Lions and Tigers and Tweens, Oh My!
Yesterday on the carpool ride home, an 11 year old girl in my backseat said out of the blue “so, I found out I’m actually a Furry.”
You could hear a pin drop as I quickly processed several reactions. I immediately assumed what I hoped was an ‘I’m just checking the traffic’ expression while the gears in my head turned. I could see my own daughter doing the same mental gymnastics in her own mind.
The Mom in me rolled her eyes and said “well, every living creature in my car wears a seat belt, so buckle up, kid, and let’s go.” This part of me assumes this girl is going through a phase she will hopefully laugh about as a fully human adult, while also grateful that my own children show no tendencies towards thinking they are anything other than plain old little people. I know, this part of me is not super tolerant of these whippersnappers and their newfangled drama. She also doesn’t know what a “whippersnapper” is, but it sounds appropriately old and crotchety.
The student of psychology who has worked with at risk youth and in mental health settings perked up and said “interesting, tell me more about that.” I want to know the intricacies of what this means to a person experiencing it and delve into the conditions that create such an identification. I want to ask a million questions while maintaining a neutral reaction and dissect this little girl’s brain. But, she is just a little girl, and not my own at that, so I’ve probably got to keep the probing to a minimum.
As the girl expounded on her apparently newly formed identity, she mentioned that she did a test that revealed she is, indeed, a Furry. My daughter (whom I praised highly later for her calm and non-judgemental reactions) asked if there is a particular animal that this… entity… identifies with.
…this girl is searching for her place in this confusing world. She is looking for true belonging, and aren’t we all?”
“Oh, so many of them really it’s hard to choose.”
Hmm. I tried to bat her away, but the nosy Mom took the lead and asked “so, this test, is that something online or with a psychologist, or…?” I stopped her before she could mention veterinarians.
“Well, a friend of mine who is a Furry asked me a bunch of questions, and then told me that I’m one too, so that’s what I was calling a test.”
Ahh. The untrained, unlicensed, uncertified, but highly opinionated psychologist in me quickly assessed that this girl is searching for her place in this confusing world. She is looking for true belonging, and aren’t we all? Uncomfortable in her own skin, because she is a middle schooler, and that is the dominating trait at that age. Influenced by those around her who seem self-assured or garner attention. And, also, because the (amateur) psychologist also is incredibly judgemental (because that’s what psychology is all about, after all) sees that clearly this child does not actually believe she is an animal. She doesn’t even seem to really know what being a Furry means. But it is an identity, and she craves one.
The conversation continued for a few more minutes, and I have to say I think my daughter and I both succeeded in being kind, moderately but not intensely interested, and not openly judgemental (I’m so glad my inner Bitch Squad is only audible to me) The girl went on to include in her description that she really likes animals (check, me too), wants to wear a mask (me too, but generally only on Halloween, at the spa, or occasionally in the bedroom), and while she knows it is kind of weird (yep, me too), she thinks it is pretty cool (um, no. This is where we differ, kiddo. Fido. Whatever. This me is the really snarky one, but she makes me laugh so I keep her around.)
With the rest of the ride being an extended review of the day’s cheerleading choreography, I had plenty of time to keep up my own internal debate about the Furry situation.
The recovering addict in me felt a heart swell and said a quick prayer that this girl stays away from drugs and alcohol, because a common theme in addicts is the deep feeling of “otherness” or trying desperately to belong or numb the pain of not belonging. This sweet girl seems like a fantastic candidate for a future alcoholic or drug addict. I’ll save her a seat in the rooms of AA, and hope it doesn’t come to that.
In the course of a day, I “identify myself” time and again.
Then my training in trying-to-be-a-better-human kicked in, and I realized that I label myself constantly. In the course of a day I “identify myself” time and again. In the carpool line, I’m “so-and-so’s Mom”. In AA, I’m “an alcoholic.” In a client meeting I’m “the designer,” at the neighborhood cookout I’m “the white house two doors down,” on the phone I’m “the decision maker in the household” before quickly hanging up. Some of these identities stick, and some we just try on for a little while to see what fits – last year I was “a vegetarian,” but then I remembered bacon.
We all have multiple ways of identifying ourselves and others. Some are based on our own characteristics (the bass player, the blonde, the plumber, the funny one), some based on our relationship to others (the daughter, the best friend, the boss, the client). Every time I place an identity upon myself, I know that these mini-me’s are all just small pieces that make up the whole of who I am. I am never ONLY that one part of me, but if that’s the part that is in control or the most important in that moment, I can sum up my entire being into a word or two without hesitation. Who am I to judge someone else for feeling that one facet of their identity just so happens to be a cute, cuddly guinea pig? (See above if you want an actual answer to this hypothetical question, I’m a lot of people, and most of them are judging).
The Kind and Accepting One, that’s who I chose to be in that moment. She’s always on duty, but she’s sometimes out back on a smoke break and I have to drag her ass back to the front of the shop (service counter?). I still have opinions, judgements, biases, and gut reactions, but they can be saved for the round table discussion in the privacy of my own head, or the chosen few who are familiar with and can appreciate all of my identities. And man it’s fun to let them all loose! I get to experience so many various ways of being (though I personally limit myself to bi-peds), so why shouldn’t we all?
