Childhood Stories from a Female Athlete

Second semester of college I was taking six courses instead of the recommended four or the encouraged five. A few weeks earlier, before the end of my first semester, I quit the hockey team. The one that had helped me get into the school in the first place. To avoid the emotional turmoil my subconscious knew would eventually ensue, I took an extra class and started a work study program to stay busy.

One of my classes was Children’s Literature, a gen ed elective a group of my dorm friends decided to take together.

For our midterm we were assigned a six page paper comparing two children’s books to The Little Bunny. Six pages felt a bit rude to me. Three children’s books have 50 words combined. Three would give us plenty of room for a concise comparison, but six was the assigned number. I was annoyed by the unnecessary headache. I’d have to really pull out some bullshit to fill up six pages on three children’s books. So that’s what I did.

Let me preface this with some fact. In the two years previous I’d been nominated for three writing awards for my schoolwork in high school and the first semester of college. If someone wants me to over analyze a book and come up with some bat shit crazy thesis for their amusement, I will do so. Apparently I “write well”. I have no idea how one writes well but that’s what I’ve been told.

The trouble was I’d painted a different picture of myself to the TA of my discussion section. One that didn’t quite radiate “writer”. Since he was the one grading my papers, this proved an issue.

I handed in my paper a few hours before 8am on the day it was due. I’d spent all night in the library procrastinating because I was so annoyed by the assignment. My dorm friends all finished there’s before I even started writing mine. And for some reason that night I decided to write the outline in the same word document as the actual essay and delete it. So I didn’t have the saved copy of the outline. I finished around 6am and took a nap on the heaters that lined the walls of our library before heading to class.

A few days later I got an email from my TA asking if I could come in and talk about my paper. I didn’t think this was odd at all, considering the same thing happened the semester before when I was nominated for an award. So I gladly scheduled time to speak with him during office hours and met on a Friday afternoon in his office on the 19th floor of the library. I knocked on the door, he opened it, greeted me and I entered.

When I walked in I remember feeling sorry for him. The room was so small, had no windows and he was sharing with another grad student. We had to squeeze past that desk and the clutter surrounding it to get to his space. The room was filled with books and papers from floor to ceiling. There was so little room to walk that I was astounded he’d managed to fit a second chair in his section of the room for visitors.

Still oblivious to what was coming, I sat down quietly and respectfully waited for him to carry the conversation. He sat at his desk, grabbed his notebook and turned his chair (after he was sitting) to face me. He didn’t waste any time. He got right into it. He did not look happy.

“So this is not an undergraduate paper.”

This was all the validation I’d ever needed. I remember the walls closing in and the room getting cloudy.

“I’m an idiot”, I thought. “I knew it. My writing’s so bad he brought me in here to tell me I need to go back to high school.”

See, I’d never really thought too highly of myself. In fact, only recently, over ten years later, have I accepted all the complements I’d received on my writing preceding this event and since this day. So those extremely vague words chosen to begin this conversation proved that the fears I’d had all my life were right. People only give compliments to be nice and receive one in return, they are never ever actually sincere!

This was my inner dialogue as he continued to speak. I honestly can’t recall much of what he said next because that first sentence sent me spiraling. I woke up when he finally got to the point.

“So, I wanted you to come in and give you a chance to talk to me. I know athletes often get help with their homework.”

My brain melted but I also let out an audible sigh of relief.

“Wait so you think the paper is good?” I asked.

He nodded. I went on.

“Phew, I thought you were telling me to go back to high school! Wow. I’m glad you think it’s good.”

“This paper isn’t written like an undergrad usually writes. Can you tell me more about your process writing this paper? Did you get help?”

I’d entered a state of shock at this point but my amazing brain kept my mouth moving as it went into full survival mode. I explained my process. I told him a group of us went to the library to write. That I didn’t start writing until 4am after most of my friends had already finished. He asked if I had an outline or any proof. He needed proof! He was that skeptical in my intellect! I told him that I didn’t have an outline. That I’d erased it from the document before printing. When he looked at me with pity, like I’d been caught, I finally shared a bit of my perspective on this whole situation.

“Listen, I quit hockey last semester. I just wear this jacket because it’s warm. Also it’s a club team. We didn’t get help with our homework. And I don’t say much during our discussion class because it’s at 8am on a Friday. And I sit in the back of the class to watch the three D1 athletes that sit in the front. They’re extremely amusing when they speak and I want to make sure I have a good view.”

After this a very tiny smile broke on his face and his posture changed. I told him I could send him other pieces of my writing or put him in touch with my previous teachers who would affirm that was undoubtedly my writing. While he still looked skeptical, he let me leave without any further action.

Two days later, we got our papers back. I received a B minus. I confronted him. He just looked at me like he was doing me a favor. I left it at that and continued on with my life.

Love yourself.

– Britt