The Dale of Boy Scouts of America vs. Dale, No. 99-699 is a 30-year-old advertising director of POZ magazine and a one-time assistant scoutmaster of the Boy Scouts. I befriended James Dale in 1988 during our freshman year at Rutgers, where we were both drawn to the State University of New Jersey for more than just the classes. With its liberal reputation, and proximity to New York City, Rutgers promised to be a comfortable environment for people like us to come out.

But several months after Dale appeared in the pages of Newark’s Star-Ledger as one of the most visible members of the university’s Gay and Lesbian Alliance in 1990, he received two letters — one from the Monmouth Council of Boy Scouts, the other from the district council — informing him that “avowed homosexuals” were not permitted in the organization, and that his 12-year membership was being revoked.

The Boy Scouts taught Dale how to become a leader. Ironically, everything he learned from scouting prepared him for the fight of his life: To defend himself against the group’s discriminatory policy. What began as a personal battle of a young man trying to regain his membership with the institution that defined his childhood experience has evolved over a decade into a national issue about the future of gay youth in America — and Dale has become their most vigorous advocate.

A week after the decision was handed down, Dale and I got together for lunch. While the man sitting across from me may not have been victorious in the Supreme Court, I couldn’t help but feel that his success in engaging the nation in a crucial discussion about sexual orientation and discrimination had allowed him to emerge a winner.

You’ve spent your entire adult life fighting for your right to remain a Scout. How did you respond to the Supreme Court decision?

On some level I’m just happy to have a level of closure. It’s very easy for me to see how the past 10 years were framed by the struggle for gay and lesbian civil equality. There has been an incredible amount of progress, and the 5-4 loss in the Supreme Court shows how far we’ve gone. But there’s still one vote, and it is a very powerful vote. We still have a ways to go.

I had prepared myself on some level that the decision could go either way, but I honestly didn’t think we would lose because I believe just as much 10 years ago as I did on June 28, as I do today, that I’m right. Nobody has shaken that conviction. But it was a hard pill to swallow. If I could do it all over again, I would do it exactly the same way. My lawyer, Evan Wolfson from Lambda Legal Defense, has argued an incredible case, and I don’t think any other attorney could have gotten that one other vote.

The dissenting opinion was so strong and now Americans can’t think of the Boy Scouts of America without thinking of the issue of homosexuality. The Boy Scouts have forever tarnished their image with this case. Granted, I would have loved to be the victor in this case, but in the end, the only thing you’re really going to remember is that they are the losers in all of this.

Is there anything more you can do?

I’m definitely going to support people’s efforts because I think it is an important fight. What I find really important is that this case highlighted gay youth. When I was a gay kid growing up in suburban New Jersey, the Boy Scouts made me feel good about myself. They taught me to have self-respect and how to be a leader. The light should now shine on how America is dealing with gay youth, and what resources are there for them.

Now that the Boy Scouts have turned their back on gay kids, there has to be some other way to pick up the slack. Let’s face it: I’m an adult. It was a defeat, but I’ll survive. I’m more concerned about the kids in the program, where we’re going as a community and where gay youth fit into that picture.

The Girl Scouts don’t have an anti-gay policy, and filed a brief with the Supreme Court on your behalf. Does that give you hope? Or does that just make you more frustrated with the Boy Scouts?

The Boy Scouts were founded in England roughly 100 years ago, and England dropped their policy of banning gays about four or five years ago to make themselves relevant to the next generation of youth. The Boy Scouts of America have made a foothold in bigotry and discrimination and they are really rendering themselves obsolete for today’s youth. That’s a sad thing because there was so much potential there.

I see letters to the editors in papers across this country, having conversations about sexual orientation, and it is that conversation that is really the key, so I’m not totally disheartened because I believe as long as that conversation is still taking place, there will be less room for discrimination.

Kids today are coming out, and reading about gay issues in the newspapers. That really wasn’t something that I had when I was growing up. As a teenager, I was looking for role models, for messages about what it means to be gay, and really the only thing I found in the ’80s was a community responding to HIV and AIDS. Now, hopefully there are other ways that kids can find community and support.

There were definitely no role models for us when we were growing up in the 1980s. For girls, there were gym teachers.

And for men, there were English teachers and drama club. We didn’t know where to find role models outside of that. What made it really easy for me to come out in college was learning about the gay community in New York, San Francisco, New Hope, Penn. I think now it’s a little easier to learn about gay life because of the Internet.

