To My Old Physical Ed Teachers,
(a letter from the fat, asthmatic kid)
When I was younger, I used to hate you.
You almost certainly already know this. Day in and day out, you get to fight with uncommunicative, unfit kids who haven't brought their trainers or don't want to play hockey and it exhausts you. Like every teacher you are required to tick boxes and fulfil government requirements and after hours spent on your feet there is nothing more frustrating than having to wait outside the changing room, during your short valuable lesson time, for the kid who won't take their school jumper off. Even if you are the most patient, gentle P.E. teacher in the world, you will have had the glare of death from a pupil at least once a week.
And let's be honest: you probably hated me too. I held your class up. I always seemed to be unable to breathe when you wanted me to do something difficult. I argued back. I never met the targets you set for lessons, and I was always one of the slowest to change. I was not an ideal pupil, and believe you me, my teachers let me know about that.
School is over for me now. I'm a graduate with many friends training to become teachers (and I have to admit - I'm even considering it myself). There's not one of them who won't make an excellent teacher, and a great colleague for you. What I'm trying to say is that I'm seeing things from your perspective, and I appreciate what you do, and that teaching sport is not as easy as it is made out to be.
But I can't forget what it was like being that fat, asthmatic kid in the classroom.
I cannot forget the teacher who screamed at me to keep running whenever I stopped, out of breath, despite the fact that this contravenes all guidelines on how to manage students with asthma in sports lessons.
I cannot forget watching the 'top set' learn interesting sports - javelin, hurdles, hockey, tennis - while the bottom set ran round the field again or 'circuit training' while you looked at your phone.
I cannot forget being shouted at for being the last changed - because the popular kids wouldn't let me have a space on the bench to get changed in, or because frequent taunts and people grabbing at my bra straps often made me feel so insecure I couldn't get changed except in one of the few toilet cubicles.
I cannot forget being laughed at by the sixth formers who marshalled the cross-country race as I pounded around the track in a solid 237th place, desperately out of breath.
I cannot forget you telling me to get on with it even when it would have been dangerous for me to do so.
I cannot forget you literally turning your back on me when I approached you to talk to you about what I needed to be able to achieve during your lesson and what I needed you to know about my asthma.
I cannot forget the look on the faces of the two popular team captains you picked as they stared blankly at the scrawny kids and the fat kids and the unpopular kids left on the bench.
I cannot forget that you classed cricket and rugby as boys' sports, so I was twenty before, thanks to my six nations' loving housemates, I discovered that I really love rugby. I cannot forget that you taught us that healthy female bodies are slim and light, that I never learnt that heavier, muscular bodies are sporting bodies too. I cannot forget that you allowed a culture of bullying and victimising to thrive in your classroom, and that you let one set of insecure students play their insecurities off on another. I cannot forget that we only talked about the human body in terms of what was wrong with us and how we could correct it, and never celebrated what we were already good at. I cannot forget.
And this is why I cannot forget.
I cannot forget because everything you taught us stayed with me. When I swim I imagine you are standing at the end of the pool, shouting at me to go faster, calling me weak when I rest. When I'm working as part of a team, especially physical tasks, I go out of my way to look busy and seek continual affirmation that I'm doing the right thing because of the fear of letting my team down, and being laughed at - or worse, looked at in disgust. If I'm buying clothing or equipment for any physical activity, I go for inconspicuous, skin-covering clothes, because your lessons taught me to dread being noticed while exercising, and the unchallenged attentions of my peers taught me that my body was ugly and to be ashamed of. I cannot forget because that embarrassment and shame is with me in every mirror I look into.
But you've had too much of my life, and you've almost had my physical fitness. Moving to university, I found a pool where I wouldn't be approached by creeps and a community where personal fitness is encouraged across a range of abilities and sports. Although I wasn't brave enough to go to a class or join a team (and I wanted to), I have managed to start taking control of my asthma and my fitness. I know what works for me and best of all, I've started enjoying exercising, away from judgement and grading. I am the largest I have ever been and also the fittest. My asthma is far worse than it was at school, partly thanks to a year in a damp and mouldy house, but I've learnt a lot about what I can do and how to look after my condition.
If I had to go back to one of your classes, I would suck, unquestionably. This is the place I've been mentally every time I have exercised since I stopped P.E. at sixteen.
Things are changing. You never saw me swim at school (only the Top Set got to visit the pool), but actually, I'm not bad. I snap on that lycra and polyester like it's my own superhero costume, complete with bug-eye prescription goggles, and head out the door on my own, because I want to. And from now on, you are no longer welcome to come with me.
