“Why can’t I wear shorts? It’s just a stupid party”, I loudly replied. “You’re not a child anymore. Men wear pants.” My mom tried to convince me to wear pants by saying “men wear pants.” I didn’t want to go to the party. But I was 15 years old; it was the first time I was going out with my parents to one of those small city country club events. The whole society would be present, my parents noticing my dissociation with everything and everyone related to the environment I was part of, convinced me to go. I kept arguing about why I had to wear pants.
At the party, some men were wearing shorts. Obviously, I didn’t say anything, I looked at my mom with a “what do you have to say now?” attitude. The same people I had seen every day in my life was there. The same I had gone to school with, I had been to the gym with, I had been forced to see them at the church as well, on the streets, the same people I learned how to not care about or not want to have any relationship with. Still, with my parents at my side, I was there smiling, being the polite personage I also learned to be. I sat at the table looking at the characters for the most of the night. I would dance, but not there, not with them, not with that music. I would drink, and my parents permitted me to drink, but I felt stupid being an inconsequent teenager drinking for the sake of being stupid. I had to repeatedly answer “no” to my dad who constantly kept asking me if I wanted a beer. “What are you going to say now, that I’m a man, so I have to drink beer?” I didn’t say that, but I wanted to. I left the table after seen some of my school friends there. They were looking at the girls; lying about the ones they had a kiss with or something else. I kind of wanted to dance with the girls, yet men weren’t supposed to dance back then. They were drinking; I went back to my parent’s table. One of my mom’s friends, one that always left a red lipstick mark on my face, asked me to dance with her. I happily did; one of those 70s disco music that I loved. I was a good dancer, but it wasn’t worth the moves; those people didn’t have a clue about the disco liberation movement. I didn’t have a clue on how to be myself. At the end of the night, I was having fun just observing the party, allegedly a remarkable one. Some girls were kissing the older guys hiding from their parents, the ones no one wanted were dancing, waiting for someone to pick them up. The guys my age were still talking at the corner of the salon; they were visibly drunk at this point, with no girls wanting them. I kept looking at everyone; I wanted to leave as soon as possible. In the car, my mom asked me if I had fun, I said I would rather wear short.