Writing The Self 4: Basketball Shorts

It was a hot and sunny day in Regina, Saskatchewan. I was biking to school in a t-shirt and basketball shorts with my light blue SkullCandy headphones on, blasting music, biking to the beat. I arrived at the front of the school and locked my bike to the bike rack, heading over to the playground to join my friends. Most of my girl friends were wearing tank tops and shorter shorts and the boys were wearing basketball shorts and t-shirts, just like me. My fourth grade class was going swimming that day so we got called in early for recess so that we could board the bus. I ran in through the doors and walked quickly to avoid getting in trouble. Arriving at my classroom, I talked to my classmates and we sat on our desks until the teacher walked in to take attendance so that we could leave. After attendance, we made our way to the bus and got on board, pairing off in our seats. I sat with my friend and we discussed how excited we were for swimming.

“I brought this really pretty new tankini,” my friend explained. “It’s yellow and white and flowery.”

“That sounds awesome! I can’t wait to see it!” I told her. I always wore a t-shirt and long shorts made for swimming. I was too uncomfortable wearing anything else, especially a bikini. One of the boys in my class always commented on my weight so I never wanted to show most parts of my body. When we arrived at the pool, we dispersed into our change rooms, boys in the boys and girls in the girls. I waited for one of the stalls in the change room to be open and started to think about how gross the floor felt under my feet. It was wet, slimy, and I was probably going to get warts from it. Gross.

The stall opened and I walked inside with my bag of swimming gear. I pulled out my swimming t-shirt and shorts and slid them on after taking my regular clothes off, shoving them into my bag. I walked out to most of my female classmates wearing bikinis and tankinis. I stood and wondered, Why am I the only one who dresses like this? Everybody left the change room and I followed after.

When we were done our swimming time, I dried off and switched back into my regular clothes then headed to the main lobby of the building.

“Hey Michaela, why do you always dress like a boy?” One of the boys said to me. Some of the girls laughed.

“It’s comfy. Keeps me cool. I’m comfortable,” I stated. The boys just kind of laughed and shrugged and walked away. We headed back to the school and all I could think about on the bus ride and for the rest of the day was how I dressed differently than everyone else. Does it really matter if I dress like a boy? I like what I wear. I like who I am. I know I’m a girl so who cares. It stuck with me all night, too.

The next day I decided to wear my pink, blue, and yellow shorts that were a little shorter than my typical basketball shorts, along with a simple grey tank top. My friends started to say how they liked my outfit, despite how obvious my tan lines were. I would say thank you but couldn’t help but feel that they felt obligated to say these things just because I looked like them now. I was looking like an actual girl even though I knew that once I went back to what I was comfortable in, I would be made fun of.