With the death of Connie Francis, her signature song “Where the Boys Are” keeps playing through my head.

For some reason, that song takes up a lot of real estate in my already cluttered mind. With 60 years of pop songs competing, this cloying classic plays in a regular loop whether I’m in the shower or vacuuming.

When my 27-year-old niece was a baby, I was her daily afternoon caretaker. She lived right across the park in Manhattan, an easy cross-town bus ride away. I was on the West side, and she and her family lived far on the East side.

When Teletubbies no longer held her interest, I carried her around in my arms, walking from room to room, and sang to her gently. My favorite tune to sing was the 1960 song “Where the Boys Are,” which in my own version seamlessly morphed into “Where the Girls Are…someone waits for me. Where the girls are…”

Perhaps subliminally, I didn’t want her to fall prey to any prescribed life pattern.

“Where the Boy Are” was the title song from the 1960 movie of the same name, one of the classic teenage beach blanket movies about man-hungry coeds on the prowl during spring break in Ft. Lauderdale.

In one cringeworthy sequence, the Paula Prentice character says her higher education is just a waste of time because she was put on earth to find a guy and have a baby.

Like every mid-century movie, song, TV show, and advertisement, gender roles were clearly defined, selling heterosexuality as the norm.

It was the only choice in a land of supposed plenty.

27 years later, my niece identifies as Queer. I am certain the MAGA crowd would blame me for indoctrinating her in this other lifestyle.

I hope subliminally and otherwise, I always helped her to be whoever she was.

And is.