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.

The Anglicization of Tehva

Slowly, slowly, the vocabulary is creeping in. Slowly, slowly her tones are twisting... a subtle lilt at the end of a sentence, an emphasis added at the end of a word instead of the middle. Tehva is beginning to sound like a citizen of the United Kingdom and, just as in spite of our protestations she once developed a deep drawling Southern accent, there is nothing we can do at this moment to change her Anglicized linguistics. Things have gotten to the point that she is beginning to sound like she is expecting an invitation to the upcoming royal wedding.



The responsible party is, of course, preschool, with the primary offender being the reading program they have elected to use. Published by Oxford, it includes such engaging titles as, "Kipper Plays Cricket", "Mum and Dad", and "What A Din!" The characters have all sorts of rollicking adventures and love to ride the Tube, whine "Oh, Mum!", and drink tea thick with milk and sugar. Tehva loves Mum, Dad, Kipper, Chip, and Biff; they have become like the highly functional and enviable British half of the family to us during the past two months. I only wish that they would tell us their address in England so that we would have a free place to stay if we decide to visit this summer.



The other culprit is her teachers. Preschool is not just a time for socialization, block building, and exploration here. It is a year where the wee ones are expected to learn their odd and even numbers, verb tenses, phonology, and expand their vocabulary. For example, they recently studied healthy foods and did a long unit on fruits and vegetables. Tehva returned home to us at the end of one school day completely unimpressed that she had been calling vegetables by improper names for the past five years. "It's not a pepper," she lectured. "It's a 'capsicum', and it's not an eggplant, it's called an 'aubergine'. Those are healthy foods. We should eat them more often."

"We do," I countered.

"No, we don't," she replied and that was the end of the argument. I wanted to shove a crumpet up her nose.

Tehva is also coming to prefer Britishisms to Americanisms, simply because that is what surrounds her for half of her daily routine. She has begun describing food as "nice" instead of "yummy" or "good"; she has been heard to suggest someone "carry on" instead of "continue"; she is using "quite" as a modifier more often than "very"; she has opted to describe things as "lovely" instead of "cute". Is this a problem?

Admittedly, not really at this point in her little life. However, I have visions of her in a couple of years, entering second grade in the USA, and asking the teacher, "I feel quite parched and fancy a nice drink of water from the fountain just now. Would that be all right, then?"

Instead of telling Tehva, "Oh yes, that would be lovely, wouldn't it? Carry on with that," the teacher may be so doubled over laughing that Tehva will never get her drink of water.

And that would be quite tragic, wouldn't it then?