One of the Boys

Boys, boys, boys. I always wanted to be one of the guys. When I was a kid I hung out with B and C. We’d all hang out at my grandparents house drinking Kool-aid and crafting sticks into bows and arrows. We’d play hide and seek and pretend we were Power Rangers. I was always the yellow ranger because I loved being a saber toothed tiger, and because I was the Asian looking one. But there were times where I just wanted to be the coolest rangers; so obviously the red and white ranger.

Anyways there were times B and I would get bored of playing with sticks and running around, so we would play with dolls while C would be build things with legos or blocks for the dolls to go to.  A little back story,  B and C’s parents were never around during the day or even sometimes at night because – glug, glug.  So they were at my grandparents house with us most times or with B’s grandma. She was a nice lady who saw how much B loved dolls and playing with me. She knew how to sew because she was born in the 1950s and had made these dresses as a young girl on hopes she’s have a daughter. Well she didn’t but she had a grandson who liked barbies, so she gave then to him. We were playing and B’s dad, a man with a yell that could reach across the street, as per his deal, would signal for B to get home. This time, he didn’t hear him.

After eating a huge bowl of boxed macaroni and cheese with hot dogs in it  C, B, and I all go and watch TV. We get bored and start playing with barbies, dressing them up in outfits and creating story lines loosely based on my grandma’s favorite soap operas. There’s a beating on the door and my grandma quickly goes and answers it. It’s B’s dad and he’s really annoyed because he’s been yelling and B’s not coming. My grandma tried to keep him out but the dad comes inside and sees the dolls on the floor where we’re playing; someone’s getting married to a stuffed animal. He looks at me, looks at the dolls,  looks at B and C and grabs B by the arm and drags him away. My grandma is yelling at him that he’s only little and that its ok. All the while I can hear B’s crying and his dad yelling to quit it, and I’ve told you already, and that he’ll never see me or the dolls again. And so it was.

I haven’t seen B since, but I do know that he’s always stayed with me. That moment has made an imprint on my heart. I wonder what he’s doing right now and who he grew to be. I wonder if he remembers this moment too. I think of all the men, once little boys, who weren’t allowed to play with dolls. Would it, will it, make make any difference in who they would or will become?


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