Edited by Anni Rayas
*Though I’ve heard some stories similar to my own from fellow athletes, this is a reflection of my personal experiences. I do not speak for all athletes, nor do I take for granted the access I’ve had to play basketball and compete as an athlete throughout my life.
I’ve played basketball my
whole life. The first time I realized I was “the other” on the basketball court
was when I was 6 years old, first grade. Let me explain: the first time I
played basketball it was in a co-ed recreational league. Even at a very young
age, I walked away drawing two conclusions that would ultimately follow me into
the next 15+ years of my life: I love basketball, and the boys do not include
me. “They don’t pass me the ball!” I cried as my dad drove me home. He
sympathized with me, telling me they were ball hogs. I also remember him
acknowledging the fact that I was a girl, and that unfortunately, that probably
influenced their decision. I was frustrated and hollered at my dad something to
the effect of “What’s the point of even playing?!” I showed up at the next
practice all the same, laced up and ready to go.
The sports world is divided
into a very distinct binary understanding of gender—women
and men. From the moment I started playing sports, I was introduced to this
binary, as well as the “othering” that takes place alongside it. “The other” is
an opposite, when one category is prioritized over the other, making one the
default or the norm, and "the other" the less preferable or less
accepted by society. When I say the phrase, “basketball star,” which gender do
you think of? Some might immediately picture a man—Lebron
James, Steph Curry, Michael Jordan, etc. Or at least I know I do, because
that’s the way I’ve been socialized to understand athleticism.
When it comes down to it, if
you are not a man in the sports world, it comes with disadvantages. Athletic
opportunities are more readily available for boys compared to girls. Sports
competitions are attended more when it's men compared to women. And men make
significantly more money playing professional sports, and the list goes on. Not
to mention that when looking at athletic associations, in most cases there is a
modifier to establish that the program is for women, when no adjectives are
used for men’s programs. Here are several examples, because why not prove my
point?: NBA/WNBA, PGA/LPGA, ATP/WTA, and again, the list
goes on. Why provide a modifier for women’s athletic programs? Because it’s not
the norm, the anticipated, the accepted; it’s “the other.”
I remember when I decided I
wanted to play in the WNBA, “HA! That league is a joke!” is what I used to hear
all the time. Eventually I started believing it myself. There were so many
microaggressions I heard growing up that they encouraged me to believe that
girls could never be as good as boys in basketball (or any sport really)—comments
about the WNBA, how I was smaller and weaker, that women’s basketball would
only ever be worthy of ESPN2, that girls were not meant to play sports. All of
these stayed with me, all of these bothered me, but I kept playing. In fact,
these comments that I totaled up in my mind as the opposition became motivation
for me to be “as good as the guys” when it came to sports.
I established myself as a
“tom-boy” early on, or at least that’s how I thought of myself back then, and
managed to find as many opportunities as I could to play with boys. But by the
time I made it to the high school level, I started to realize the way society
had made me think of my own gender as the weaker, less impressive gender when
it came to athletics. But how wrong I was! I started meeting some of the best
athletes I had ever met. I started to realize women’s athletics were made up of
basketball stars, soccer stars, track stars, and the like. I started taking
pride in the fact that I was a girl, and I was proud of how both my fellow
athletes and I competed. But even as I started to love the athlete I was
becoming—a strong, successful athlete, I still felt the pull to prove myself
and to others that I could be as good as a man. I just wanted to be accepted
and respected as the athlete I always felt I was.
Let’s flash forward, because
sadly, things haven’t changed. I recently moved and was on the hunt to find a
place to play basketball, as I had just finished my collegiate basketball
career and was missing the rush of going up and down the court. I noticed a
group that would play at the same time every day, but I continued to make
excuses for myself as to why I shouldn’t play with them. The biggest one was
that I would be the only woman. Eventually I mustered up the courage to step
out onto the court and start shooting around; a man came up to me and invited
me to play with them. I was ecstatic! I was being welcomed onto the playing
field I’ve called home practically my whole life. Or at least I thought I was
being welcomed. I soon realized that being the only woman among 15 other men
came with a lot of frustrations and undeniable truths about the way women
athletes are still viewed today, as “the other.”
I’m the last person to be
chosen for a team. No one wants to guard me because they do not want to risk
getting beat by a girl (or “hurting” me). And even 15 years later, it is still
a struggle to convince them to pass the ball to me. But the worst part has
definitely been hearing comments about my appearance such as, “Don’t lift too
much, you’ll bulk up and look like a man.” I specifically remember a time when
I was playing really well. “You’re playing better than some of these guys,” is
what they usually say, reminding me that my talent is but an exception for women. But this time, I
heard something else, “You’re cute when you call for the ball,” he said. I
stared at him wondering how I could be playing so well and instead of
commenting on my talent, he decides to ignore the three 3s I just drained and
comments on my appearance. I told myself that was the last straw. I was not
only failing to prove my ability to these men, but I was also being
objectified.
At first I decided to stop
going, stop playing. I took some time off. I took this time to reflect on my
career, and I recalled the first time I laced up my shoes. I was reminded why
I’ve kept playing this whole time. I remembered who I’m playing for. I’m
playing for the little girl who wants the boys to pass her the ball. I’m playing
for the girl who is afraid to step out on the court because she’s been told
it’s a “boy” thing, or that she isn’t good enough to play with boys. I’m
playing for the girls who are better than the boys, but have to fight the media
to notice anything but her outer beauty. I’m playing for the girl who doubts
her own talent simply because of her gender identity. I’m playing for the games
aired on ESPN2 (or not at all) instead of ESPN.
I’m proud to be an athlete
who identifies as a woman, but when my gender is used to downgrade or minimize
my performance as an athlete, that’s when I see it as problematic. When gender
becomes a determining factor of my place on the court, when it requires me to
be “the other,” the less desired, the less talented athlete, that’s when I’m
reminded that I play for the girls, the women, and those whose gender is used
as a tool to limit their ability to reach their full athletic potential. So
until we are recognized as something other than a sub-genre of the athletic
world, I’ll continue to play in those uncomfortable places, the places that try
to convince me that I’m weaker, or just eye candy, and better off somewhere
else. I’ll play to remind those who wish to excel at a sport have the ability
to be a star, no matter what people have to say about it. So until we can
change the stigma behind what it means to be an athlete—a woman
athlete—I will continue to be the “other” on the basketball court.
And quite honestly, I was better and more determined than any of the boys I
played with when I first picked up the ball, and somehow, I knew that I just
had to keep trying. So I’ll continue to play. I’ll continue to stand in
solidarity. And I’ll continue to use my voice to speak up until no athlete is
discounted based on their gender.