MASC ON MASC OFF
AS A CHILD, MY FAVORITE STORIES were the ones where the kids deceived the adults in innocent ways. Harriet the Spy and From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler were books about children who created their own systems of value and reality—who instinctively understood that there was no spoon, that life contained greater mystery than the adults let on, or even knew about, and set out to manifest it for themselves.
Maybe that’s why I liked being mistaken for a boy so much when I was young. I lived in an androgynous cocoon of overalls and scruffy Nikes, my hair a drifting afro puff with a ducktail. Shopkeepers and servers in restaurants often complimented my parents on having such a cute son. I reveled in those slippery moments; plus, sometimes I got a free Slurpee out of their clerical errors.