When you got those letters from the Monmouth Council of Boy Scouts and the district council 10 years ago, did you sense that this was going to evolve into a campaign of this magnitude?

I never thought the Boy Scouts were going to rally around me with rainbow flags in hand and advocate a homosexuality merit badge. But I, of course, didn’t expect their reaction, because I didn’t know about this policy. That’s really the basis of the entire lawsuit. I was a member of this program for 12 years and got many of the awards and honors from the program, and I taught other kids about the fine parts of this program as an assistant scoutmaster. I should have been passing along this anti-gay mission, but I didn’t because it wasn’t there.

If you had known that an explicit anti-gay policy existed, and the Boy Scouts were as important to you as they were, would it have impacted your gay activism in college?

Had my parents known there was this policy, they would never have me be in an organization that discriminates against a group of people, be they Jews or blacks or gays. The thing about scouting, though, is that you’re taught to be active, to be a leader. In relation to gay life, everyone likes to call an openly gay person an activist.

You were the president of the university’s Lesbian Gay Association, making you the spokesperson for gay activities and politics on campus at the time, though.

Yes. That letter from the Boy Scouts probably made me more of an activist. When I was discriminated against, it motivated me to be more out there, and more political about gay and lesbian issues. But I do kind of cringe at the whole label of activist because that has been used against me in the Supreme Court. I get: “James Dale is an activist. He’s not a person, he’s a symbol.” If you’re an activist, they don’t need you.

During my first year in college, I was unconsciously building myself a nest of support so that when I did eventually come out, nobody would have a hard time with it. There really wasn’t a lot of discrimination against me at Rutgers until this happened with the Boy Scouts.

Did you feel personally hurt by the Boy Scouts reaction to your coming out?

Yeah. I mean, the letter was signed by somebody I knew. It was the thing that I did when I was younger. To have them suddenly say, “you’re gay, you’re out,” was painful.

But I also expected the whole thing to play out, “I’m right, they’re wrong.” The Boy Scouts have their own fair review process. There were three hearings, and though they said I could come to all three of them, they didn’t invite me. It wasn’t fair play. I went to Lambda Legal Defense right away, though when my case started, there was no Gay Rights Law in New Jersey, so it wasn’t a very strong case.

Did you bide your time until there was?

No, because nobody knew that the law was going to pass. But when the law got passed in 1992, I suddenly went from having no case to a very strong case, and mine was the first under the Gay Rights Law in New Jersey.

How has this impacted your personal life over the last 10 years? Has your family been supportive?

It led my family to become advocates for gay and lesbian civil rights. When this case started, my brother wasn’t out yet. He is four years older than me, and came out when he was 28.

But for me, within a matter of months of coming out to my parents, I was suing the Boy Scouts. My parents were with me at the Supreme Court. They talked to newspapers about the decision. They’ve been really, really wonderful about it. This whole thing has really shown what family values are all about: Taking care of your children, standing by them, being involved in their lives. My parents were not gay advocates when I was a kid. My father was in the military. When I came out to them, I got the traditional fighting from my father and crying from my mother.

It has been hard, emotionally, to appear before the country as one-dimensional. To be defined as gay is just one little piece of who I am. When I was younger, it seemed like a bigger piece, but I am a fully realized person with many different interests, and this is only one facet of who I am. Being the “Gay Boy Scout” is not the easiest label to live with for a decade. It’s also weird being in the media. This public thing intersects with your private life, and it’s hard to keep your life in check and in balance. When the case requires attention, it takes it.

Did you feel emotionally equipped to handle everything that comes with suing a major American institution?

Yes, for the most part. But I think if somebody said to me what this was going to be 10 years ago, it would have been very overwhelming. It has been very stressful for some of my relationships, and I also think it probably helped others. I mean, it’s a part of who I am, though I think it is always weird to meet somebody who knows something public about you. It’s like getting to know somebody in reverse. That’s not always the easiest thing.

You and your lawyer have been a veritable two-man army. Has this made you feel like you were all alone in this? Who has been there for you?

People have submitted affidavits, and lawyers have been working around the clock filing briefs and motions. Often there are more people that have been involved with this case than I even know about. I am so indebted to so many different people. The people across the country that write letters to the editor, and the columnists that write editorials demonstrate to me that America gets it. When there’s a human being discriminated against, people understand that.

