The next week at swim practice I was too depressed to train. I loafed my way through every workout and stopped eating fruit pies. I was good at swimming, but I didn’t really get the point of it anymore. You just swam really fast for the sake of swimming, big deal. It wasn’t like football where people give you college money for it, and scream at the TV, and throw parades where mooning and head-butting might occur. By Friday practice, Dan took me out of the pool. He sat me down by a chalkboard where our team mantra was written.
“You want to tell me why you’re loafing?” he asked.
“I’m swimming as fast as I can.” I said.
“Since when does Sean lap you?”
Since swimming is lame and it’s not football.
“I’m tired,” I said flatly, but Dan simply pointed to the little chalkboard.
“What does that say?” he asked.
I read aloud, “‘A winner is someone who finds the absolute limits of personal agony, and surpasses them every day.’ ” And that’s why you’re a swim coach and not an anethesiologist. You probably live in a shack.
“Are you a winner?” Dan asked.
“I guess not,” I said.
“Then get out of my pool.”
“What?” I asked. “You serious?” I thought he needed me.
“Yes, I’m serious. You’re not here to win, and you’re wasting everyone’s time. Get out of my pool.”
“I will,” I said, as I headed toward the locker room. Adding, “Also, it’s not your pool, the city owns it!”
“Well, I’m kicking you out of it,” he said. “Go be a loser somewhere else.”
“I will!” I said, getting angrier as a marched away. “And I don’t care!”
“Well, that’s handy! ’Cause you’re kicked off the team! Good-bye.”
“Good-bye!” I said, turning around.
By now everyone was staring and I hoped my teammates got a good look at my face, because they were never gonna see it again!
I hit the women’s showers and threw my cap and goggles against the wall, liking the way the way the goggles echoed against the tile, and excited to have the whole shower area to myself. I picked them up and threw them again.
“All mine!” I said, turning on every shower and running between them—finally deciding to sprawl out on the giant wheelchair shower bench and luxuriate in a seated cleaning. When I was a big rich doctor somewhere I would have a seat in my shower, too. But as I washed the chlorine out of my hair and felt the warm water trickle down my face, I noticed I was crying, and “all mine” quickly became all alone. And I admitted for the first time that I really loved swimming.
When you’re kicked off a swim team, or any team for that matter, you kinda just want to stomp out, get into a Lamborghini drive off into the sunset. But I was waiting for a ride from my dad, which was like waiting for a really moody slot machine to pay. So in order to give everyone the impression that I was long gone, I had to hide myself on the side of the steps above the pool. And when Dad showed up an hour later, he looked like rush-hour traffic had just handed him his ass, so I didn’t have the guts to tell him I got kicked off the team.
All weekend I obsessed about CAST. I vacillated between feeling bad for being rude to Dan and thinking about all the names I should have called him. I thought about how good it felt to be on a team that didn’t involve numbers. And it’s not like I actually knew colleges didn’t give away swimming scholarships. I had just been so focused on getting big and moving on that I never bothered to check out what the whole sport was really about. Weirdly, now that it was all over, I was really ready to take swimming seriously.
By Monday morning I was exhausted—I hadn’t been able to sleep on Sunday night because all of my neuroses had returned, and I was so distracted I flubbed a pop quiz in math. I took a sad bus ride home instead of going straight to the pool, and when I got home my father was sitting on the couch, looking like he had been there all day. He had the paper spread across the cushions and he looked surprised when I walked in.
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you swimmin’?”
“There’s no practice today,” I said.
“How come?”
“A pool thing?” I said. “I don’t know. Dan didn’t say.”
“Ah, well,” Dad said. “I saved the sports section for you. There’s a thing in here about that girl from Stanford, Janet Evans.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, feeling like dirt.
“Says she swims like six hours a day. . . . You could do that.”
“Yeah,” I said, wishing I had just hid at the corner store for three hours.
