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Opinion How to raise a boy: In a world shaped by microaggressions, what playground politics reveal about empathy and fairness

In a hyper-masculine world, raising boys to stay gentle is an act of resistance

A few months ago, my son came home from his daily football game with an informal group of preteens, a mix of boys and girls, looking more animated than usual. The moment he walked through the door, the story came tumbling out.

Neha Bhatt

October 6, 2025 12:04 PM IST First published on: Oct 6, 2025 at 12:04 PM IST

Ever since I became a mother 11 years ago, I’ve always found playgrounds fascinating places. What many dismiss as spaces meant only for children, have always felt to me like places meant for lingering, if only to watch tiny social experiments — that speak volumes about how children learn power dynamics, empathy, boundaries, and fairness long before they even have the words for them — unfold.

After my son was old enough to manage swings on his own, I would remain in the background, stepping in only when required, quietly observing as my son absorbed his earliest lessons in negotiation. When my son was a toddler, not yet two, we were at a park playing on the slide when a group of boys, about five or six years old, came bouncing in, shouting and pushing younger children aside. A few toddlers began to cry. The older boys, unsupervised as they often were, seemed unaware of how to share that space with others. I remember thinking how different that ordinary evening at an ordinary park might have been if a caregiver had been around to guide them. That day, I realised how these small, everyday lessons quietly add up as children grow.

It’s also where boys and girls first begin to learn how to interact and share space. A few months ago, my son came home from his daily football game with an informal group of preteens, a mix of boys and girls, looking more animated than usual. The moment he walked through the door, the story came tumbling out. One of the boys in the group had started verbally abusing a girl who was defending her younger brother from his heckling. At first, the girl stood her ground, making reasoned arguments and asking him to lay off her brother. When he refused and began to call her gendered slurs, the other children in the group stepped in, asking him to stop and apologise immediately. When he continued his tirade, the girl called a family member to intervene, who helped the boy understand why his behaviour was unacceptable, and let his parents know.

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A few days later, it happened again. The group realised this was becoming a pattern that went against the spirit of their game. So they held a vote. The rule was simple: If the boy refused to change, he would not be welcome to play. Children are often capable of addressing sensitive issues on their own when they grow up in an environment where toxic behaviour isn’t normalised as “boys will be boys” or “bacche hain, shaitani toh karenge”. The work of raising boys free from patriarchal conditioning begins earlier than we realise, when they are toddlers already absorbing cues about what is acceptable and what isn’t, what is normal and what shouldn’t be, and how to navigate tricky situations while standing up for what’s right.

After largely gender-neutral primary years, the middle years bring with them gendered spaces that are far more apparent: From birthday parties shrinking to become gender-specific, to the push and pull of various kinds of friendships. I realise there are some stages where you just go with the flow, without losing sight of the larger goal. This means supporting all forms of engagement that are neither hyper-masculine, nor gendered, without making a performance of it. It means to encourage friendships with all genders based on shared interests, to have honest conversations about gender biases and how to be sensitive to the unfairness of it, and what we can do to make it better, whenever the opportunity arises. It means to value the tenderness and gentleness of our boys while contextualising and offering tools to process rage, anger, fear, grief and disappointment.

In a world steeped in toxic masculinity, where everyday microaggressions chip away at the humanity of all genders, I have come to realise that our presence as parents matters most — to be the scaffolding during moments big and small, and even when nothing much is happening at all. What I savour the most, though, are the stories we share: Tales of my own childhood as a girl, the barriers I face from time to time, the work I do and why I do it, my feelings and ambitions, and fascinating and troubling stories from around the world. We talk about anecdotes from his day. He goes over similar beats with his father, his aunt, and his grandparents. From five-minute stories to conversations that stretch across days, these stories carry us from one day to the next. They take over bedtime after the books have been put to rest. As my words melt into the night and he closes his eyes, I think of how these luxurious stretches of time will shrink as he grows, but I know — or at least hope — that we will always have our little stories.

Bhatt is an author and independent writer who reports on gender, policy, public health and culture