\u201cMamma, look, that\u2019s a boy giraffe, I can see his penis,\u201d exclaims my four-year-old daughter in delight at her discovery as we stand watching the stately animals at the fabulous Mysore Zoo. Far from cringing at the over-loud tones of my daughter, I beam at her, \u201cThat is clever of you.\u201d<\/p>\n
The comfort with discussing gender and sexuality has a flip side too that needs a large dose of humour and a lack of concern for your reputation. On another holiday, six months later, while visiting the Ranthambore National Park and staying in what used to be the hunting lodge of the erstwhile Maharaja of Jaipur, my by this time 4.5-year-old daughter exclaimed in horror at the number of decapitated heads of tigers and other animals that were part of the hotel d\u00e9cor. The full stuffed animals fascinated her as much as they horrified her, largely because she wanted to discover if they were \u2018girls\u2019 or \u2018boys\u2019, and much to my dismay (in full view of other hotel guests), would go peering at their nether regions to see if she could \u201ctell\u201d.<\/p>\n
The first anecdote was one moment of smug success in my agenda to raise a well-informed, sex-positive child, who was comfortable with her own body, but in general the task of a feminist mother determined to talk about sexuality alongside the everyday is fraught with uncertainty. And so I worry. I worry that I will give her \u2018too much information\u2019 and destroy her \u2018innocence\u2019. I worry that I will give her too little information and she will stop asking me.<\/p>\n
My strategy, derived from conversations with other feminist friends, and resources like TARSHI\u2019s fabulous The Yellow Book<\/a><\/em> for parents, has been to answer questions accurately when they were asked. It took me a while to learn about age appropriateness, though. The first time she asked about the difference between girls and boys, I began a serious monologue on XX and XY chromosomes. A few minutes later, she gave me a very puzzled look. \u201cMamma, what do these chromo-things have to do with boys not wearing dresses?\u201d<\/p>\n Lesson number one: make sure you are answering the question that was asked!<\/p>\n One day at about age four, she saw me putting on a pad so she wanted to know what it was \u2013 the diaper story, which I had used in the past was now implausible given that she had stopped wearing diapers at age two.<\/p>\n So I told her.<\/p>\n And she asked, \u201cEvery month?\u201d<\/p>\n Me: \u201cYes, every month\u201d<\/p>\n She: \u201cBlood\u00a0and more\u00a0blood?\u201d<\/p>\n Me: \u201cWell, not that much\u00a0blood\u00a0but, yes, some\u00a0blood\u00a0for a few days, and then it goes away.\u201d<\/p>\n She (singing): \u201cAnd then it goes away and next month it comes back. And then it goes away and next month it comes back. And then it goes away and next month it comes back.\u201d<\/p>\n That evening she wanted to \u201csee the blood\u201d. So I showed her. She was fascinated rather than horrified. And so for the next few months, she would sometimes, out of the blue, ask, \u201cHave you got your period?\u201d<\/p>\n And then one day, she stopped asking. If she sees me with a pad, she might say, \u201cIs it your period?\u201d but mostly she ignores it. It\u2019s part of the ordinary rituals of life.<\/p>\n Lesson number two: apparently show and tell works.<\/p>\n Nonetheless, despite this apparently smooth process, I was concerned about her telling her classmates or friends. (You never stop worrying.) So I ventured gingerly, \u201cYou know, about the period thing, if possible, don\u2019t mention it to your friends because they should hear it from their mammas\u201d. \u201cOkay,\u201d she said, leaving me a bit shell-shocked at her lack of questioning. \u201cIt\u2019s hard to explain, anyway,\u201d she added, perhaps noticing my puzzlement.<\/p>\n I have written about feminist mothering both in academic journals<\/a> and in the mainstream media<\/a>. I am acutely aware of just how privileged I am both in terms of friends and colleagues with whom I can talk about many of these concerns, as well as access to resources and a language in which to articulate my politics as a feminist mother. And yet, one is never sure if one is doing\/saying the right thing. But then, one is also aware that there is no one right \u2018thing\u2019 to say or do. And the best one can do is try.<\/p>\n Yet, on some days I wonder if it\u2019s enough that one tries. We\u2019ve tried hard to give her a sense of claim to her own body. We let her know she doesn\u2019t have to hug anyone she doesn\u2019t want to. I tried to give her a language in which to articulate it: \u201cIt\u2019s your body,\u201d I\u2019d say. One day she told me, \u201cThe boy behind me in school tried to push me down because I was standing and blocking his view. So I told him, \u2018It\u2019s my body \u2013 you don\u2019t have to touch me, just tell me to sit.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n On some days I know trying is good enough.<\/p>\n Earlier this year, she heard me having a conversation about the US Supreme Court judgment on same-sex marriage. \u201cWhat were you talking about?\u201d she asked. Trying to be brief, I told her that now women could marry women, and men could marry men in the US. \u201cWhat about in India?\u201d she asked. \u201cNo. Not yet,\u201d I said. \u201cThe law doesn\u2019t allow it.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s the law?\u201d she asked. \u201cThe government,\u201d I tried. \u201cThe government?\u201d she asks, looking confused, \u201cthe one who won\u2019t give the poor people houses?\u201d I see myself now getting trapped in multiple narratives of marginalization, and only just barely stop myself from spluttering. I try again. \u201cYou know, actually, many women fall in love with other women, but in India, marriage is not recognized. So you won\u2019t get a paper saying you are married.\u201d \u201cBut can you still get married?\u201d she persists. \u201cWell, yes, sort of,\u201d I say, trying to see the idea of marriage through the largest possible lens and resisting a critique of the institution itself, \u201cBut it\u2019s better if the government recognizes it.\u201d I wasn\u2019t sure if she got it but to my relief she stopped asking more questions.<\/p>\n A few weeks later, she told her grandmother, \u201cWhen I grow up, if I decide to marry a girl, I will have to go to America to do it because the government in India doesn\u2019t recognize girls marrying girls.\u201d My mother was not pleased with me. \u201cWhy are you confusing her?\u201d she asked. Mentally pumping a fist into the air, I looked at my mother, \u201cWhat confusion? She understands it clearly!\u201d[1]<\/a><\/p>\n On some days, having tried makes you triumphant.<\/p>\n —\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n