So Monarchy NZ has managed to convince the managers of various NZ landmarks to light their edifices in blue or pink “depending on the baby’s gender“.
Tiny problem, there. Well, several tiny problems.
Sex isn’t gender. There’s simply no guarantee that the configuration of the royal baby’s genitalia will match the behaviour or identity of the child when it’s old enough to express itself.
Of course, the baby is going to face even more massive pressure to conform to society’s opinions about these things, but forcing someone to live a lie so we don’t have to be bothered updating our backward ideas about gender isn’t really something we should be okay with.
Sex isn’t even sex. There’s also no guarantee that the configuration of the royal baby’s genitalia will actually tell us if the baby is a boy or a girl. Intersex conditions may be present in up to 1.9% of human births.
(Props to Jan Logie for noting this)
Aren’t there more important things to worry about? I mean, if we must continue to treat the Duchess of Cambridge’s uterus as our own personal property, shouldn’t we be a little more focused on her health? The health of her child? If we must celebrate, can’t we just let off some fireworks in a variety of diverse and inclusive colours?
Because what this all boils down to is reducing an infant to the appearance of its genitalia. That’s just a bit fucking creepy, isn’t it?
Let us rejoice, friends, for tonight, after a long dalliance, that complete cocktease Kate Middleton becomes unequivocally public property.
She’s lead us a merry chase, occasionally succumbing to paparazzi shots and always keeping us interested with sly little suggestions that maybe she wasn’t going to sacrifice 90% of her autonomy on the altar of hereditary monarchy just for the sake of marrying the guy she loves.
Oh, how we will always look back in fondness on the way she secured our affections with her naughty little case of reticence, even as we turned what was almost certainly her genuine concerns about how it usually goes down for a girl marrying The Heir To The Throne into a tawdry cliche about Waity Katie and her obvious desperate ovarian-driven need to Capture A Man.
But after tonight, the game is over, peeps.
As citizens of the Empire she will oneday theoretically co-rule, from tomorrow until the end of time we will own Kate Middleton. All our hopes and dreams can be pinned on her, all our worries and concerns can be laid at her door, the fate of all Western society will now be in her hands. We will no longer be limited to the few public occasions she’s attended in the past; we can demand access to her thoughts and dreams and wardrobe and menstrual cycle every single day for the rest of her life.
I mean … of course it’s terrible what happened to Diana, but that’s all in the past and we’ve totally learnt our lessons about how our incessant clamouring for personal details of the royal family can literally be fatal. But this is different, because, um, well, it’s a public event, and she’s a public figure now, and what do they expect?
Shut up! I’m not contributing to a societal expectation that the public have a right to know everything tabloid editors deem fit to print about Kate Middleton’s life! I just like royal weddings! And royal births! And constant reviews of what the royals are wearing and eating* and where they’re going and whether toe-sucking is involved!
SHE’S OUR PROPERTY NOW AND WE HAVE RIGHTS, DAMMIT.
For the more visually-inclined, I think South Park put it fucking brilliantly.
*And when they’re not eating which of course has nothing to do with cultural expectations of brides being thin.