My Kid
I’m gonna raise my kid different. He’s not gonna be listening to pansy ass nursery rhymes. He’s not gonna grow up reading a bunch of fruity Harry Potter books about somethin that’s not real. They tried to make me gay. They tried, but in the end they couldn’t touch me. And I won’t let them get near him.
“They tried to make me gay,” I plan to tell him once he turns 2—not old enough to fully understand the words, but more than old enough to feel their fearsome gravity, to register his father’s grim face, tearful eyes, and clenched jaw. “They tried their very hardest. But it didn’t work. And I’m not gonna let them get near you.”
I’m thinking as soon as he can balance on two feet we get him trying out every sport to see if he has a special affinity for any of them. “Life’s easier as an athlete,” I’m gonna tell him. “You might not get it now, but later you will. The bright lights, the beautiful women, the cars, the respect…”
Then I’m thinking around age 3 we show him Sopranos, then maybe at 4 we show him Black Hawk Down. I don’t want to hide what this world is like from him for a moment. People baby their kids. They pamper, they mollycoddle. But I want to him to know about the harsh realities that are out there waiting for him. A Somali with an AK, rabid, eyes wide, teeth bared, chasing you down the street, ready to cut you down in the prime of your life. Can you imagine? The panic. The screaming. The type of gunfire you never forget.