Serve or Pass
Initially, I thought I had misheard him. Apparently, the big fat D I received in gym class the year before had consequences. It was the start of my senior year of high school. My high school guidance counselor had informed me that I needed to take two gym classes. I could risk not graduating if I didn’t get satisfactory scores in both classes. Remembering what brought me to such a low grade, I was nauseated when I left his office.
“Just hit the ball!”
A few people yelled, some with frustration and anger, others with good intention. But I take them all the say way – an admonishment, a command. I’m not doing what they need me to do. No matter what, when that big white ball sailed into my part of the volleyball court, it would pass me because I would not hit it. To compensate for my foibles my team mates would then try to play their position as well as mine. I was no help to them. I was okay at the other physical activities, but Volleyball presented obstacles I couldn’t quite jump over. It made me feel like a failure. I felt acute shame after being harassed by my classmates. It was a daily reminder that I sucked, basically. I was an outsider. To call it a team sport is a bit deceptive. The team is only as strong as its weakest member, and more times than not, I was the weakest member. Worst of all, like lions watching their prey, the other team would get wise and began to purposely serve the ball right to me. I inadvertently assisted the enemy in gaining a significant amount of points over my own team. Needless to say that no one wanted me on their team, but loved when I was on the opponent’s side. “Just hit the ball!” Like a wounded animal I sought protection, solace. The gym coach wasn’t any help – they didn’t take extra time with students. You either fit into the curriculum and social norms expected of you. Or you simply didn’t. Only special treatment to those who had a doctor’s form explaining about how awful their asthma or epilepsy. There was no understanding for a non-physical condition. The health of your mind and spirit was not taken into account. Being a sensitive teenager didn’t merit you extra attention. Honestly, I’m not sure if it even occurred to me to seek help from the gym teacher. He was one of them – the people I was letting down. I had to hit that damn ball. And not just hit it – I had to hit it well, get it over the net, prove I was useful. Prove I belonged. Prove that I was more than my weight. And I had to play well enough to not feel the sting of peer rejection. I had no clue how to do that. …show more content…
My (temporary) solution was to skip the class. I did not return to gym class until volleyball was over, a few weeks worth of the semester was lost. I hid out in the girl’s bathroom, moving to a different one each day. I would just hang out there and if someone came in I pretended I had just gotten there or some other fake excuse that wouldn’t raise suspicion. I would see some of my gym period classmates and they would wonder where I’d been. I told them I was ill, or training elephants, anything but the truth: I was licking the wounds your shouts, yells, and disapproval had caused.
This was unusual behavior for me. I was a good girl. My older sisters kept my mom busy with enough worry. I never got into trouble and made a point to be good for my parents. I was the kid who worked since I was 14 and did my own laundry since was 8 years-old. My parents didn’t have worry about me. I strived to not give her any trouble. And I mostly succeeded. The problem with being “the good kid” is you that have to take care of you needs alone or risk give up the veneer of perfection you now have come to depend on. Because not graduating was not an option for me (I truly couldn’t fathom not having my high school diploma), I took my counselor’s admonishments seriously. Something in me broke, or changed.
Initially, I thought I had misheard him. Apparently, the big fat D I received in gym class the year before had consequences. It was the start of my senior year of high school. My high school guidance counselor had informed me that I needed to take two gym classes. I could risk not graduating if I didn’t get satisfactory scores in both classes. Remembering what brought me to such a low grade, I was nauseated when I left his office.
“Just hit the ball!”
A few people yelled, some with frustration and anger, others with good intention. But I take them all the say way – an admonishment, a command. I’m not doing what they need me to do. No matter what, when that big white ball sailed into my part of the volleyball court, it would pass me because I would not hit it. To compensate for my foibles my team mates would then try to play their position as well as mine. I was no help to them. I was okay at the other physical activities, but Volleyball presented obstacles I couldn’t quite jump over. It made me feel like a failure. I felt acute shame after being harassed by my classmates. It was a daily reminder that I sucked, basically. I was an outsider. To call it a team sport is a bit deceptive. The team is only as strong as its weakest member, and more times than not, I was the weakest member. Worst of all, like lions watching their prey, the other team would get wise and began to purposely serve the ball right to me. I inadvertently assisted the enemy in gaining a significant amount of points over my own team. Needless to say that no one wanted me on their team, but loved when I was on the opponent’s side. “Just hit the ball!” Like a wounded animal I sought protection, solace. The gym coach wasn’t any help – they didn’t take extra time with students. You either fit into the curriculum and social norms expected of you. Or you simply didn’t. Only special treatment to those who had a doctor’s form explaining about how awful their asthma or epilepsy. There was no understanding for a non-physical condition. The health of your mind and spirit was not taken into account. Being a sensitive teenager didn’t merit you extra attention. Honestly, I’m not sure if it even occurred to me to seek help from the gym teacher. He was one of them – the people I was letting down. I had to hit that damn ball. And not just hit it – I had to hit it well, get it over the net, prove I was useful. Prove I belonged. Prove that I was more than my weight. And I had to play well enough to not feel the sting of peer rejection. I had no clue how to do that. …show more content…
My (temporary) solution was to skip the class. I did not return to gym class until volleyball was over, a few weeks worth of the semester was lost. I hid out in the girl’s bathroom, moving to a different one each day. I would just hang out there and if someone came in I pretended I had just gotten there or some other fake excuse that wouldn’t raise suspicion. I would see some of my gym period classmates and they would wonder where I’d been. I told them I was ill, or training elephants, anything but the truth: I was licking the wounds your shouts, yells, and disapproval had caused.
This was unusual behavior for me. I was a good girl. My older sisters kept my mom busy with enough worry. I never got into trouble and made a point to be good for my parents. I was the kid who worked since I was 14 and did my own laundry since was 8 years-old. My parents didn’t have worry about me. I strived to not give her any trouble. And I mostly succeeded. The problem with being “the good kid” is you that have to take care of you needs alone or risk give up the veneer of perfection you now have come to depend on. Because not graduating was not an option for me (I truly couldn’t fathom not having my high school diploma), I took my counselor’s admonishments seriously. Something in me broke, or changed.