At camp today, my seven-year-old son wore a swim shirt with a lavish scene from My Little Pony on the front. He loves this shirt. He gasped–really gasped with pleasure–when it arrived in the mail.
By the way, my son does not think of himself as a Bronie. He loathes stereotypes (the most dismissive thing he can say about something is that it’s “stereotypical”), so he’d never want to be part of a group like that, which, although it stands in opposition to a certain stereotype, has by now become a stereotype itself.
Anyway. This was a farm camp, run by–and appealing to–organic, progressive people. Nevertheless, as soon as my son put on the shirt, another boy ran over and pointed at it and laughed and called other kids to come over and laugh at it too.
I don’t have anything rueful or wise to say about this. My daughter defended her brother, and life went on. What I want, really, is for my son to be not “my son,” not a Bronie, not a stereotype, but just the person he is, liking what he likes, taking pleasure in the sight of ponies being ponies.