November 2020

My mom used to like telling people about how she was in labor with me for over 36 hours. She would laugh and say that I was so comfortably curled up inside that I didn’t feel like coming out, and when I was finally forced to come out (two weeks late), I stretched out my arms and legs like a starfish all the way down. Physical activity was just not my thing. It never was, not since I was born. According to the family photo albums, it took me two-and-a-half years to learn how to walk. That led me to hate the playground. I was probably one of the few kids who did. Running around, climbing rope ladders, getting sand thrown in my face and my shovel stolen. Just the thought of having to climb the ladder to the top of the slide with a whole bunch of pushy kids behind me, I would get butterflies in my stomach, my legs would feel like cooked noodles, and sweat would start trickling down my forehead to the tip of my chin. Even now, it brings me back to that Shel Silverstein poem “Whatif,” where he talks about all the doubts and fears that dance around inside of him. When my sister was born, it all got worse. Apparently she was in such a rush to get out of my mom’s stomach that she almost fell onto the floor. My sister came out screaming so loud that she busted a hole in her lungs, and had to stay in the intensive care unit for a week. Those family albums show her walking, then running, and then riding a skateboard, when she was three years old. When I was five, my parents started pushing me to join all sorts of activities, which unfortunately were all physically demanding. Gymnastics, swimming, soccer, tae kwon do, and even golf. ae kwon do was the worst. It was a big room filled with kids kicking and punching stuff. Why would I ever do that? I cried, wet, salty tears pouring down my face, fists balled up, feet stuck to the ground, as my mom tried to gently nudge—and then finally shoved—me in. It was like those scary movies where people get forced into a torture chamber. I remember thinking, Why are they making me do this? I obviously don’t want to do it! When we left, I was so relieved that I didn’t even care that the other kids were staring at my blotchy, red face. When I got older, around seven or eight, it was gymnastics for both me and my sister. We were in different classes, but I could see her across the gym, having the time of her life, swinging across the bars and jumping on balance beams. I, on the other hand, couldn’t even figure out how to do a simple cartwheel. I could see myself in the mirror doing this crabby, bent-over thing. My sister, who was two years younger than me, was doing stuff I never expected to learn. As much as I longed to be able to do anything that looked good, I knew I would never be able to. The feeling of hopelessness and disappointment was so thick and heavy that sometimes I couldn’t breathe. And jealousy too. There was a horrible piece of me that wanted her to mess up. Not totally fail, but just enough so that I might feel better about myself. A couple years ago, when my mom brought up the idea of learning how to ride a bike and how cool it was, I instantly thought of the disasters that had happened when I was younger. I looked down at the beige rug covered in ornate designs so that I wouldn’t have to look at her. Then maybe she would forget I was there. My sister was exuberant, jumping up and down, squealing with anticipation, begging to go now. My hands were clammy and had found a binder clip to play with clumsily. That was when my dad marched triumphantly into the room with a brand-new, shiny, purple bike. He told us that it was the best bike to learn on, and if we got good, we could get a second one so we could ride together. He said it like we were all super happy to do this, like we had planned this together a long time ago. But we hadn’t, at least not me. I sat there at the mahogany dining table, my heart beating faster, my head hurting because of all the blood rushing to it. I was numb, not sure what to say, trying to think what I should do. My mom told me to go to the park with my dad so I could learn first. But I was frozen. So, she decided that my sister could go first. I was relieved but still troubled, knowing that I would still have to learn later. Grow up, I told myself. Grow up, grow up. They left, my sister squealing with delight. I continued to sit, glued to my seat. My hands now fiddling with a rubber band, the rubber weaving in and out, forming an intricate design. My mother came over and plopped down next to me in the cushioned beige chair, her laptop in hand, its rose-gold border gleaming in the bright ceiling light. “You know, I understand how you might not like these things,” she said as she scrolled down the page on her screen, not looking at me. “It’s not that I don’t like sports; it’s that I don’t like trying new sports,” I said defensively, instantly regretting the words that had just come out of my mouth. My dad always talked about how sporty he’d been as a kid, my mom was always willing to try anything and never seemed to feel embarrassed, and my sister was perfect. In this family, saying stuff like what I just said was basically admitting that I was a