In Defense of Effeminate Boys

Growing up, I was quite the sissy boy. “Hey, Nancy,” people who called my family’s house would say if I happened to pick up the phone. Nancy is my mother’s name. “No, it’s her son, Ben,” I’d respond, and the caller would apologize profusely, as if there were no greater tragedy for a boy than being mistaken for a girl. But I didn’t know to feel this type of shame. I was raised in a fundamentalist Christian community called the Lamb of God, and—perhaps surprising—no one seemed to care about my flamboyance. What mattered was that my heart was on fire for the Lord.