The first day of gym, freshman year, we line up to be weighed. Ahead of me, most of the girls
are the size of my mother, already young women, breasts and hips straining the uniforms:
one-piece contraptions with short legs, short sleeves, snaps up the front, and Peter Pan collars,
made of bright red unyielding fabric that shows every drop of sweat. My breasts are still tiny, my
hips non-existent; the littlest size is far too large. I slowly inch forward with the others,
elasticized waist drooping to my crotch, shorts reaching past my knees. I’ve always been small,
slender, slight, teased by classmates every year: first “Pee Wee,” then “Mighty Mouse.” I think
of sticks and stones, try not to mind. Miss Stearns – chino pants, button down shirt, basketball
sneakers, man’s haircut – calls our names and one by one we step on the scale. As she pencils
each number into her chart, she calls it out to the rest of the class, revenge for the ugly whispers
that fill the locker room, the hallways, the whole town. The bigger girls turn pink, pull down
their shorts. When Miss Stearns shouts “90 pounds!” I also flush, yank up my elastic. Now
everyone knows I don’t even weigh a hundred pounds. I’m sure they can guess my other secret:
no monthly “friend” visits me yet. No boy has ever tried to touch me. I’d better hurry up and get
myself kissed.
So painful to imagine your experience here, which you portrayed vividly! The social pressure to fit a mythical model of “normal”, the public announcement of each girl’s weight, and all the associations with each announcement.
What a long journey from your young woman self at this point in 1969, to the woman you became years and decades later. Kudos to you for surviving and blossoming beyond this hideous adolescent trial! 🙂
Thanks, Gina. I’m grateful that we’ve evolved enough as a society that my daughters did not face this kind of public shaming in PE class.