{"id":133019,"date":"2019-01-25T09:00:41","date_gmt":"2019-01-25T14:00:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=133019"},"modified":"2020-08-24T11:35:15","modified_gmt":"2020-08-24T15:35:15","slug":"one-word-boy","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/01\/25\/one-word-boy\/","title":{"rendered":"One Word: Boy"},"content":{"rendered":"

In our new column One Word, writers expound on a single word.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

William Lindsay Windus, The Black Boy<\/em>, 1844<\/p><\/div>\n

I\u2019ve worked a lot of jobs where I\u2019ve dealt with boys. Lately, I\u2019ve been teaching conjugation and sentence structure to junior high kids, swaths of whom are just flexing the boundaries of their boyhood. They ask a lot of questions. <\/span><\/p>\n

One little dude, from Puerto Rico, wonders how many light bulbs there are in the building. One boy, another brown kid, asks me whether Houston will survive the inevitable floods brought about by global warming. And another boy, a little older, during an SAT excerpt featuring <\/span>Anna Karenina<\/span><\/i>, asks about the legality of queer marriage in Russia, before also asking whether I think he can hack into the building\u2019s Wi-Fi, did I know that he can <\/span>floss<\/span><\/a>, do I listen to Gucci Mane, can I loan him some money for Fortnite. <\/span><\/p>\n

They\u2019re just boys. And that word\u2014<\/span>boy<\/span><\/i>\u2014is pretty interesting in itself: it embodies a phase of life and a physical state and a way of being. Boy<\/em> is <\/span>gar\u00e7on<\/em>. B<\/em><\/span>oy<\/em> is <\/span>chico<\/em> y ni\u00f1o<\/em><\/span>. The distance between <\/span>boy<\/span><\/i> and <\/span>man<\/span><\/i> is elastic, and the word itself is just as flexible. Nearly every culture has some sort of ritual transition out of boyhood: bar mitzvahs for Jewish folks, cow jumping among the Hamar in Ethiopia, <\/span>Seijin-no-Hi<\/span><\/a> in Japan. A first gig. A first kiss. A first beer.<\/span><\/p>\n

And the word\u2019s weight adopts fluidity as it drifts from mouth to mouth: when my aunt calls me <\/span>boy<\/span><\/i>, in a sprawling patois, it\u2019s not the same <\/span>boy<\/span><\/i> I\u2019ve heard on fuck knows how many crowded street corners, at whatever ungodly hour. That boy<\/em> comes after I\u2019ve said something dumb or needlessly contentious or unspeakably obvious. Boy<\/em> like, Really nigga? Boy<\/em> like, Slow your roll. Boy<\/em> like, Bruh; like, Fuck outta here; like, Your assertion is <\/span>wildly<\/span><\/i> improbable, but my acquiescence to your instigations are an integral part of our friendship\u2019s contract.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Those are <\/span>intimate<\/span> boy<\/em>s. Boy<\/em> as a pact. Boy<\/em> as a secret. Shared by a boy among boys. Like, you\u2019re my <\/span>boy\u2014<\/span><\/i>comrade. Our grievances are shared. Our interests are linked. Our existence, in the supposedly liberal oasis of this bayou state, is fraught. <\/span><\/p>\n

And then there\u2019s the other <\/span>boy <\/span><\/i>I get. Not too often, but way too often. At the gas station, some rickety old fucker will let it come from his lips. Or a cop, once, after I\u2019d blown a taillight in the Museum District. The first time I heard it, way back when, too young, it came from the mouth of some whiteboy, in a sandbox at school. We were both only boys, but it was the beginning of my realization that not all boys are alike. <\/span><\/p>\n

How long your boyhood lasts varies wildly in this country. If you are even a little bit black or brown, then your segue from boy to man to monster is accelerated. The cis whiteboys here get to stay boys for a lifetime, extending those boy badges well through college, into the seats of professorships and CEO-dom and widespread governance, chalking mishaps and fuckups and pillages and murders to <\/span>boyhood<\/span>\u00a0well into their thirties, forties, seventies, and afterlives. <\/span><\/p>\n

The racist implications surrounding <\/span>boy<\/span><\/i> run deep\u2014the roots of that word are more akin to\u00a0<\/span>servant<\/span><\/i>, <\/span>knave<\/span><\/i>, and <\/span>urchin <\/span><\/i>than to our contemporary conception of what a preadolescent child is supposed to be. The very concept of childhood is recent\u2014like, eighteenth century\u2013ish. But in an entirely predictable linguistic twist of fate, while the aforementioned cis whiteboys are granted all the freedom of youthful error, it\u2019s their brown and black neighbors who get the slight, the boy<\/em> that comes with none of the innocence.<\/span><\/p>\n

So: Boy<\/em> as slur. Boy<\/em> as clich\u00e9. Boy<\/em> as nonfamilial brother who has your back. <\/span><\/p>\n

And then there\u2019s boy<\/em> like the boys I\u2019ve loved. Even the boy<\/em> that comes out of a boyfriend\u2019s mouth changes shape. There\u2019s, Boy! (Your stamina is crippling and I am deeply out of shape!) And, Boy! (How are you so handsome! Your beauty is draining me!) And, Boy. (You are really fucking pissing me off but this is part of the deal.) And, Boy? (Aren\u2019t we lucky to have found each other?)<\/span><\/p>\n

And then those boys see their way out, only for me to end up with the boy I love the most, the boyfriend I eat <\/span>banh mi<\/span> with at all hours, cartwheeling across the whole of Harris County. And those other boys become just that\u2014<\/span>the other boys\u2014<\/span><\/i>the boys I talk about with my boy because he\u2019s curious, because he wants to learn more about the contours of my life, about the boys who are absent until I hit them up for the details of some forgotten recipe, and their response is just the one word: boy<\/em>. <\/span><\/p>\n

The young boys I work with don\u2019t give a shit about those boys. They ask about literally everything else, threatening to self-destruct when I take too long with an answer. One of them, a kid from Karachi, speeds through his reading comprehension in ten minutes before starting in with the questions: What is the largest number in the world? How many tigers are left on this planet? If we both took a boat from Galveston to China, who would make it there first if we raced? What about Taiwan? What about Hawaii? And I start to answer, Look kid, or, Who knows, or, Ugh, but the thing about boys\u2014actual boys\u2014is that they should be allowed to dream, at the very least, at least for a little while. <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Bryan Washington lives in Houston. His first book, <\/em>Lot, is forthcoming from Riverhead in March.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The racist implications surrounding \u2018boy’ run deep\u2014the roots of that word are more akin to \u2018servant,\u2019 \u2018knave,\u2019 and \u2018urchin\u2019 than to our contemporary conception of what a preadolescent child is supposed to be. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1069,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[45306],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-133019","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-one-word"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nOne Word: Boy by Bryan Washington<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"January 25, 2019 \u2013 The racist implications surrounding \u2018boy' run deep\u2014the roots of that word are more akin to \u2018servant,\u2019 \u2018knave,\u2019 and \u2018urchin\u2019 than to our contemporary conception of what a preadolescent child is supposed to be.\" \/>\n<meta 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