Published on July 28th, 2015 | by Richard Black0
I Hate Boys (Part I of III)
Hi my name is Richard Black and I don’t like boys. For the record I don’t have a problem with men who like boys as long as it’s a platonic relationship. I also feel compelled note that I don’t have a problem with homosexuality as long as both parties are consenting adults or relatively responsible minors but that’s not what this post is about.
For fuck’s sake why in the hell do you all have to make everything so uncomfortable?
Let me give this another shot.
I’m the father of a five year old girl and I don’t like boys. Specifically I don’t like unsupervised boys between the ages of about five and ten and part of that is because I’m not a pedophile. There you go again making this weird.
You’ve really got to stop this.
I’m sure that my angst against ill-mannered boys will change in new and exciting ways once my daughter begins dating. Until that day however I’d like to focus on the ones who haven’t hit puberty and, for the lack of a better term, are unruly little shits.
Now I’m sure that many of you out there are raising fine young men and I thank you for that. I know you’re vigilant about your son’s behavior and are always certain that he’s not plowing over younger kids, pulling their hair, teasing them relentlessly or shoving them out of the line for the slide. My issue isn’t with you.
I don’t even have a problem with the rough and tumble play style that some boys have. Kids play differently. I get that and girls can play rough as well. I’ve seen a few girls take a swing at Darcy on the playground and witnessed my daughter perform a perfect lunging tackle on a child who happened to be a boy. The event occurred during a Christmas celebration and we’ve resolved the situation by not inviting that particular branch of the family back for the Holidays.
Kids will be kids. Accidents happen but more often than not the aggressors, in my experience, are boys. There are, most certainly however, exceptions.
When I was in sixth grade a large girl named LaVonda pounded me to the ground with one meaty fist to my temple. LaVonda towered over me by a good foot and a half and had thirty pounds on me. Most of the boys were wary of her quick temper and so it wasn’t completely embarrassing to be beaten up by her. I feel compelled to mention that fact.
“You pack a hell of a wallop,” I said once my vision had cleared and I stared up at all six foot eight of LaVonda.
“You’re funny,” she responded and then helped me up, “I like you.”
At that point I realized a few things. The first was that my bully issues were going to clear up nicely and they did until LaVonda and I parted ways in middle school. My second understanding was that I wasn’t into S&M and my third conclusion was that I could do worse in life than be a large black girl’s “bitch”.
As surprising as it may sound I was not a popular kid with other children, adults and, not infrequently, my parents as well. I incurred the wrath of all three regularly and was beaten by my peers more often than I care to count. It is from this perspective that I tend to view any slight, perceived or otherwise, to my daughter.
I want my daughter to fend for herself and for the most part I try to let her do so. It’s not fun to watch one’s child get the short end of the kick board but kids need to learn how to cope with adversity. I get that.What they don’t need is to be placed in a situation where the odds are stacked immeasurably against them and some burgeoning young sociopath is holding their head underwater for the sheer pleasure of doing so.
Determining when to intervene is a skill I have yet to hone. More often than not the situation isn’t dire enough to warrant the DEFCON level One reaction with which I tend to respond. I should let Darcy sort things out even when I know, I REALLY KNOW, that it’s going to end in tears.
It’s not easy being a father to a sweet, occasionally precocious, little girl who loves playing with other children and I am almost certainly overprotective. I love my daughter and I want to preserve her sense of adventure while reinforcing her ability to cope with adversity. My reasons, ultimately, are probably selfish in that I never want that little girl to feel they way her father did so many years ago.
Two incidents in particular stand out over my past five years as a parent. The first took place when my daughter Darcy was just shy of three years old. The second took place just a month ago. I’ve prefaced each with a short story about my childhood that I felt was applicable in the hope that it will provide my readers with some insight as to why I handle the situation as I did.
At the very least it will provide a few cheap laughs before I launch into two tales detailing a few of my many failures as a father. And why also why I hate boys.