My hands are sweaty and my muscles are burning as I climb the rope higher and higher. Just gotta keep telling myself, don’t stop, you can do it. You have to do it. For god’s sake just don’t look down. My little hands can’t even fully wrap around this giant rope. Can’t think about the horror that would await me if I lost my grip. Hand over hand, feet gripping on to whatever bit of thread they can. Gotta keep going. Almost there. My body wants to stop but my 10 year old mind won’t let that happen. Grasping, pulling, holding on for dear life. One final push. One more last stretch of my exhausted, shaking fingers. Finally, I made it to the top.
I got an A in gym class that year.
To say I took gym seriously in elementary school is a bit of an understatement. There were only a few of us girls who actually liked gym, but me being the tomboy I was, loved it. My outwardly shy and inwardly badass self took great pride in showing that rope climb challenge who’s boss. School was filled with so many great moments like that. Once you become an adult you realize how special youth is, what with the no responsibilities (except for maybe making your bed) and no real grown-up problems and all. It’s the little things that make you happy when you’re, well, little. Ahhh carefree youth. Then, in 5th grade, it all changed. This you won’t believe.
Did I tell you about the time that year we had our annual teachers vs. students end of year kickball game? Each year in May the teachers played against a select group of 5th graders in front of the whole school. It was an event I had looked forward to since the beginning of elementary school. It was the game to end all games. The game that signified the end of our elementary school career before we all ventured off to the big bad middle school. Six years, including kindergarten, of waiting. (Did I even know what kickball was in kindergarten? Ok, maybe not, but whatever.) Anyway, it was a lot of waiting. Time goes by slowly when you’re a kid. How jealous I am of that now. So there I was, just patiently waiting for the biggest game of my young life. Historically, the team was made up of about half boys, half girls. The gym teacher did the choosing of who got the honor of playing on the team. My fate lied in his hands. It was the kids that performed the best in gym class or who at least showed the most effort that were the chosen ones. I was athletic and strong and had a take-no-prisoners attitude toward all the different sports we played. But don’t get me wrong, good sportsmanship was important too. My teacher knew my efforts. After all, he was the one and only gym teacher we had for all those years. He was stern and serious and never said a whole lot, but he knew how I gave my all in every class, in every athletic activity. Even in the President’s Challenge, as it was called back then, I could do the most sit-ups and push-ups (*disclaimer – of the girls), throw a ball like a boy and I was also one of the fastest runners (*disclaimer again). I almost always was the first girl picked in any coed games. As for this monumental kickball game, I was a shoe-in.
Finally the day came. May 1983. The next to last day of school. Six years of reading, writing and arithmetic all culminating into this one epic moment. I can’t wait to play! Can’t wait to hear the gym teacher call my name and say you’re on the team! I KNEW I would be picked. No doubt in my mind. So excited! My super bowl was here!
Errrrrrrt! *Tire screech!*
Oh sorry, you’re not allowed to play in this game.
Um, excuse me, what?! What the hell did you just say? Hahaha, obviously you must be joking.
Nope, no joke. You can’t play. I know I’m only 10 and all but….um….WHAT? Wait!!! Why?!!!
Because you’re a girl.
Yep. You read that correctly. Because I was a girl.
None of the girls were allowed on the team that year. None. Our gym teacher, Mr. Standing, I’ll NEVER forget that man’s name, excluded all the girls from that game because he felt they hadn’t tried hard enough in gym class throughout the year. This man would have been sued from here to Bangladesh in this day and age, but in 1983, that’s how shit went down. There are no words to express my complete and utter disappointment. Not to mention outright anger and rage. But I excelled in gym class! I ALWAYS tried! How can you punish me for the actions of others? That man ripped my heart right out of my chest. Like Bart Simpson’s girlfriend – ripped it out, threw it on the ground and stomped on it. You won’t be needing this anymore.
What a dick. I bet his first name was Richard.
What the fuck era was I living in? Oh yeah, it was the early 80s.
Shit like this happened then. Like I said, you can’t make it up. Truth is stranger than fiction.
So because the rest of the supposed “lazy” girls in my whole grade didn’t put forth enough effort in gym class we all were banned from the game. How dare I get lumped in with this group? This is a travesty! These girls screwed it all up for me. Ruined my lifelong dream (lifelong – up to age 10). I suffered because of their inequities. Fucking bitches. Thanks a lot. We were however allowed to watch the game. Gee thanks. For all your hard work here’s what you get: a seat in the bleachers. How can this be happening to me? I don’t deserve this. Someone do something! The other teachers said there was nothing they could do, it was Mr. Standing’s decision. Were they that scared of this man? This messenger of evil?
At the dinner table that night I told my mother what happened. Surely she would fix this. This was worse than cancelling Christmas after all. Mom to the rescue! She agreed this was indeed unfair and Mr. Standing was a sexist. Sexist? What’s that? But after explaining this new word to me, she said there was nothing she could do and that I would encounter many unfair situations like this in my life. My first foray into how cruel and unfair the world could be was laid before me along with my plate of Kraft Macaroni and cheese. She and the other parents didn’t fight it. The other girls and their parents didn’t care enough I guess. Of course my mom cared that I was completely heartbroken, but in that day and age parents didn’t wage war with school administration. If that was the school’s decision, then I had to live with it, as abhorrent as it was. Where was the fight?
The day of reckoning finally arrived. I didn’t even want to go to school that day. My mother said I had to go and I couldn’t just hide when things got tough. Such a wise woman. So there we were at the game. I had to sit with all these other fucking lazy bitches and watch my dreams evaporate before my eyes. To my surprise though, the girls told me they were actually angry too. Not to the depths of my rage but still, they were disappointed, disgruntled and dismayed. I wasn’t alone. Well you know what I realized? It wasn’t those girls’ fault. It was Mr. Standing’s fault. He and the weak, spineless school administrators were to blame. So you know what we girls did? After being banished to Bleacher Island like a bunch of lepers, we said fuck the bleachers, stood up and made our way down to the chain link fence that separated the spectator girls from the participating boys. We grabbed that fence with our tiny hands and shook it as hard as we could and yelled, “we want the girls, we want the girls, WE WANT THE GIRLS!” We screamed and yelled and shook and stomped for the entire game. The whole school heard us. It felt empowering…satisfying (well, let’s be honest, playing in the game would have been way more satisfying but you take what you can get sometimes). We yelled and screamed until our throats were scratchy and shook and clanged that fence of injustice until our knuckles were white.
So with all our yelling and screaming you know what happened? Nothing. Our protesting didn’t get us put in the game (sorry to disappoint), but it did feel good. Felt good to stand up and shout out against inequality and persecution. Because we were persecuted. Persecuted by our sexist dick of a gym teacher and completely let down by the other teachers and administrators who sat back and allowed it all to happen. What the fuck was wrong with these people? Couldn’t they see how unfair this all was? Why didn’t anyone do anything? Why didn’t I do more?