“I imagine that would be enough swimming . . . you know, to be the best. She is the best, right?”
“Yeah . . . I think so,” I said, wondering if Dan called him and he knew I had gotten kicked off the team.
“Well, you train like her, you could be the best,” he said, smiling. “I truly believe that.” I tried to be a rock, as his eyes filled with pride. But I knew if he said one more word about swimming, I was gonna fall apart and start confessing.
Instead, he stood up and changed the subject. “Well, here’s the paper.” He grabbed his coat. “I gotta go get your stepmom at school.” I wondered if he knew how stupid he sounded when he said that.
The phone rang, and Dad picked it up on his way out.
It was Dan and he handed me the phone before walking out the door.
“Where are you?” Dan asked.
“Home,” I said. “I’m banned, remember.”
“Bullshit!” Dan said. “You get your butt down here and get in this pool, or you’re not going to regionals!”
“But I’m at home,” I said. “You kicked me off the team!”
“Listen,” Dan said, “I don’t have time to argue with you. If you want to be a little baby, stay home. But if you want to be a real swimmer, you get your ass down here!”
I looked out the window at Dad driving away. “I want to be a swimmer,” I said. “But Dad just took off, I don’t have a ride.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Dan said impatiently and hung up the phone. I didn’t know what that meant—if I was off the team or on, or what. I sat on the couch feeling confused and sorry for myself and decided to pick up the article about Janet Evans. She had a swimming scholarship at Stanford, an Olympic gold medal, and she was white. I didn’t know if I could achieve all of those things, but I felt a twinge of hopefulness about the future. Like maybe I wouldn’t die of hepatitis, my last meal a plate of food-bank cheese with food-bank honey on it—the only two things I got from the food bank that week.
My train of thought was broken by a knock at the door, and as I walked to get it I saw Dan’s car out the front window. Janie, one of the other girls from the team, was waiting in the passenger seat. Her mom had given me a ride to a meet once, so I assumed she had gotten him there. I opened the door, and Dan looked a little horrified as he asked, “You live here?”
“Yeah,” I said, touched. “You came to get me.”
“You know there’s like a ten-foot drop out your front door!”
I nodded still unsure if he was gonna lecture me or hug me. But he just stood there looking like an upside-down triangle. “Well, get your stuff and get in the car! Practice starts in twenty minutes!”
On the way to the pool everyone in the car was quiet. I looked at Dan, who was determined to pretend nothing happened on Friday. He was staring so intently at the road that it was obvious he was avoiding eye contact. Janie, who was what Dad would call “spoiled” or “a punk,” had been kicked off the team several times now. And, even though she was the loudest girl I had ever met besides Nay-Nay, she respected the ride of silence and didn’t say a word.
“I’m sorry,” I said, enjoying being important enough to be picked up. “I’m really gonna do my best from now on.”
“Don’t tell it to me,” Dan said. “Tell it to the pool.”
Twelve
THE FAMILY RACIST
DAD HAD ALWAYS rigged up everything in our house. You needed pliers to turn on the shower or open the bedroom door. There was a trick to opening every drawer in the kitchen, and the phone was a mess of electrical tape and worked only if you sat perfectly still. But Dad’s Mona Lisa was the van. This was a cargo van that he transported four children around in. The inside door handles fell off so to get out of the van from the driver’s side you had to use a bent coat hanger, and to get out of the passenger side you used a wrench. The two back doors of the van were held closed with a wire wrapped around them, and the latch on them was broken so the wire was actually the only thing holding the doors closed. And for the kids to sit on, in the cargo area were three plastic milk crates—and your crate wasn’t attached to the floor, so to stay on it while the car was in motion required a deft sense of balance and a working knowledge of physics. The floor of the van also had ridges, so if there was some water in the back that had seeped in through the not-really-closed back doors, we could while away the hours watching it roll back and forth as the van drove up and down slopes. Needless to say, my sister and I always called shotgun the night before.
