Behind the screen

In Malcolm Gladwell's enjoyable Blink, there's a section in which he considers a recent change in the audition procedures for symphony orchestras. Traditionally, applicants simply played before the directors of the orchestra - a process which yielded very few female hires. Directors insisted that they were being fair, and commonly suggested that women simply lacked the strength or resilience needed for symphonic performances. Recently, though, a number of orchestras have had applicants play, instead, behind a screen, and suddenly the number of female hires soared. Confronted with nothing but the music, the directors were forced to abandon their stereotypes.

In a sense, L and I are in a situation that's a neat inverse of contemporary directors: our baby not yet born, we know her sex, but nothing else (beyond her regular rolls and kicks, I suppose). There's not any music, in other words, to judge, and maybe that's part of why the last week has been so odd. We're ready for her to play, but have nothing but the quiet, graceful curtain of L's belly.

Oh, but I suppose there will be enough chances for us to hear that. And there will be more than enough expectations levied upon her, on account of her sex, once she does emerge. Pink socks; fairy tales; unicorns; softball; home economics. Granting a shy player some extra time behind the screen, in which to compose herself, is not out of order.