A grandmother died during a gender reveal party. Its time to end these rituals permanently.

Publish date: 2024-08-01
Updated 2020-09-08T15:16:00Z

I was rattled by the news that a gender reveal party, which involved using a "smoke generating pyrotechnic device," sparked a wildfire on Saturday in Yucaipa, California. As of Monday, more than 7,000 acres had burned.

I had the same reaction in October when an Iowa grandmother died at a similar celebration after a piece of debris struck the 56-year-old woman in the head. The family had likely hoped to spray festive bright blue or pink powder to announce the sex of the newborn-to-be. In the process, they inadvertently created a pipe bomb. 

Even before these tragedies, gender reveal gatherings — like pre-baby showers designed to bring together loved ones — have always made me uncomfortable. These events enforce "either-or" thinking, branding everyone "him" or "her" forever, even before having a chance to enter the world. The unsuspecting individual is then expected to follow a strict code based solely on their genitals. As a gay dad with a 14 year-old daughter, I've constantly battled these norms.

Even before a woman died at a gender reveal party, I thought the popular ritual was troubling 

At school in navy pants and white short sleeves, I preferred playing hopscotch, jumping rope, throwing jacks instead of strikes. I was popular with female classmates, but was taunted by the boys. Part of me wanted to worship sports like they did. But hanging upside down on the monkey bars, I didn't want to fit into a category. I wanted acceptance.

While growing up in Los Angeles, Haig Chahinian shirked gender expectations. Getty

At the University of Southern California it seemed wrong for me to kiss a guy. Back then, gay marriage was perfectly illegal.

My destiny was to marry a wife, earn money, and provide for our children while passing down our ancient culture. At night I lay shaking in my dorm bed, considering my limited options. Ending my life seemed like the logical solution.

Then a feminist theory professor I adored helped me realize gender wasn't fixed. "It's made-up," she said. "You can reject social constructs. Your genitalia should not dictate how you express yourself in the world." I realized if I cast aside the toxic idea of gender, I could choose to be with someone who just happened to have a penis as well. I slowly discarded every notion I held about what it meant to be a man. Her words were like a get out of jail card for my heart.

While I was lucky to come out alive, not everyone is.

According to the Centers for Disease Control, lesbian, gay and bisexual youth were more than twice as likely as their hetero-identified peers to have attempted suicide. More than half of trans male teens surveyed reported attempting suicide in their lifetime, as did about 30% of trans female teens, according to the American Academy of Pediatrics. 

The higher suicide risk may be a result of being marginalized or experiencing discrimination. Trans youth are at an increased risk for depression, too, according to Harvard scientist Sari Reisner. He noted that "if a person is not being seen for who they are, it can be very distressing."

No LGBTQ person I know has ever organized a gender reveal party

The trend of hosting jubilees focused on a narrow definition of gender could contribute to these kinds of problems. No LGBTQ person I know has ever organized such a shindig. 

I get the fuss about making a big to-do of your joyous bundle.

Sometimes what you expect when you're expecting is cake, ice cream, and confetti, captured in photos that garner lots of social media likes. 

In a twist, Jenna Karvundis, the woman credited with "inventing" the gender reveal concept, has had a change of heart. There's "more emphasis on gender than has ever been necessary for a baby," she said this summer. "Who cares what gender the baby is?"

He preferred play hopscotch and jumping rope to traditional sports. Getty

I got lucky again when I fell for Peter, a cute New York City history buff who wanted a family, too. When we heard through our adoption agency that we were having a girl, we were excited to heap on her our unconditional love. We made a pact never to box her in. We resisted the pink toy aisle at big box stores.

Later when gift-wrapped Barbies showed up on our doorstep, we donated the impossibly shaped dolls to the local thrift shop. Letting myself daydream, I envisioned her picking up the piano where I'd left off, and sharing my passion for cooking luleh kebab.

When I found out I would be adopting a girl, I made a pact to never box her in

The first time she stirred a pot of lentil soup, I saw her on a future cover of Food and Wine magazine. Yet when my temper flared, she retreated from the kitchen. I hoped something special was in store when she agreed to learn the keyboard. It didn't feel so unique when she dropped music lessons after a few months.

Haig's daughter has now developed her own style. Getty

Still, she surprised me by tossing a football in perfect spirals as a tween. Now in junior high, she enjoys shooting hoops, and in a reversal of roles, she's teaching me how to be a spectator. Rule No. 1: When she scores, I am not supposed to yell "basket!" Better to clap. But not too loud.

For a recent birthday, my mother gave her granddaughter two pair of sneakers. Lately my child had ditched the dresses we'd bought in favor of athletic shorts and sweatshirts. I didn't love her new schleppy style. I grumbled about it to my mother.

"Let her be," my mom said. "You've given her room to express herself. She's just using it."

I was still learning to embrace all of my daughter. Now that was something to celebrate.

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