The summer after my fourteenth birthday I spent with a family in France. The night I returned, my dad picked me up from the airport in the van. I got off my plane and seeing the hooptie-mobile was a subtle reminder that I wasn’t really Continental, and that brake pads aren’t for everyone. Dad helped me with my bags but he didn’t look particularly happy to see me. He looked anxious and stiff. And as we pulled the jalopy away from airport pick up he said. “Your stepmom wants us all to have a talk when you get home.” I was worried it was about money.
The trip to France was something that my French teacher had said would look good on my transcript, and I’d filled out all the paperwork and a scholarship application. My father’s tax forms confirmed what I had already known, that he hadn’t really had a job job in years. And that along with my transcripts bought me an almost full scholarship—except for five hundred dollars. I don’t think I had a full grasp of what five hundred dollars was to my family, I just knew it was a lot less than the thirty-five hundred all of the other kids’ parents paid. I actually thought they should be grateful because I saved them three thousand dollars. As I sat down for our “talk” I found out they were not grateful.
“We need you to start earning your keep,” Yvonne said, smoothing a piece of hair by the side of her face into a finger curl. “You got to go to France, and part of that is that you need to get yourself a J-O-B.”
“I have a job . . . I do childcare for that Tuesday night group.” Yvonne and Dad drew a blank. “PEPS.”
“What?” Yvonne looked at me blankly.
Dad used his hands to explicate. “She takes care of the kids during they little meeting, I forgot about that.”
“That’s volunteer work,” Yvonne said, grabbing Dad’s hand again.
“No,” I said. “Catholic Ser vice Center pays me. Plus, there’s Saturday mornings at the Jewish Center. I watch the kids during shul.” I was an equal opportunity kid-watcher.
“We mean a real job,” said Yvonne. “The type of job you do every day after school. You got to go to France, now you need to get a job.”
“Your stepmom is right,” Dad said nervously. “You should start contributing to this family.” I didn’t want to contribute to this family. This family needed a lot of work.
“Well, what about my extracurricular activities?” I asked. “My violin, my swimming, my clubs?”
“You’ll have to give some things up,” Yvonne said, causing my stomach to fall and my whole body to shudder.
“You don’t understand! I need those to get a scholarship for college!” So I can get the fuck out of here.
“No, you don’t understand!” Yvonne said. “You are too old to be not contributing to this household. And since you don’t have enough time to work, I say you quit swimming.” At this point I was swimming five hours a day.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dad said. “She doesn’t have to give up swimming, does she?”
Yvonne shot Dad a look so neutering, he actually left his body for a second.
“I’m fourteen. Who’s gonna hire me?” I asked.
“McDonald’s, for one,” Yvonne said
McDonalds, does she know who the fuck I am? “I’m pretty sure you have to be sixteen.”
“To work at McDonald’s?” Yvonne said incredulously.
“Pretty sure,” I said.
Yvonne was flustered and got dismissive. “Well, that’s not the point! Besides,” she said, “no one is gonna check your age.” Wrong again, but I didn’t say anything. I just sat there wishing that I hadn’t gone to France, and more, that she hadn’t said the word McDonald’s. I wouldn’t have taken the summer in France if I had known it might end in McDonald’s.
Since I was old enough to know it was a shitty job, McDonald’s was where I was worried I’d end up. Every time someone joked about McDonald’s being my future My friend Violet said that McDonald’s was where we’d work if we didn’t finish our history presentation. When I missed a geometry problem, and my math teacher said I should practice saying, “Would you like some fries with that order?” I just froze. They thought it was funny because it was so far-fetched, but for me McDonald’s wasn’t all that far-fetched. I had been fighting it all these years, but I knew if I stopped fighting, my genes would catch up to me like a tailwind no matter where I’d gone to school, and I’d spend the rest of my life on fries.
“Jesus!” I said. “You don’t understand.” I tried not to get upset. Yvonne fed on upset-ness. “We get like four hours of homework a night.”
