Throw Like a Girl
What does it mean to be a woman? This question has bounced around the walls of every institution I’ve been in. How do you act, how do you dress, what do you look like — in order to be perceived as a woman? There is a constant evaluation of the female body and its supposed indications that fulfill stereotypical ideas of what constitutes “her”. This critical analysis is particularly highlighted when women enter into the male-dominated sphere of athletics — the ultimate testament of the body as to who has the power. When women dare to breach these arenas of previously male dominated sport, there is an immediate threat to the identity that men gain through athletics. Throughout my life, I have come face to face with these stereotypes and what it means to “act like a girl” or “look like a girl.” This all began when I was eight years old, on a typical humid Miami day in my backyard.
Every Friday afternoon at 5 pm, when my dad came home from work, I knew it was our time together until Monday morning at 8 am. Between these times, I was his sole distraction. We competed in every athletic competition we could invent. We would race between the cramped hallways that separated our bedrooms; he would reduce his speed and let me win as we entered the narrowest part that could only hold one body. He would be the goalie to my opposing team as we set up neon orange cone drills in the backyard where I would shoot the final shot of the World Cup, and he would dive, but allow the ball to pass through upper right of our imaginary net. We drew up our own courts when we didn’t have any, transforming our garage door into a backboard when the tennis courts down the street were flooded. We would count points for every miss hit shot we hammered against the metal surface, the tin sound reverberating down the block. While we developed our own Summer Olympics every weekend before the dreaded Monday when he would return to work, other girls spent the days with their mothers either shopping or taking part in Color Me Mine (a pottery designing studio). But, this did not seem to faze my parents until that blazing humid summer day.
It was a Saturday morning in the Boehm household. The chirp of our side door announced the arrival of breakfast. The unmistakable aroma of Einstein’s bagels wafted up the stairs into my bedroom. My brother and I scrambled down the stairs, throwing elbows across each other in order to get the bagel of our choice, even though my mom always bought a baker’s dozen — way too many for our household. After we were satisfied, and my dad had stumbled down the stairs to claim his untouched cinnamon raisin bagel, it was time for the ESPN Zone. Today’s sport of choice would be football. My five-year-old brother hopped off of his stool and almost tripped over himself as he ripped through all of the bats and rackets in our “equipment closet” to find a torn-up football from my dad’s glory days. This was my brother’s sport of choice, as mine would have been something of more familiarity, or even a 50 yard dash. I’d thrown a few footballs in the past, but had never perfected the spiral — in part because I did not know what a spiral was. In addition, the ones I had thrown were mostly foam balls or miniature sized, as my dad thought a full-sized ball would be impossible for my tiny hands and could possibly hurt me.
All three of us rushed through the glass patio door as we prepared for our own Rio 2016 games. Today’s contest included standing about thirty yards from one another on opposite sides of the backyard, leaving our rectangular pool in between us, like a golf sand trap. Only the finest competitors would breach this length. My brother shadowed my father’s movements, as he demonstrated the correct way to grip the awkwardly shaped ball. The ball brushed passed his prepubescent fingertips and soared for a few yards. He received a rousing applause from his tough audience, my mother, as she sat firing through her kindle, more concerned with the main character’s love life than our childish competition. I was up to bat, not feeling nervous considering I had a few inches on my brother and knew I would surpass his endeavor. But I did feel a tinge of apprehension as I considered my father’s expectations.
I was the oldest child, the project, and I had to be better, stronger, and faster with every punch I threw. Bob, the center, passed me the pigskin as I tiptoed past the start. My palm grazed up and down the ball, feeling the unfamiliar placeholders for my fingers, as I mentally prepared for the task. I felt my mother’s eyes scanning my body from head to toe. A light blue oversized Argentina soccer jersey was draped across my torso. Black Adidas basketball shorts fell over my knees. My hair was kept neat by the blue bandana sealing in my dirty blonde hair. A pukka shell necklace hung close to my neck. And, finally, black Puma sneakers completed my look.
This fashion choice, variations of which I wore every day, saddened my mother and deeply confused both of my parents. This was not the stereotypical garb of a pre-teen female. I was oblivious and simply desired to imitate the appearance of my friends on the PE soccer field (all of whom were boys). I was a tomboy, and would remain so until I decided otherwise. Although my mom would sometimes hint at buying the pink Limited Too dress, she respected my fashion statements and admired my determination to maintain such a ‘chic’ wardrobe. I walked with a swagger, lifting my legs with every movement like I was ready for a challenger at all times. I did not at all “look like a girl.”
