Part
1
“I want to be a swimmer, but please, don’t
yell at me.”
It’s my gut. It’s my instinct. It’s my
history. It’s my future. In unison these “it’s” echo the
phrase ‘I want to be…”
Twenty-eight years of, ‘I want to be…’
Twenty-eight years of asking my character for more.
Twenty-eight years of working for a better self. ‘I want to
be…’ has guided me to self-pride, but not without the
exposition of all my insecurities.
My
14-year-old self said: I want to be a jock. I want to be a
jock because I want to be more popular. I want to be more
popular because I do not want to be the quiet, pensive, shy
and possibly gay boy that I am. In high school it started
with lacrosse and then track and field. In college it was
ultimate Frisbee and rugby and in the real world, it was
crew. The result for me was, well, a lot of issues.
I have issues. The coaches yelled at me.
Through these sports the coaches’ shouts coupled with the
jocks’ whispers of “gay” and “fag” inspired me to quit. So,
I did. I developed a fear of coached sports. The fear ranks
second only to my being eaten by a Great White shark.
Both fears are irrational – well, I guess you
could say that being devoured by Jaws is a legitimate fear,
but being yelled at by someone who is only trying to make
you better at something should not be enough to lead one to
quit that something. But that is the way it was for myself.
I could not handle the embarrassment of being singled out,
feeling less worthy than the other boys.
At 28, I feel compassion for my younger self,
but I am also pissed off. How dare we accept the notion, at
any age, that we are less worthy than someone else? I want
to be greater than the constraints of my past. I have not
yet mastered the athletic sensibility and I have never
achieved the athlete’s confidence. I know that for many, a
sport is about aggression and competition, for me, at this
moment, sports is purely emotional.
Individual fitness has been a source of
enjoyment for me for many years. I enjoy spending time on a
treadmill, an elliptical machine, and lifting weights –
except for pulling weights like bicep curls. It’s easier to
push a weight, like a bench press, but of course, like all
of us, I do the necessary work, that is, until, I started to
get bored.
Swimming has always been a sport I wanted to
try and I thought that it would be a great way to kill my
fitness boredom and challenge past notions of my self. For
several months I browsed the Internet for clubs, teams and
pools in my area and in this time I felt my gut swish like a
crashing wave. I knew that if I joined one of these groups,
I would be exposed, on the block, vulnerable to yelling
coaches.
The idea of becoming a swimmer for fitness
and eventual competition grew more desirable with each
passing day and while the crashing wave in my gut remained,
periods of calmness and excitement were also present.
Instinctively, I knew I was moving in the right direction.
I found a website for a Gay and Lesbian
Master’s swim team and I thought, wow, everyone looks so
happy! There were photos of swimmers smiling, cheering and
having fun. It looked like a gay Gap ad. I was comforted by
the websites proclamation that new swimmers were welcome.
That’s me; I said aloud to myself, I’m the new swimmer. Here
it is, I thought, this is the team for me, this is where I
will swim … I cannot believe I am going to do this.
Don’t yell
at me.
All day at work my gut swirled like a
tortured school of fish as I prepared for my first workout
that evening. My towel, goggles and most importantly my
Speedo were all ready to go but my mind was distant and far
back in history. It stood on the sidelines watching a young
Keith feel humiliation and embody embarrassment.
Don’t
yell at me.
The Southern California spring evening was
brisk and on my approach to the pool house my mind could
think only of the hard nipples that I would have. I hate the
cold, I thought - I hate shivering. I could no longer
distinguish if it was the sharp air or if it was my gut
twirling like a performance dolphin at Sea World that
inspired my shivers.
Upon entering the pool house area I saw only
a few people and without knowing what to say, I blurted,
“Pardon me, is this where the gays swim?”
Don’t yell at me.
Okay, I wonder, who says ‘pardon me’ anymore?
Never mind, that is the least of my worries, I think. It was
the easy way of getting through this workout and that is all
I have to do; get through this.
“Welcome,” a very tall and tanned man
responded. His broad shoulders and smooth chest caught my
attention and his black Speedo, well, that was enough to
distract my gut from its swirls, twirls and whirls for at
least a moment or two. “Yes, this is a GLBT Masters swim
team. We love new members.”
“This is my first time,” I say, and then, for
clarification, I add, “only as far as swimming goes, of
course.”
“Of course,” he responds with a smile and a
quick brush of his chestnut hair. “I’m Coach Paul.” I extend
my right hand forward, grasp his firmly and eject a forced
smile toward his as I attempt to outperform my nerves. As I
think, don’t yell at me, I also think, if I’m going
to make it in sports, I’m definitely going to make it in gay
sports.
After changing into my own black Speedo,
Coach Paul advises me to start in the cocktail lane, which
is the least intense workout and most geared toward
beginners. I look down into the shallow water and see a much
older woman, a woman older than my own mother, and a woman
who has blue tattooed eye shadow, prepare for her workout.
“Hmm,” I mumble to myself with a chipped ego.
“Well, I do love cocktails,” I said aloud to Coach Paul.
Even though these words follow through with a smile, I know
that I have to begin somewhere and above the furl of canned
sardines in my gut, I imagine two hands applauding me for
making it this far and despite my nerves, I know that my
future as a swimmer begins this evening, but please,
don’t yell at me.
Keith Davis lives
in Los Angeles.
Sept. 20, 2005
