P.E. for thee but not for me.

Notes from tolerating a patriarchal upbringing.

Charleston, SC has lovely historic gas lamps to accompany the gaslighting of women!

An early memory I try to make sense of that involved the complete dismissal of my feelings, comfort, truth, and safety by adult men happened early in my sophomore year. At the time, I attended a Catholic high school, named after a man, located in downtown Charleston on Calhoun Street, which was named after a politician human trafficker...also a man. It was a co-ed school and the faculty demographic was either nuns over age 92 or male coaches over 52. The men wore sporty Oakley’s on lanyards around their necks, polo shirts and khakis, like there was a memo between them to match their dull personalities through this uninspired dress code. Sometimes, they decided to look a little nicer by throwing on a navy blazer over the polo, but the Oakley’s were still worn as their statement necklaces. They were kept on in case of emergency boating immediately after the final bell rang through the halls, I suppose.

I was 14 and we had to take P.E. or “Physical Education,” for some arcane reason. Keep in mind this high school was in the middle of a city, there was no outdoor space conducive to this particular class, we were surrounded on four sides by concrete sidewalks. So it was particularly dismaying when one day in the class it was announced we were required to “run a mile.” Huh. Ok. Unsure who was “requiring” it, but sure, I guess?

The way P.E. worked in the 80’s at a southern Catholic co-ed high school was, the girls wore their matching standard elastic waist uniform P.E. shorts under our standard matching uniforms. We wore green plaid or solid green pleated skirts with white, oxford button down blouses. On the one day a week we had Physical Education, since we’d have the shorts on under our skirts, we’d basically just take the skirts off and go sweat for an hour. We’d do activity in our Oxford poly blend button downs OR t-shirts, if we remembered to wear one underneath, and stick the skirt and shirt back on, over what we exercised in, and just go back to class wearing sweaty clothing underneath our uniforms. Like this was educational and not distracting somehow.

Sometimes, the entire decade of the eighties felt like they were surprised teenagers existed. Like, “Wow, I guess these kids are all here and we gotta do SOMETHING with them?” That decade felt like adults seemingly woke up from the drug-induced seventies barely aware that a crop of kids came out of it.

Well, on this day we were told in our gym class that it was time to run a mile. So we were just sent outside to run around the city block a few times to….educate us? I don’t even remember if I had on sneakers that day, because it wouldn’t have mattered, no one there cared, I might have even been in penny loafers, but I started running on the sidewalk with everyone else.

Now, Charleston is a historic little city. Her sidewalks are not exactly even everywhere you go, not to mention, there was no supervision or even stretching or discussion on form or pace, it was just “rip off your skirts, go run laps on the city’s sidewalks and see you after for sweaty algebra class.” I am not naturally athletic, although I played sports (I had played basketball and softball in middle school and had a green belt in Taekwondo at this point in my young life) but I am not a good runner because of a severe pronation (too much information, ok I know, but it’s pertinent!)

The facade of my school on Calhoun street. This building has since been demolished but my memories of it remain.

On my first run around the building, I landed on a piece of raggedy sidewalk and my ankle turned inward as a tiny bone in my foot, on the outer edge, right under my pinky toe SNAPPED. Immediately, searing pain shot through my foot. I retracted it and was thrown into a hobble and then a limp and then tears were seeped down my face as I tried to silently endure this LITERAL misstep.

I had to walk it off, I told myself, because the idea of drawing attention to myself at this stage of my life was UNTHINKABLE. Come to think of it, it still is! No. Nope, couldn’t walk it off, just seemed to make it WORSE.

But the systemic vibe at my school was NOT safety or even, really, empathy. They LOVED giving demerits that lead to detention unless you towed their stern line. ESPECIALLY if you were a female. The word “discipline” was used incessantly at this institution. However, I question your “discipline,” sirs! Was it “disciplined” to NOT teach a healthy approach to good physical habits that might promote a lifetime of exercise? Because just running around a building is possibly the laziest physical education curriculum I could think of, if you ask me.

But I was stuck. I couldn’t continue running with a broken bone, I could barely stumble back to our thick-headed gym teacher who ended up sending me straight to the principal’s office.

The principal was another middle aged white coach of something. I don’t even remember of what. This place was DRIPPING in nuns and coaches, I tell you! And they all mysteriously had very angry and sour dispositions. Maybe he was in charge of basketball since that was pretty popular at that school? All I know is, and here is where gaslighting comes in: HE DID NOT BELIEVE MY INJURY WAS REAL. He interrogated me and questioned me, and I was ALREADY feeling embarrassed and humiliated for not being able to complete a mile in penny loafers on uneven concrete! His stance was I must be faking it because I wanted to get out of the assignment. To be fair, the assignment was certifiably bananas, but his unhinged implication meant: HE BELIEVED ME TO BE A TEENAGE PSYCOPATH.

Then, after I stood (or sat, rather) firm that my foot was swelling because it TRUTHFULLY WAS INJURED, he finally capitulated and had to call my mom at work to come fetch me. Which was another source of failure, because interrupting your parent’s work day is never terrific, but she dutifully came and took me to an orthopedist.

My foot was indeed broken. And not only was it fractured ON THIS INSANE SCHOOL’S WATCH I had to use crutches and wear a cast that went up to my knee for six weeks.

A curious little side note of this story, which is not the thrust of this particular essay, is the same orthopedist who set my broken bone ended up putting an amputated foot in a crab trap a few years later that came loose and washed up on a Sullivan’s Island beach, BUT THAT’S A TALE FOR ANOTHER TIME.

In this instance, the orthopedist mentioned was keeping my foot INTACT.

Luckily, the orthopedist claimed ownership of the specimen, and after a small four figure fine…ALL WAS WELL!

Middle aged, white male coaches and ancient dusty nuns with scowls are a sadistic cocktail for looking after the well being of 14 year old girls. As far as the men who were the “fists” of that school, I can attest they were all legitimate killjoys!

Later that semester I ended up transferring to a different school. I was not a good match, I guess, with the crusty, grumpy patriarchal structure of making people’s broken bones WORSE or, perhaps more egregiously, making a young woman fight to keep her own reality. I’d attended Catholic schools my whole life up until then, and this was (luckily!) the first time I’d encountered being labeled a manipulator by an authority figure.

I’d come to learn, over the years, the card carrying members of the good ole boys club have been expertly programmed to deny one’s truth as a default tactic to exert control over women almost to predictable overuse.

But make no mistake, if any man accuses you of lying about your pain, HE is the damaged one.

🩷JHT