When I was in the fourth grade, my school had Olympics Day.
Different kids were picked to compete in different events, some of them more
typical activities like running, others more kid-appropriate (who can hula-hoop
the longest?). I was chosen to run the 50-yard dash, since I was always one of
the first kids in my P.E. class to complete all the runs. I really liked running.
When my race came, we lined up, and when the principal shouted “GO!” we dashed.
“First, second, and third!” the teacher at the finish line yelled as we
crossed. I looked around. Four of us had finished virtually at the same time.
Was I one of the top three?
I wasn’t. I didn’t see how
I wasn’t, but regardless, three other kids got awards and I didn’t. I was
already miffed because a popular sixth-grade boy won the basketball-dribbling
contest even though several of us saw that he cheated and switched hands at one
point. I was not a popular kid, and now I was also not a winning runner either.
Fifth grade, a new school, Catholic, on the other side of
the island. I was still not popular, even less so now in fact, because I was
the only new kid in class and not Catholic. (Also my school uniform had not
been ready in time so I spent the first two weeks being the only kid in regular
clothes, because I certainly needed one more way to stand out as different.) For
P.E. the teacher had us run endless laps around the tiny yard
between buildings. On one of the first of these runs I easily passed many
classmates early on and headed for the front runner. When I caught up to her,
she shot me a look and said, “Hey, let’s make a pact to run together the rest
of the way!” Flattered that she wanted to make a pact with me, I agreed. We were the leaders for about 20 glorious seconds and
then out of nowhere another girl passed us by. I started to quicken my pace but
my new best friend protested “Hey! You said we would run together!” Oh, right,
the pact. I slowed down. Now many
people were passing us. We ended up finishing in the middle, in a big crowd of
girls I’d previously passed.
Junior high, yet another school. I was small and runty, and
stayed that way for years, and no one would ever take me seriously as being
athletic, especially me. Part of me still liked sports, liked being active,
liked physical exertion and accomplishment, but that part tended to get smushed
very easily. When I got a rebound and dribbled quickly down the court, a loud girl on my own team
said smirkily, “Ooh, Letitia is really into this game!” and so I immediately
passed the ball to someone else to take the shot. Of course I did—what would
ever make me think a wimpy shrimp like me could play basketball? By high school
I stopped trying entirely. I was not athletic. I never would be.
This stuff all happened decades ago. Why do these particular
memories remain so sharp to me? Why am I holding on to the resentment of what
could have been? And what precisely do I resent? Do I resent a system that didn’t
do more to ensure that my self-worth and the worthiness others deemed in me
weren’t solely dependent on whether I looked and performed a certain way? Do I
resent that I didn’t have more encouragement from my parents, my teachers, my
classmates? Is it my own fault that I was so hypersensitive and let other
people decide what I would be?
When I’m in a more rational frame of mine, I recognize that
no one was deliberately trying to hold me back in those days. My P.E. teachers
had huge numbers of students to monitor, my parents were busy working so that my
sister and I could afford to go to college, and my classmates were just being
the way kids are at that age. As for my own sensitivity, I was just being the
way I was at that age. What I went
through is what a lot of girls (and boys, for that matter) go through, and in
truth I know I had it easy. I was never called “the fat girl.” Kids didn’t get
beat up in my school or my neighborhood. I had friends and got decent grades
and graduated without much distinction but without too many scars either. And yet here
I am, well into middle-age, still thinking about all this.
I know woulda-coulda-shoulda is a pointless exercise, I know
that dwelling on what can’t be changed is a waste of time, but I also know I’ll
probably always regret that I wasn’t more active back in my youth, regardless
of who was “to blame,” if anyone was at all. Regret is one of the worst things
you can feel, yet I don’t think in this case it’s all bad. I’m an assistant
coach for a middle school track team, and I’m pretty sure part of my motivation
for taking this job comes from those frustrating memories. It’s exciting to see
these kids get the experience I didn’t have, and it’s cathartic for me to be
able to cheer them on. I’m the biggest dork out there, I tell you. I cheer and
yell and pump my fists. I’ve screwed up the stopwatch a number of times and
miscounted laps such that one of the fastest boys ended up doing 10 laps
instead of 8 for the timed mile (and still beat nearly everyone else), but I
try to make up for it in dorky supportiveness. The kids are very cool about it
all. They wave off my boneheaded mistakes and thank me politely for my praise and
enthusiasm. Maybe they’re sure enough of themselves that they don’t really need
my rah-rahs. That would be fantastic if it were true—I certainly hope, in the
time since I was their age, things have progressed such that more kids,
especially girls, can think of themselves as athletes. But just in case we aren’t
there yet, I’m plenty ready to rah-rah.
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