Tomboys with Snowballs

By Marci Cohen

"What a sweet little family, one of each. It will all even out because you'll pay for one bar mitzvah and one wedding."

"Um, they're both girls."

The elderly, like the very young, say exactly what's on their minds. At the Jewish nursing home where my paternal grandparents spent their final days, you would have thought that these folks could tell I was a girl, with my tousled dark ringlets that kissed my shoulders, hair that fell at least a half inch longer than my sister's. Their misconceptions could have been from my faded cotton Cape Cod T-shirts and Toughskins with knee patches. My clothing sharply contrasted with my sister's costumes of frilly dresses and patent leathers that she wore voluntarily. Some may attribute my gender bender to the times; it was 1969. But I think it had more to do with my posture, my stance. Proud and confident. Traits given to boys. Jewish boys who wore crowns of gold in their homes and manipulated their mothers to their every desire.

Growing up in an affluent suburb in western Massachusetts, I had two identities: Jewish and tomboy. Tomboy often had a double meaning for me. It was the taunt my sister would scream violently after a session of merciless teasing. But it was also the word that my androgynous best pal yelled as she tossed crab apples at me in the brook behind my house, or while we were airborne, bouncing on a rich neighbor's trampoline. But I took it all in stride. I knew who I was. I preferred Duncan yo-yos to dolls, and banging on my miniature drum set over playing cat's cradle with the girls.

With the exception of my sister's jabs, my family pretty much respected my tomboy ways. My favorite uncle, Hesh, tossed the yellow plastic football around with me while my sister helped my mom with dinner. The only times my mother made me squeeze my tiny torso into a dress was either during the high holidays, or God forbid, for a bar mitzvah. As I put one foot at a time through the legs of the white tights, I prayed to God that I would be able to stay in my skin throughout the services. It was a similar feeling that I would have later on in high school when forced to fit into that little box called conformity that awaited my arrival.

I felt like I was outside of the norm in more ways than one. My family struggled to keep up financially with the other Jews in town. We moved in for the school system, and sacrificed vacations and material possessions to property taxes. Our town was all white: 40% nouveau riche Jewish, 40% old money Puritan, and 20% working class Catholic. My friends were mostly the minority. I felt more comfortable with others who did not come back from every school vacation with a tan.

Being the baby of a Jewish family, I was coddled by my mother. She insisted on cutting up my meat until I was thirteen. Ironic that I was the tough one. Don't get me wrong. I had some qualities that were traditionally considered feminine. "She's an artist," my parents would explain about my intense sensitivity. I always rooted for the underdog and detested war toys. I was fanatically non-violent. I trembled at the stories the boys next door told of how they would tape M80s to the mouths of captured toads, light them, and toss them into the air, watching them explode. I avoided organized sports and schoolyard fisticuffs, unlike the other tomboys, many of whom did not share my peaceful Jewish upbringing. My mother was full of contradictions, which inspired in me a tool that helped me tolerate life's inevitable paradoxes. She served bagels on Passover and went to her favorite restaurant after Yom Kippur to "break the fast", without having ever fasted. Theory, not practice. "It's the thought that God looks for, that's all." During adolescence I went through the proverbial tomboy latency, dated boys and got married (to an Arab of all people). This stage lasted until my late twenties when I came out as a lesbian and reconnected with my boyish youth. I remember a few years back, I was attending a seder at a friend's house. A late season snow coated the roads and yard and my friend and I took to the streets for a good old fashioned snowball fight. We called for her roommate to come outside and join us. He, who had also experienced taunts of sissy and faggot, refrained from partaking in our late evening activities. Instead, he said something I will never forget, "No thanks. Count me out. Tomboys with snowballs are my worst nightmare."

Marci Cohen lives in Somerville, MA and is a teacher of academic skills and writing at the Cambridge School of Weston. She also creates original designs for furniture, sportswear, stationery, and ceramic pottery.