The morning of Father's Day I went into the Racing Mart down the street to pay for a tank of gas. Inside it was cramped and bustling and grimy and festive. The three men behind the counter were laughing and joking with each other and several customers shuffled idly around drinking coffee and filling out lottery tickets. As he was running my card through someone wished all three of them a happy father's day, and there was a moment of happy commotion as they returned his wish and thanked him. I thought I should say something, myself, and be a part of the Racing Mart Father's Day scene. What I managed, somewhat awkwardly, was, "So, are you all fathers?" They nodded together. "And are you a mother?" asked the one waiting on me as he handed me my receipt. "No," I said. "Why not?" he demanded.
The question itself didn't bother me, particularly. I didn't feel angry or judged or defensive. Just perplexed.
I didn't answer. I don't have an answer. It's like asking me why I wasn't born in February, or why I'm not Norwegian.
I haven't been back to the Racing Mart since.
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