There are times, though, that I have felt lonely, wondering who out there will understand this type of thing or the different pressures involved with it. I think one of the hardest things that I found is the people who offer their support, and you find you don’t know what to say to them. You, or the case, means something to somebody, and you don’t know how to be that something for them.

If your case had won in the Supreme Court, what would that have meant to you? Was it an issue of principle for you? Or had you really wanted to be a lifelong member of the Scouts?

It wasn’t just principle. I mean, on the one hand it is. The fairest way to answer this is that I want to have a kid, and if it is a “he” and he wanted to be a Boy Scout, I would’ve loved to have been a part of that with him. But I wouldn’t want my kid in the Scouts now because the Supreme Court has given them a license to be a small-minded organization.

With my case, it’s very easy for the Boy Scouts to say, oh, he’s the only one, he’s the activist. But there are tons of kids who were thrown out. And it’s the kids who don’t have the resources or the support, and they’re the ones that need it the most.

What lies ahead for you?

I’m always going to be committed to the things I believe in. I can’t walk away from these issues. I would hope what I’ve done has motivated people to get involved, and make change. I feel like I’ve done my part, seeing something through from beginning, middle to completion.

I don’t want to go on being the “Gay Boy Scout” for the rest of my life. Other people are very able, and the work on this issue has only just begun. For me, the most important thing is educating the public about discrimination at a time when the most American institution in this country can say they’re anti-gay. It calls into question what it means to be American. The Supreme Court has essentially said, you are the anti-gay Boy Scouts of America, so now they have to live with that.

As for me, I am looking forward to getting on with the rest of my life. I am ready for a change. I have no idea what I’m going to do next, and I am very excited about that fact.

“Arnold’s column is meant to be provocative, but instead it’s ephemeral and ineffectual,” explains a Random House editorial director, who, like most publishing professionals with complaints about the Times and like everyone interviewed for this story, adamantly refused to speak for attribution. The marketing director of a major nonfiction house is equally exasperated: “He states the obvious as if it’s new and exciting, when his subject matter is often completely dated.”

A major problem, notes another agent, is that Arnold “never features interesting topics or perceptions. He seems not only to lack a clue, but also passion. He opts for superficial treatments of easy-to-read, ready-made topics.” Arnold sees it differently. “I usually write what I find to be interesting. The hardest thing about the column is coming up with the ideas, but there’s no set formula. I pay attention to the news [of the industry] but not slavishly. I teach myself [about publishing] as I go along.”

But in the years of Arnold’s tenure as a publishing industry columnist, critics complain, he has consistently ignored the most timely and pressing publishing stories. His most recent “trendspotting” pieces have included the “new” marketability of the short story, which Arnold attributes to Francis Ford Coppola’s (not particularly high-profile) magazine, Zoetrope, and the subsequent commercial success of last year’s story collection “The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing” by Zoetrope contributor Melissa Bank; literary parties that benefit literacy campaigns; and the deluge of biographies of and memoirs by recent sports figures. “If there are trends happening,” comments one agent, “they’re not new if he’s reporting it.”

Perhaps the most astonishing of Arnold’s omissions is that he has yet to substantively address the consolidation of publishing, a change that has shaken the industry to its very foundations. The mergers of powerhouses such as Putnam and Penguin, HarperCollins and Morrow/Avon, and Random House and Bantam Doubleday Dell have transpired unremarked upon by the Times’ publishing columnist.

Also baffling is Arnold’s silence on the matter of last October’s biggest publishing scandal, St. Martin’s recall of J.H. Hatfield’s “Fortunate Son: George W. Bush and the Making of an American President.” The biography alleged that the presidential candidate had been busted for cocaine possession in Texas in 1972 and had had the charges erased from his record with help from family friends. Hatfield’s allegations relied entirely on unnamed sources, and his credibility was shattered when the Dallas Morning News revealed that the author had served five years of a 15-year sentence in a Texas prison for trying to hire a hit man to murder his employer. The incident highlighted the fact, little known outside the book industry, that many nonfiction titles go to press without even the most rudimentary fact-checking.

It’s unlikely that the political subject matter kept Arnold from commenting on the Hatfield affair — on July 22, his column, “Stumping at the Bookshelf,” took up the scintillating topic of how presidential candidates use their memoirs as campaign tools. But the extensive Times national desk and media desk coverage of Hatfield’s disgrace “never seemed to have filtered down to Arnold’s column,” remarks one agent.