Ignoring her gaze from afar, I stepped up to the challenge. I rotated my shoulders, pulled my arm back, and released the ball, letting it drift across the pool. The ball soared with ease, a perfect spiral past the intended target and tumbled to a stop. My brother cheered for me and fell over himself as he excitedly picked up the ball to take his turn again. My parents exchanged glances and tossed a few words to each other before going back inside. I wondered what those words were until they were revealed to me about seven years later.
Although I had drastically changed my style by high school, internally, my tomboyish tendencies remained. To my mother’s delight, I ditched the lengthy basketball shorts for flouncy skirts. I got my ears pierced and adorned them with pearls or a tiny diamond. I straightened my hair and slicked it back as many ways I could imagine. This was the feminine daughter my mom had imagined, despite never attempting to influence anything about me. But in my new ruffled skirts, I could still do a ladder drill at a remarkable pace and still maintain my aggressive competitive side.
It was during this period of time that my mom confided something in me. She reminisced about my tomboy “phase.” As I got older, I had always reflected on it negatively, embarrassingly dismissing my obsessions with “boyish,” unflattering clothing. She talked about it wistfully, remembering the strong athletic promise she had seen when I was so young. She followed her childhood memories of me with a discussion about my sexuality. She told me she had concluded on that humid Miami day, when I launched an effortless spiral, that I was gay and that she and my father would accept me no matter what my sexual preference happened to be. These words almost knocked me off my feet and left me speechless. I was in a state of utter confusion. She continued as she recognized my reaction, explaining that both the garb and my athletic prowess could only lead her to having one clear conclusion with my father. A “normal” girl wouldn’t be able to execute such an artful spiral while sporting Air Jordan shorts. There had to be some other explanation.
I grappled with her comments, but despite thinking this over for a few days, I couldn’t comprehend why the tail of a skirt or the length of shorts or a range of motion determined my sexuality. Whether or not I altered my sense of style should not govern who I am attracted to. In sport, the female body is constantly analyzed and criticized when it does not meet the stereotypical standards that men declare. Her swagger and her appearance are speculated upon when she exceeds the “traditional” limits of her fellow competitors. Take Serena Williams. As soon as she began to dominate the professional circuit, eyes moved from her scores to her body. She received nasty critiques about her “manly” characteristics, which some claimed unfairly elevated her above her opponents. Although her sexuality in this case is not mentioned, her femininity is called into question over her ability to hammer a ball crosscourt at record speeds.
Female athletes now recognize the unfair line they have to straddle. On the one hand, there is pressure to perform and be the best at all costs; on the other hand, if you do make it, there is pressure to maintain a certain sexuality that can be identified as the essence of femininity. This has been exemplified by my experience in college tennis.
Tennis is considered a more feminine sport. This is an indisputable fact, as male viewers inappropriately commend women for their tight, short skirts, the way they bend over in ready-position, and the grunts they release after answering an opponent’s serve. I have heard men “complimenting” the sport by suggesting the body type for tennis players is typically thin and petite, while maintaining an athletic frame that allows them to compete at the highest of levels. This causes intense insecurity in girls who take part in the sport. Women have to focus on competition and live up to the feminine stereotype men create.
This J-term our coach had us scheduled to lift weights three times a week. There was significant resistance among us stemming from the fear that these exercises would morph our bodies in an unflattering way. Many of us tried to compromise with our coach, hoping to incorporate cardio drills in place of strength training. Our top priority seemed not to be strengthening ourselves in the off-season; it was to avoid bulking and putting on weight in order to protect the pristine stereotype of the female tennis player.
I think it is time for women to take more control of their bodies and their sport. We have made progress, but we cannot afford to backtrack. There is not a single definition of what it means to be a woman. What should be analyzed is our results, not how we fill in our uniforms, not perfect posture when scooping a ball from the court, or what our sexuality is. We, women, need to ignore the stereotypes forced upon us by male competitors and focus on our competition (easier said than done with heightened media presence). My mom’s comments on my sexuality, as well as our concerns with bulking, helped me to see the large gains we still have yet to make in female sport. Sexuality and femininity are multifaceted and mutually exclusive from sport; the male ego should not engender female insecurities that could alter their competitive edge. Throw as hard as you can, wear what is most comfortable on your skin, and prevent peoples’ opinions from dictating your sexuality. Much easier said than done, but we can start here.
