"Mummy, I have to pee."

Of course.  We were at a big-box hardware store, picking up a couple things after he got out of kindergarten.  I sighed: merchandise is not allowed in the restrooms. 

"That's okay, Mummy, I can go by myself."

This time there was some irritation in his voice.  He goes by himself all the time - at school, at church, in places that feel safer to me than the hardware store.  But still, he's only five, and the fears of this culture are hard to shake.  I took a deep breath, stood by the nearby cash registers, and watched him approach the bathrooms. 

He stopped and regarded the signs for a long moment.  I had assumed he would use the Women's room, only because that's where I would have brought him.  But he can read now, and is aware of himself and his surroundings.  He headed, with no hesitation, to the Men's room.

There are no doors on the restrooms in this store, just a long hallway with an abrupt turn at the end, and a line of stalls inside.  He hadn't gotten far down the hall when an older man approached from the other end.  The man stopped my son, obviously alarmed.

"No, honey, you're in the wrong place."

My son didn't understand, but I did.  My jaw tightened, my fists clenched on the tube of adhesive I was holding.  Summoning all of the calm I could muster, I listened to my five year old try, very patiently and politely, to explain to this stranger that he was, in fact, in the right place.  That he had every right in the world to go into the Men's room.  That he just had to pee. 

Assuming my son was a girl, the man talked over him.  Refused to listen, refused to hear until my son, frustrated, finally shouted, "I am a boy!" His little voice echoed down the tile hallway, and out to where I stood, seething and aching. The man jumped, he was so startled, and his whole attitude changed.  He stopped trying to pat my son on his head, apologized, and commended my son on his assertiveness.  He passed by me, averted his eyes from my glare, mumbled something defensive. 

Moments later, my son emerged.  Two maternal instincts fought it out for a moment, and protectiveness gave way to hygiene.  I sent him back to wash his hands... only to witness the very same scene play out again, as he turned back into the Men's room.  A man, younger this time, mistook my son for a girl and treated him like one - as a thing to be protected from the dangers lurking at the end of the hall; as someone voiceless, clueless, unworthy of anything beyond the most superficial notice or examination. This man, upon encountering the irate Mum by the cash registers, glared back, obviously embarrassed.

"You should really cut his hair."

My son has long, curly hair.  This is entirely his choice; even the slightest hair trim involves intricate negotiations about length and style.  He is constantly misgendered, especially when his love of all things purple gets thrown into the mix. Mostly, it doesn't bother him that people think he is a girl - he knows himself and is comfortable in his own skin.  What strangers think or assume is of little consequence to him; as it should be.  Usually, he doesn't feel their anger and embarrassment at being wrong, the implication that we are deliberately misleading people.  Usually, he doesn't feel the real sting behind the assumptions, the implications of inherent gender differences.  Usually, he doesn't hear the difference in the way that people talk to little girls, as opposed to little boys. 

He's never before thought of peeing as a dangerous or a radical act.

"Mummy," he asked, finally, as we stood looking at plumbing supplies, "why are there different bathrooms for men and women?  Why does it matter which one I use?  We all pee."

I looked into his troubled face, so many responses swirling in my head, leading to questions I knew I couldn't ever fully answer.  What was I supposed to say?  We have separate restrooms because the parts we use to pee are also the parts we use for sex, and that's too much to deal with? Because men are socialized to think of women as sex objects, and rarely made to take responsibility for what happens when their penises are out of their pants? Because women's mere presence in non-segregated spaces is seen as seductive, blame-worthy, and shameful? Because although we teach you that no means no, it doesn't always work that way - didn't you hear the way those men talked to you when they thought you were a girl? So we keep ourselves separate for safety.  Welcome to rape culture.  And I'm sorry.

I never did manage to answer his question.  Nor the one that followed it:

"Mummy, why are you crying?"