In the weeks that followed the cancellation of the publication of Hatfield’s book, Arnold never alluded to the scandal, which could have made for a compelling and highly relevant “Making Books” column on the subject of how publishers vet not only books but the authors themselves. Instead, Arnold’s columns around that time dealt with the increase in epic-length books (“They’re Bigger. But Better?” Oct. 28); an author abandoned by a series of exiting editors at St. Martin’s Press (“Pat Jordan. An Author in Limbo,” Nov. 4); and editors who have left big publishing houses to pursue careers as literary agents (“Why Editors Become Agents,” Nov. 11). According to Arnold’s boss, John Darnton, the Times’ culture editor, Arnold “simply didn’t think to write a feature on the subject. It was covered as breaking news, so I don’t consider this a major oversight.”

“I try not to do what the rest of the paper does,” responds Arnold when asked why he skipped the story. “I write a column, not features, not reported pieces. So much coverage was done in the news sections on J.H. Hatfield that it seemed redundant to me to do a piece on it at the time. I don’t like to run with the crowd.”

When Arnold does focus on relevant or interesting issues, as he did in a column entitled “Literary Advocates for Black Voices” (Jan. 13), about the challenges black agents face in dealing with a primarily white industry, he often overlooks some of the most crucial players. “He didn’t even bother to mention Janet Hill, a hugely influential editor at Doubleday, who heads one of the most prestigious African-American publishing programs in the business. I mean, she publishes E. Lynn Harris!” exclaims a senior editor from the Bertelsmann Group. “His column is all over the place,” says another publishing insider. “He always jumps to the wrong conclusion, dedicating too much space for one lame publishing topic and not enough space for all that he tries to take on.”

These aren’t the only bones that readers are eager to pick. Arnold is notorious for his countless glaring errors, particularly his infamous and consistent misspellings of major editors’ names, such as Random House senior editor Daniel Menaker (“Menaka”) and Knopf editor Jordan Pavlin (“Pavlon”). Arnold admits to getting “a lot of mail from all over the country pointing out errors in grammar.” “Making Books” strikes many in its audience as the only unedited section of the Times. “I am absolutely astonished at how badly written his column is, especially when the Times prides itself on good writing,” remarks a senior editor at a mainstream house. A Times insider surmises that Arnold “doesn’t seem to be held to the same standards as other reporters. It’s as if his column is being treated like an Op-Ed.”

Yet Arnold is far from being an amateur. An award-winning journalist who has been on the Times’ staff since 1959, Arnold has served as an assignment editor on the metropolitan desk, the founding editor of both the media department and the now-defunct law page and the deputy editor of the New York Times Magazine. In 1997, after a yearlong stint as associate style editor, Arnold was named senior editor on the culture desk, where he edits Critic’s Notebook and Art in America among other features, and began his book-publishing column a month later.

“Joe Lelyveld [the executive editor of the Times ] came to me with the idea for the column,” explains Arnold, “and Darnton wanted a book presence on the culture desk.” Darnton says he felt that Arnold’s earlier post as head of the media department — which previously included publishing — made him an obvious choice for a column whose objective is to provide a window into the publishing process for readers, as Darnton stresses, not industry insiders.

Nevertheless, publishing people make up a core audience for “Making Books,” and many of them long for the return of the industry column “Book Notes,” which faded away after Darnton was named culture editor in 1996. “When Sarah Lyall did her weekly ‘Book Notes’ column, it was the first thing I’d look for,” one agent reminisces. The marketing director agrees: “Both Sarah Lyall and Doreen Carvajal provided a perfect blend of insight and compelling news.” In 1995, Lyall moved to London to live with her new husband, former Faber editor in chief Robert McCrum, and Mary Tabor kept up the weekly column until its eventual dissolution.

One Times reporter is careful to assert that “‘Making Books’ is not the replacement for ‘Book Notes.’” According to Darnton, whose department’s publishing sections include “Writers on Writing,” the daily book review and Arnold’s column, “We have no plans at this time to extend the culture desk [coverage of publishing] or to bring back ‘Book Notes.’”

