*As always, names are changed to protect people's privacy
Here we are again, another entry in the series that chronicles the utter hell that was middle school. For those of you who haven't seen previous blog posts, I related stories of chronic, relentless, minute-by-minute bullying that I endured from 7th - 9th grade (again, 9th grade was middle school in my district). As if that wasn't enough, all the girls in my friend group turned on me by the end of 9th grade, including Ivy, who had once been one of my best friends. With only two months left in the school year, a bullying incident instigated at lunch by my former friend group led to a meeting with some of these girls, their parents, Principal Hayden, my parents, and me. However, it only served as an airing of grievances, and nothing was really solved. By then, my self-esteem was pulverized, and everything seemed hopeless. In reading these stories, it is only natural to wonder, "Did 9th grade at least end on a positive note?"
As a matter of fact, yes, but not in the ways you would hope. My friends were gone, no question, but something unexpected and positive happened in the final weeks of the school year.
But let me back up a bit.
The previous summer, during the final week of overnight camp, I tripped, fell, and broke my left ankle during a game of Capture the Flag. Between the splint and the eventual cast, my ankle had to remain immobilized for seven weeks to allow the bone to heal. As is typical in these situations, the surrounding muscle atrophied. To rebuild the muscle after the cast was removed, I took walks every day after school. For the first week or so, it was just down the street and back because the muscle was weak and my ankle was stiff. With time, however, walking became more comfortable and I gradually increased the distance, ultimately to a full two miles. I eventually incorporated jogging into my routine and, to my surprise, I found that I enjoyed it. My mom eventually suggested that I join the track team in the spring.
I thought she was out of her mind.
As is common among autistic people, I had poor full body coordination and was terrible at sports. Unrelated to being autistic, but still relevant to my poor athletic abilities, I got winded easily (years later I would learn that I naturally have lower than average lung capacity). Needless to say, I hated gym class, where kids always humiliated me, especially during team sports: the kids on my team always blamed and shamed me if our side lost, and the kids on the opposing team enthusiastically thanked me if my poor coordination resulted in them scoring a point. During the mile run in the Presidential Physical Fitness test, I always ran for the first thirty seconds and walked the rest of the way. How on earth could running track be fun for me? Nevertheless, I threw caution to the wind and joined the team.
Track practice was incredibly difficult. As I expected, I was unable to keep up with the other girls on the team during our daily two- or three-mile runs. In some ways, it served as an apt metaphor for my social life: I always felt left behind and left out, and no matter how hard I tried to keep up, I always came in last by a wide and conspicuous margin. However, my track coach, Mr. Sampson, was terrific. He literally and metaphorically did what most of my teachers-- particularly Mr. Frank-- failed to do in class: he gave me extra support instead of chastising or belittling me for not being able to do what everybody else was doing. He ran with me and encouraged me to keep going when I was tempted to walk. "You can do it! That's the way!" he would say. Very, very slowly, I was able to run for increasing stretches of time.
Finally, our first track meet arrived. Mr. Sampson put me in the 100- and 200-meter sprints, I now suspect because these were races he knew I could finish, not because he thought I was sprinting material. It was a way to get me comfortable with participating in a track meet. As always, I came in dead last.
One day, after I had a few track meets under my belt, Mr. Sampson told me, "You're going to do the 800-meter run tomorrow." While most people might think 800 meters (a half mile, two laps around the track) is a short distance to run, to me the very idea sounded intimidating and horrifying. Sure, I was training my body to run for longer stretches and I was improving, but I couldn't fathom being able to run 800 meters. I said in disbelief, "The 800? I can't do that!" Mr. Sampson said confidently, "Yes, you can."
At the meet the next day, I started out running but very quickly began to struggle after finishing the first 200 meters of the 800-meter race. With each forced and labored step that barely passed as running, my lungs burned, my abdomen cramped, and my calf and thigh muscles ached. Passing Mr. Sampson at the end of the first lap, I asked, "What do I do?" Laced in that question was a desperate plea for him to tell me that it was okay, that I didn't have to finish and that I could try again next time. Instead, Mr. Sampson nonchalantly said, "Do it again." Reluctantly, I brute forced myself through another lap. My coach encouraged me the entire way, shouting things like, "You're doing great! Keep going!" and "Think of how you'll feel when it's over!"
I finished the 800-meter run at an unimpressive 4 minutes and 11 seconds. To this day, I still don't know how I did it. Completely exhausted but relieved, I collapsed on the grass. But Mr. Sampson wasn't done with me yet: he gently told me to get up, walk it off, and stretch so that I wouldn't be sore the next day. I was winded and aching, but also happy that for the first time in my life, I managed to run a half mile. "You see? I told you that you could do it!" said Mr. Sampson, tapping his head with an index finger. Track is all up here!" With the help and support of a caring and empathetic track couch, I proved that I could do it. And if I did it once, I could do it again.
I was put into middle distance for the rest of the season, running the 800 and improving my time-- even if still coming in dead last-- at each meet. When I went on to high school, I continued to run track every year. I ran the 800, of course, but also the 1600 (1-mile) and, once, the 3200 (2 miles). Although I continued to always come in last-- my best time in the 1600 was 7 minutes and 28 seconds, still slower than what most female high school track runners typically do-- my body adapted enough that I was easily able to complete these races and, like the other girls, do more than one race at the same meet. Mr. Sampson, who had since moved on to teaching and coaching at the other high school in the district, continued to cheer me on when he saw me at meets. "That's the way, Julie!" he would always say as I ran past him. With my body better adapted for running, I even found myself enjoying gym class (except for volleyball, a sport that I passionately hated).
As for 9th grade, Mr. Sampson came to me after our last track meet and said, "You should be proud of yourself, especially coming from where you were. You've really improved."
Mr. Sampson was the supportive coach who made what could've been another miserable experience a positive one for me. To be fair, social interactions are a lot more complex and nuanced than running. But in both cases, adults in my life needed to meet me where I was instead of shaming me for not always being able to do what everybody else seemed to do effortlessly. Mr. Sampson didn't expect me to clock in on the 800 at the same times as the other girls on the team, but he supported me in my own personal improvement.
I should also note that I enjoyed the atmosphere of the track team, and that it was the one environment at school in which I felt comfortable with many of the other kids. Unlike in gym class, the girls on the team were supportive and encouraging. I was still wary about interacting with my ninth-grade teammates since many of them knew me as a perpetual target, so I got to know some of the 7th- and 8th-graders on the team and managed to make new friends, which I desperately needed. I think part of why the atmosphere was so supportive is that track is different than a typical team sport. While a track team is technically a team, the sport is more solitary, and and thus there is less emphasis on being a moving part in a machine, such as in soccer or basketball. My observation has been that kids run track because of their own personal goals: to get daily exercise, to train to run faster, to get stronger, or to lose weight. They're simply there to run. Sure, winning a meet is great, but it doesn't seem as high stakes as with typical team sports.
With a sport that I loved and a supportive track coach, and new friends in the final weeks of 9th grade, there was only one thing left to do:
Stand up to my bullies.
Tune in next week.
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