I Coulda Been a Contendah

As I sit here watching the gymnastics qualifiers on the Olympics, I can't help but think of my time as a gymnast. It was 1984. I, along with every other 8-year-old in the country, idolized Mary Lou Retton. My parents were kind enough to let me chase my Olympic dreams, and my mom surprised me by enrolling me in gymnastics. I was so excited! I had all but forgotten about the dreadful ballet/tap/tumbling class I took in the 1st grade. I desperately wanted to take dance lessons, and once I started, I discovered how much I hated it. It had nothing to do with my lack of talent (which became evident later in life, although, now that I think about it, the teacher always snapped at me for my inability to successfully execute the routine) and more to do with the fact that I was the only girl in the class that went to public school. All of the other girls went to a private Catholic school and made fun of me. Actually, strike that, they ridiculed me and refused to talk to me, stand near me, or even feign kindness toward me because I went to public school. And, yes, you did read that right. I was in the 1st grade. These were not adults. These were 6-year-olds that fully embraced a class system—in Oklahoma City. I did what I could to win them over, even attempting to do a headstand with no hands (and, no, it didn't work out. Such a maneuver is impossible unless your head is shaped like that of Frankenstein, but I was determined to do something impressive during the tumbling portion of class). The best part about taking dance lessons was the costume for the recital, and the real kicker was that I got the a nasty case of the chickenpox the week of said recital, so, much to my glee, I couldn't perform with the other girls—but I got to keep the costume!

Alas, enough time had passed that I was ready to try my hand at gymnastics. After all, I did have a small jungle gym in my backyard, and I was quite adept at hanging upside down. My mom and I selected a smashing outfit for my first Saturday at class. I wore a baby blue leotard and lacy white tights. Okay, I'll admit that I selected the tights because they seemed fancy, and I really wanted to impress my coach and other classmates with my classy wardrobe (and yes, as usual, I had delusions of grandeur and imagined that I would step into class and they would immediately peg me as a member of the next US Olympics team). I pranced into class with a nervous excitement. We spent the class practicing sitting on the balance beam (the practice beam was on the floor to avoid any injuries for the first-timers). Due to the fact that I was wearing tights, I kept sliding off the balance beam. It was very frustrating for me, but even more upsetting to the coach who reprimanded me for my inappropriate choice of attire.

"Don't wear tights to gymnastics. Your legs should be bare. That's why you keep falling."

"But my mom made me. She said I have to wear tights."

"Tell her this isn't ballet class."

I'll admit it. I wanted to cry. I've never been that tough when people get snippy with me. And yes, I also threw my mom under the bus since I played a role in the outfit selection. However, my mom did (and still does) have a steadfast rule about wearing hosiery. When I went home and informed her that I wasn't allowed to wear tights, she told me that I must be wrong. She thought it was totally ridiculous. The next week, she sent me there with tights. I took them off before class started. By class three, mom turned around on her pro-hose stance. My personal safety was at stake after all.

I instantly took to gymnastics. I learned to walk on the balance beam. I could do a flip on the bar. I could even end a handstand in somersault and vice versa. I was really good. Every Saturday I went to American Gymnastics, and I gazed at the large poster of Mary Lou Retton, knowing that I was follow in her footsteps. Each week we learned a new skill. The more skills we learned, the less I was allowed to do. The coaches didn't see the promise that I knew I had. Sure I couldn't clear the horse because I was afraid of hurting myself, but I knew that with a little practice I could overcome the obstacle. Sadly, the coaches didn't give me a second chance. Instead, they had me try to do a pull up on the high bar. I couldn't do that either. But, honestly, what 8-year-old has the kind of upper-body strength to do pull-ups?

Rather than give me more chances, I was relegated to practicing my cartwheels with the other untouchable—the girl who always wore the same ripped-up swimsuit. After just a few Saturdays, I was no longer allowed to be part of the main gymnastics class. While the other girls practiced running and jumping on the horse, or learned to do flips on the bars, or even practiced walking and jumping on the beam, I had to spend an hour and a half doing cartwheels. The other girl always insisted that she go ahead of me, so I had to watch her bare ass (because the swimsuit happened to be non-existent on her posterior) tumble in front of me. I learned a few valuable lessons. First, I never wanted to be so poor that I had to wear a ripped up swimsuit to gymnastics. Second, if you want a kid to quit something on their own, refuse to let them be a part of the class and insist that they stand on the sidelines with someone that never washes their hair and tumbles with an exposed ass.

Every Saturday I went to class, just sure that I would get to join the other girls, but every Saturday, the coach told me to keep practicing my cartwheels. When I told my mom I didn't want to take gymnastics anymore, she gave me a lecture on being a quitter. She didn't want to spend the money on the class if I wasn't interested in doing it, but she also didn't want me to quit the things that I started. Once she discovered that she was paying for me to practice cartwheels (unsupervised at that) for an hour an a half a week (which, for the record, is something that I did in my front yard on a daily basis…for free), she opted to take me out of the class.

My Olympic dreams were crushed. Apparently, I wasn't going to be the next Mary Lou Retton. Rather, I was just going to be an average kid from public school, who had to hang out with poor folk.