at the age – still – where everything I do or say is wrong. He seems to have no concern for my feelings as a human being. At brunch, he was condescending and mean. He disappeared for hours until dinner, at which point he acted sullen and sarcastic. When asked what he was grateful for, Dylan said, “I’m grateful for people who aren’t judgmental and who allow people to be who they are.”
Dylan not only missed my point, but he didn’t care to listen the 17 times I tried to explain. Eventually, long after dinner, I went up to his room and knocked on his locked door. I explained one more time, as best I could, that it is a language issue – not a judgment on humans.
“Do you really believe that I am prejudiced?” I asked. “Did I raise you to be that way?”
Dylan had very little to say to me. “I’m just done with this conversation” was his overarching response.
Shane – who would never attack me or anyone else – said, at the dinner table, that if someone wants to be referred to with they/them pronouns, then we should at least try to do that, for them.
And I understand that completely. I still don’t like the pronouns, but at least Shane didn’t shove a hot iron down my throat when making his point. And I was able to hear Shane’s thoughts substantially better than Dylan’s, which were delivered with nothing but fire.
So Thanksgiving came and went. And while I was tremendously grateful for the health and well-being of my family, my feelings were trampled upon all day like so much dirt.
The day after Thanksgiving, Dylan was back to his normal, jovial self.
But even two days later, I’m still not.