Meanwhile, industry people are baffled by the lack of concern the Times has demonstrated for the column. “I would think that the culture desk must have heard some criticism by now — it’s not like this is happening in a vacuum,” says one publishing insider. “The Times’ historical lack of interest in the publishing industry allows Martin Arnold a freer hand. I mean, it can’t all be blamed on Martin Arnold. The coverage has never been sterling.”

One Times reporter says that the paper thinks “a good reporter can effectively report on anything well, and it is generally believed that it is good to get a wide variety of experience.” This reporter adds, “The paper really stresses youth, energy and availability. The sense that I get about the perception of older reporters, though, is that they’ve lost their edge, so they get moved to easier beats.” Another Times insider explains that “as reporters grow older, they tend to go on one of four routes: [They move] through the editorial ranks, become specialists or work on long-term investigative projects, or they get put out to pasture by working on more feature-y pieces.” Because the paper is unionized, it is extremely rare for a reporter to get fired, and the Times is notorious for keeping old “Timesmen” around long after they’ve become ineffective.

None of the Times insiders could say if Arnold was effectively put “out to pasture” with “Making Books,” but one was quick to clarify that “in previous years, the culture desk was considered a plum position, and the older reporters that moved to the desk were being rewarded for years of hard work. But this is no longer the case now that Darnton and [projects editor] Martin Gottlieb are here. They have expanded the coverage by leaps and bounds, with more breaking news stories than ever about the arts.”

While the culture desk has, in fact, expanded its film, fashion, television and theater sections, many readers have noticed the shrinking coverage of the publishing industry. Notes one publishing insider, “From what I can tell, the New York Times does not think of publishing as an interesting enough industry to warrant coverage. Publishing simply does not bring in the advertising the way fashion and other cultural subjects do.”

“Maybe the Times feels guilty for their lack of publishing industry coverage, but they devote more time to interviewing minor movie and television stars than they do authors,” sighs the marketing director. The Random House editorial director concurs: “If the paper wants to do a service to the publishing industry, they would write about authors.”

Laments the senior editor at Bertelsmann Group, “I don’t understand the poor coverage. Books are interesting, and publishing is an integral part of New York’s culture.”

It is not that I was robbed of a childhood. I was very much a kid, a small
one at that. But while other girls my age immersed themselves in play worlds
that included rainbows and unicorns, Barbie and baby dolls, kiddy kitchenware
and cosmetics, I was drawn to boy toys like “Star Wars” action figures,
Matchbox cars, Erector sets and the like. I coveted male privilege. From the
age of 4 until I was 10, I actually prayed to God, Santa Claus, “My
Favorite Martian,” Samantha on “Bewitched” — anyone who, in my mind, posessed
the power to grant me a wish — for a penis. The boys I knew had license to be
kids, to play with games that were designed for children, not
adults-in-training. I wanted those games. I longed for those privileges. Give
me a dick, was my cry, or give me death.

I hated wearing dresses and refused to put barrettes in my short hair to
relieve my ‘do of its androgyny. I was loath to get my nails painted
and would have given anything to trade in my Mary Janes for Chuck Taylors.
This fashion choice, though, was in no way indicative of any athletic
inclination I may have possessed.

As I grew older, my interest in all things “boy” refused to wane. I walked
with a swagger, insisted on wearing jeans, sneakers and T-shirts, and kept
male company. I prided myself on how often I was mistaken for a boy. Although
I was hesitant to do so, I actually had to insist to people that I was, in
fact, a girl — even though that too felt like a lie. By the age of 11, my
bravado was starting to try my mother’s patience. She felt that my
gait resembled that of a truck driver, and despite my compliance in getting
my ears pierced two years before, she wasn’t appeased. She
decided to enroll me in a beginner-level ballet class at the Academy of
Movement, along with my hyper-feminine 8-year-old sister, Shana.

I’d seen the girls around school who went to the academy. They were in the
intermediate and advanced levels, had aspirations to a life of dance and
didn’t strike me as particularly feminine. When they had ballet after school,
the girls would sweep their thin hair back into severe buns perched atop
their heads. Their bodies were wiry and lithe. Even the older, puberty-age
girls had flat, broad chests, shoulders held back like soldiers and
prominent, very strong thighs and calves. While they didn’t exactly walk like truck
drivers, they did strut like ducks. I didn’t understand how emulating these
aspiring ballerinas was going to make a girl out of me. These dancers looked
like eunuchs.

