The Best Lesbian

Silas hangs with the British Scouts Overseas on Tuesday nights and generally, since he is flaky, he has nothing to say upon pick up other than, “It was good.”

Because of the homeschooling thing and the apparent risk that all of my children will become unsocialized idjits (or already are), I like to do lots of follow-up questioning in a motherly sort of voice so that they can develop their floundering conversational skills. No need for the children to become statitics, right? “So what did you do tonight?” always comes next.

They always do boy-scouty things like pitch tents, light things on fire, play hiding games, learn to use compasses and tie knots, and Silas will explain these things in as much detail as the boy can muster. After a quick description of the evening is off of his chest, Silas likes to turn on 97.0 FM and listen to classical music all the way home.

But tonight I did not have to ask Silas anything. He got in the car with a grave expression on his sweaty little face (sweaty because I had left him to bake in the 100-degree-at-8:15-PM heat while I sat in Muscat’s ridiculous traffic) and grave because he had just received a head lamp as an award.

He went right to the point and, in a somber voice, declared, “I got a headlamp.”

“Oh, another one?” As we pack up, we have been finding headlamps and pieces of headlamps in our house almost as often as we have been finding roaches. “Well that’s pretty cool.”

“Mom, what’s a lesbian?”

Non sequitor anyone?

I scraped around for the names of some people we know who are lesbians but being Silas he couldn’t remember any of the people whose names I came up with. “It’s a woman who prefers to marry a woman,” I finally explained.

“Oh. That’s weird. I just got the best lesbian award. That’s what the headlamp is for. Because I am the best lesbian.”

Now it was my turn. “Oh. That’s weird. I don’t really think you would qualify as a lesbian since you are missing the required equipment. Was this an award from the other kids in your group?”

“No, it’s from one of the leaders.”

Stranger still since I would think that the leaders would know that a vagina is required in order to be a lesbian. “Well, did they tell you why you are the best lesbian?” Best to remain matter of fact about this.

“Yes. At the camp we played a drama game where I had to pretend I was a TV. And I was the funniest. So they told me that I am the best lesbian. Am I a lesbian?”

“I don’t think so. Are you? Do you have something you have been hiding since the last time I saw you naked?”

“No! Mom!”

He remained perplexed. I remained perplexed. The headlamp remained unopened. And I remained unclear as to how to proceed.

There are countless different flavors of English that fly here in Muscat. English is the lingua franca, but when it comes to the nitty gritty, there are plenty of places where the Englishes collide. Is it a fork in the road or a bifurcation? Is it tea you wanted me to give to your child or supper? And then there is double fisting—dangerous stuff.

To the Americans it means walking around with a drink in each hand. Observe: “Wow! Double fisting it! What a party!” To the Australians and Kiwis, it means masturbating. Observe: “Wow! Double fisting it? Sorry dude—didn’t mean to walk in on you. Maybe you should come join the party instead.”

So maybe this was an English collision. Maybe there is some really charming double meaning for lesbian in the UK, especially when it is used in reference to a scout camp out. Or maybe when you put “lesbian” with “best” it means “funny clever guy who is good at drama games.”

Or maybe we have just run into overt homophobia. Or bullying and humiliation. Or perhaps, oh my, this honestly just occurred to me…perhaps he was declared the best thespian.

Whoa. Now the question becomes how many of those little boys walked out of that scout meeting tonight secretly thinking that Silas is a lesbian? 

My son the lesbian. I am so proud.