Car loss

Our car — our beloved first car, which I crashed on Boxing Day — was picked up to be recycled today, while my wife and I were at work. It wasn’t in our driveway this evening when we came home.

Even I am surprised by how much this has affected me.

It’s surprising because we never use the pronoun ‘it’ when referring to our car. We named him Carlos as soon as we got him (he’s a car, and he was in Tango Red; clearly Spanish), and we loved him. We loved the freedom he gave us. We loved his cheeky face. We loved that we took care of him and that he took care of us. We loved that he was ours.

So I ought not to be surprised that I could have been charitably described as stoic this morning when I splashed some whisky on him and said goodbye. But I was.

I am perfectly aware, of course, that he was no more than a clever collection of metals, silicates and plastics put together by a company in an order so particularly pleasing that we’d buy it for more money than it cost to produce. He was mass produced. He was a small but notable financial burden. He was damaging to the environment. He was an it.

He served us. His last act was to protect us — essentially flawlessly — as we skidded off the road on black ice.

I went to check the mileage for the insurance claim when he was sitting, carefully taped up with bin liners, in our driveway, and when I turned the key in the ignition, he sprang to life like nothing was amiss. From one side, it looked like nothing was; so much of him is utterly unscathed. It was like a dog, with a broken leg and an angry row of stitches on its flank, wagging its tail, ready to play when you picked up a tennis ball.

This is all, I know, an artefact of the structure and cultural conditioning of my mind. Knowing it, though, doesn’t make me any less sad.

A photo of our crashed car

This post originally appeared on Medium.

Boys will be boys

“But my son doesn’t like anything pink!”, they say. “But my daughter wants a Barbie for her birthday!”, they say.

They say this if I talk about gender roles. They say this when I suggest that science kits in shops being aimed at boys, and bejewelled vacuum cleaners designed traditionally to appeal to girls, are quietly evil. They say this as a defence, a kind of “I’m not racist, but…”, an attestation that they’re fully-evolved, sensitive and societally valuable members of the species.

They know that men and women should be equal, even if they can’t disentangle ‘equal’ and ‘the same’. If challenged on it, they’d even acknowledge that ‘men’ and ‘woman’ aren’t especially useful phrases here, that gender identity is both much more fluid than society has hitherto acknowledged, and that it’s not something that society should, in fact, bother much about. And still. Still they persist. And they don’t appreciate the power of the tiny.

The reason your son doesn’t want anything pink is because through a hundred phrases, a thousand reactions to his choices, a million barely perceptible cues, he has gotten the impression from you that to want pink things is inappropriate. I’m not blaming you; that’s what society taught you too. You know by now, intellectually, that this lesson was fallacious, yet still you can’t help reacting in the way you were schooled to. (In its own way, that’s worse; being aware of your prejudices is wasted if you don’t fight against them.)

There is nothing wrong with your daughter wanting a Barbie. There is nothing wrong with your son not wanting anything pink. But please recognise that these choices are almost certainly not solely theirs; would you seriously assert that your child’s personality and preferences are fully formed at three, five, ten? I’m 33, and mine aren’t; I don’t expect them to be as I draw my last breath.

We are all children of a society, and we pass its mores on in turn to our children in a billion barely perceptible actions and reactions. The act of imposing gender roles on our children is both infinitely more subtle and wildly more pernicious than you think; this is true for something so fundamental as gender, and it’s true throughout the range of human differences. People, ladies, gentlemen and everything in between; people is what we should be celebrating, despising, criticising and idolising. The only time biological sex – not gender – is important is when you want to have a child.

And by all the gods, in every one of the trillion interactions we all have with him or with her, we should let that child know that it should do anything it can do and be anything it wants to be.

This post originally appeared on Medium.