So I fought. I screamed. I even went so far as to cry like a girl. But there
was nothing I could do to get out of taking ballet. In addition to my
rigorous regimen of Hebrew School on Tuesday and Thursday evenings and Sunday
mornings, and my sixth-grade homework load, I had to sacrifice my Friday
evenings for what my mother referred to as a “lesson in grace.” Not that I
had an active social life, but a kid likes to have choices, no? I had a very
bad feeling about ballet, but the check was already cashed by the Academy of
Movement, and money spoke volumes about commitment in our home.

The first Friday, we were informed that we had to purchase a uniform that
included pink Danskin leotards, pink opaque Danskin tights and pink Capezio
ballet slippers. Toward the end of our eight-week session, we would each be
presented with our very own complimentary pink tutu for a recital we’d
perform before the entire Academy.

I surveyed the room. It was filled with 15 7- and 8-year-old
girls gasping in delight at the prospect of pinkocity. I turned to my 8-year-old sister on my left. Her eyes were gleeful. To my right
sat a big girl who looked a few years older than me. I breathed a discreet
sigh of relief that I wasn’t the oldest girl in class. But upon closer
inspection, I noticed that the girl’s glasses were at least an inch thick, her dopey smile, unwavering. When she clapped her hands in joy at the
thought of a free tutu, I suspected that she might be retarded. When
she turned to me and cackled, my suspicion was confirmed: she had Down’s
syndrome.

When our mother came to pick us up after our lesson, Shana ran to her,
excitedly reciting the shopping list of pink things. I remained silent.

“So, was it so bad, Kera?” goaded my mother.

“I’m not going back there. I am the oldest girl in the class, and I refuse to wear baby pink.”

Then Shana piped up: “Georgie-Ann is 14!”

“See, Kera,” retorted my mother, “You’re not the oldest.”

“Mom, Georgie-Ann has Down’s syndrome.”

“Oh.” My mother was rendered speechless, if only for a moment. “Well, the
class has already been paid for, so you really don’t have a choice. At least
you can learn something.”

“Yeah, like you can’t get your money back,” I muttered.

My mother insisted I give it a chance. She was so invested in my pathway to
grace she actually tried to convince me that I might enjoy it. She knew nothing of the embarrassment I would endure, passing my middle school classmates in their
intermediate- and advanced-hued leotards, while I wore my beginner’s pink. I would be voted the official butt of all school jokes. I dreaded my immediate future.

As an incentive, my mother offered to register me for softball in the spring
if I successfully completed the ballet course. I couldn’t recall ever revealing
any interest in sports, so the incentive was lost on me. Would it be so bad
to return home after school, and just do my homework? Wasn’t Hebrew School enough?

At first, I complied. I did the pliis and the demi-pliis, learned all of the
positions, performed them as well as anyone else in the class. But when I
caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror, I was mortified. I
stood at least 5 inches taller than most of my classmates. I watched my Dorothy Hamill haircut as it bounced in the air. My
pink get-up, which gathered in rolls at the ankles and revealed the tangle
of my bunched-up cotton panties, was about as graceful as a body cast.

And if that feast for the eyes failed to satisfy my hunger for self-consciousness,
my gaze found its way to the small window in the door, where I discovered
three fellow sixth-graders peering into the classroom, fingers pointing at
me, hands covering giggling mouths. This class, and my presence in it, was so
“gay” — in the sixth-grade, misappropriated sense of the word. How was I going to face seven more weeks? And how could I possibly show my face at school on Monday morning?

Each week that followed, I devised ways to get out of attending the next class.
My mother would not relent. Fine, I thought. I resolved to take the class
less seriously. No longer would I try to master beginning ballet. I would
resist. I would perform half-heartedly. I would become the class cynic, the
reluctant beginning ballerina.

This only served to get me paired up with Georgie-Ann. While she was trying
in earnest to perfect her movements, I was equally earnest in making mine as
clumsy as possible. Together, we became the anti-Fred and Ginger. I took her
stunted fingers in my sweaty hands and tried to spot her as best I could,
given my new cool and disinterested demeanor. She attempted to return the
favor, but more often than not, one if not both of us ended up on the floor.
I laughed at the spectacle of it all. My amusement was shared by no one — not
by my seasoned and underpaid teacher, not by the kids in the class and
especially not by my younger sister, who looked at me in horror. Only
Georgie-Ann laughed along with me. And it was when she laughed that I
realized I might literally be dragging her down with me. I had no intention
of mocking her — I was too self-absorbed to mock anyone but myself. I mean, I
had a job to do. I had to shame my mother enough to lose hope in me, and get
me out of beginning ballet before the recital.