“That sounds like an excuse,” Yvonne said. “I had a job when I was your age, and had time to get pretty good grades. And I’ll tell you, I had a lot more family responsibilities than you do. I understood my priority was to my family.”
“I’m not having some great time!” I was getting upset anyway so I decided to lay it on thick, “I have a four-point-oh, and I play in two orchestras, I’m in swimming, and I work with underprivileged youth, because I think it will pay off down the road . . . for all of us.” The last part made no sense to Yvonne.
“You’re underprivileged youth!” Yvonne said. “Or did you not know that?” Why was she killing my American dream?
“Besides,” Dad said, “I see you find plenty of time to monkey around here and watch that TV.”
“Yeah,” Yvonne said. “You could easily spend the same hour flippin’ burgers and have made five dollars.”
“Do you want a McDonald’s employee or an All-American?” This was meant to grab my dad’s attention. He may not have related to swimming that well, but he liked the way those words rolled off the tongue: All-American.
“Can’t you do both?” Dad asked.
“She’s manipulating.”
“You don’t understand,” I said, panicked. “I know it doesn’t look like it, but I have a plan.”
“You have a plan?” Yvonne laughed. “A plan for what? You’re fourteen.”
“To go to the same schools my classmates are going to.”
“Oh, this again,” Dad said. “You think you’re better than this family.”
Yvonne nodded in agreement before declaring, “You’re just being racist.” Racist? I was shocked and recoiled. It was like we were all just having a conversation and she pulled out a hand grenade. “That’s right. You got a problem with black people.” I could keep talking, but the argument was over, so I started to cry. I had worked too hard at trying to be down to be called a racist.
“I’m not racist.”
“Mishna,” Dad said. “Get a job.”
“You guys are being really shortsighted!” I screamed and stomped off . What I really wanted to say was “ghetto”—“You guys are being really ghetto!” So maybe I was racist.
I raced down the stairs to my room, wondering why I couldn’t have my friend Violet’s parents. They don’t even talk to her most of the night. She si
ts in her room and does whatever she wants and nobody makes her clean anything or do anyone’s hair or get a job. Her only job is her schoolwork and she doesn’t even do that well in history. Or my friend Marni—her parents even take her to Europe every summer and she doesn’t have to pay them back. In fact, she gets a HUGE allowance and all she has to do is stomp around and act all depressed. I wished someone would pay me to be depressed—I would do such a good job.
I jumped into my top bunk and wedged myself into the corner against the cement wall and imagined I was in a Soviet prison. Dad was supposed to have finished dry walling it seven years ago, and now the pebbles in the cement just elevated my self-pity as I pressed my face into cold rock like a Dostoyevsky character. And as the tears poured down my cheeks I realized I was mostly upset about Dad. He had totally let Yvonne call me a racist, and I wondered if there was any way he could really think I was.
That night I had a dream. I saw myself running down a street in the middle of the night. The street was desolate—just abandoned ware houses lining a cobblestone street. It must have been inspired by Michael Jackson videos—maybe “Smooth Criminal” or “The Way You Make Me Feel.” I was running fast to get away from something, but I could feel its breath on my neck. I sprinted, trying to resist, but this giant hand reached out to grab my shoulder and pull me back. I finally fell into the fog and became a part of it. But in the fog there was a warm, familiar peace. I woke up thinking about McDonald’s.
The next day when I came home from swim practice, Yvonne was sitting in the kitchen with Anora, Andreus, and Yvette. All of them had a Happy Meal.
“Did you get me one?” I asked.
“No,” Yvonne joked. “I thought you didn’t like McDonald’s.”
“I like McDonald’s food!” I said, feeling hungry and dejected.
“Well, you should get yourself some money.” She laughed. I pulled a five out of my pocket and handed it to her.
“Ask your dad to take you.”
I'm Down: A Memoir Page 19