It was not to be. The impending performance loomed larger with each passing Friday. The tutus arrived via UPS and were handed out two weeks before
the recital. Shana pranced around the kitchen in hers, with her hair wrapped
in Princess Leia-style danishes on either side of her head. I put
my tutu on for my parents, in an effort to prove how ridiculous my developing body looked swathed in infantile, pre-Lycra, limited-stretch nylon. My mom
stood her ground. She insisted that I looked just as she’d hoped.

When the night of the recital finally came, my instructor had enough sense to
put me in the back row of the stage. I mustered all of my courage to look
through, not at, the audience. Sitting behind my parents in the second row
were a middle-school classmate from the advanced level and several other girls
I sought to avoid. My eyes darted around the room, taking inventory of the
audience members who would witness my humiliation. My face alternated between
bright fuchsia and deathly white. And we had only just taken our places
on the makeshift stage.

I don’t actually remember what happened during the performance. I can assume
that it passed without much ado; I was just relieved that it was over. I
sauntered over to my parents after the recital, only to learn that my mother
had enrolled Shana and me for another eight-week session, beginning in June,
after softball. Shana was promoted to the intermediate level. Georgie-Ann and
I would become reacquainted with beginning-level ballet.

In a rare instance of consistency, my mother remained true to her promise,
and decided that my dedication to ballet rendered me worthy enough to
register for the softball league. A small reprieve, or so I initially
thought. Here was an activity that required no grace whatsoever. I borrowed
my father’s Wilson A-2000 mitt. I got to wear sneakers, a polyester mesh
baseball cap, a forest green T-shirt, jeans. There was only one problem: I was scared
of the ball. I would dodge when it was pitched to me, and run away from it
when it was flying toward my glove out in right field. My teammates hated me.

My coach tried to teach me to slide between second and third bases, but I was
too frightened to risk scraping my thighs. I ran in hesitant leaps, if I
remembered to run at all. I flinched at the plate when the ball was pitched
to me, even with my batter’s helmet protecting me. If I could even achieve a
base hit, I was a guaranteed out. I was plagued with nightmares of
oversized softballs, wrapped in stiff baseball gloves, bludgeoning me to death.
Even as a faux boy, I was Queen of the Sissies. I spent a
lot of time on the bench, praying for rain.

Ballet proved that I had failed to become a girly girl, but that hadn’t troubled
me because I knew as much going into it. But my stab at softball demonstrated
that I also fell way short of being an adequate tomboy. Where did that leave
me?

Perhaps this is not a unique quandary of pre-adolescence. But I must confess
that this legacy continues to plague me. While my adult body is undoubtedly
feminine, with curves and fullness, it belies my utter lack of grace and
athletic coordination.

In an effort to work with and not against my sex, I
wear my curly hair just above my shoulders, and my pouty lips are often
slathered in the fine Bobbi Brown products. I boast an
impressive clunky-shoe collection, and two pairs of heels. I wear lacy bras, and own an essential black dress. I even have a knack for accessorizing.

Yet when I put on a dress, I see myself as a football player in drag.
When I stand naked before the mirror, I half-expect to see a small-framed,
flat-chested, hipless androgyne. Instead, I am confronted with a strange
womanly body, one that apparently belongs to me.

I still walk with a slight swagger, but I can also be spotted wearing a Prada
knockoff purse. After years of studying gender theory and psychoanalysis
and undergoing psychotherapy, I remain at a loss about who or what I am, just as when I was 11.

For the sake of personal ads, bar inquisitors, matchmakers and any other
interested parties, I will venture to say that I am versatile. In bed, to borrow from the
gay lexicon, I am neither a top nor a bottom, but a “side.” As an aesthetic, I alternately
confess to being femme with an inner soft butch, or perhaps a femme
top. I occasionally find that I possess an inner gay man, but am equally
inclined to relish my inner straight woman. Like many women, I strive to feel pretty, sexy, captivating and even ravishing, but I also want to feel strong, sexual and in control.

And when I was young, I just wanted to be a kid.