Life and Literacy Narrative

When In Doubt, Use Your Words

You’re not even qualified. You’re a spoiled kid. You won’t go anywhere. You’re just a bully.

Do you know what’s worse than being bullied? Being asked the question that begins with, “Do you know what’s worse?” The subjectivity that is laced throughout this question is unfair and shouldn’t merit a response. As a high school basketball player, I remember hearing the question, “You know what’s worse than old basketball shoes? Getting your brand‑new ones dirty.” This question wasn’t even directed at me, but it still hurt in some invisible way that I could not explain. But how upset could I become without overreacting? They were just words that had no intent of being offensive. This is a firsthand look into the way we communicate, and how it can transmute into something beautifully abhorrent; some of the most damaging words I have received never held any intent to harm me. So, what happens when a word or phrase’s sole intention is to mutilate an individual’s well-being?

There was once a time where I myself was a young teenager; a time that is being buried further and further in my past, but I still remember the moments that have helped shape who I have become. I didn’t have very much money growing up, and the little that was mustered was devoted towards more important necessities, such as new clothes that didn’t make me look like I was sporting a crop-top. I was a basketball player in high school, and upon entering my freshman year with no spare change in my pocket, I was forced to use the same pair of basketball shoes from last season. This didn’t seem like much of a dilemma at the time, but then again, that was before I grew seven inches throughout the year. For the next three years, I had to use these same basketball shoes. I had broken one of my toes due to the simple fact that my shoes were too small, so when another player happened to step on top of my foot during a game, it snapped almost effortlessly. The pain wasn’t overly comforting, but the sound that was partnered with the pain of my toe tearing in two, somehow reaching my ears over the roaring crowd, had grabbed hold of my stomach and twisted with inimical force. Nevertheless, this pain felt obsolete when I heard someone complaining about their brand‑new shoes. It reminded me that I continued to fail to earn enough money for new shoes. It reminded me of the look my parents had when they blamed themselves for not having enough money to buy me new shoes. It reminded me that life wasn’t always fair, and it was never going to be.

Once graduation had finally arrived and freed us high schoolers into the open world, I was determined to change my fortune and morph myself into someone actually worth something. I somehow managed to receive a basketball scholarship to a junior college that would pay for my schooling. Beginning to feel hopeful was my first mistake. Diving for a loose ball during a game was my second, and final mistake of my basketball career. Another player on the opposing team, who I am convinced to this day was intentional in his actions, had landed on my outstretched arm and shattered the acromion bone in my left shoulder. The acromion is one of the smallest bones within the anatomy of the shoulder, so I was fairly surprised waking up in an ambulance after blacking out from the piercing pain. This was the end of the life I had always known as a competitive athlete.

A year after this incident, I graduated from the two-year program with an AA degree in December of 2014. After deciding to take the spring semester off to earn some extra cash at my part‑time job, I received a phone call from my high school basketball coach. The 9^th grade coach had stepped down and there was a vacancy to be filled. I didn’t want this vacancy. Being a part of something you once loved as a mere spectator seemed cruel and unnecessary, so the fact that I had called back several days later to accept the job shocked even myself. There was no justification for this decision that I can clearly remember; however, hearing the words, “it wasn’t meant to be” repeatedly through my year of rehab was pushing me further and further into a state indignation. I didn’t like hearing “it wasn’t meant to be.” How almighty were these people to tell me, a kid they knew only from the surface of what I allowed them to see, that they knew basketball wasn’t meant to be a part of my future? They certainly didn’t know that I was right handed, and still fully capable of jabs, hooks and even uppercuts. These words that I was forced to endure had created a feeling of spite: a feeling that wanted redemption.

Not knowing what exactly to expect, I walked into the gym on the first day of practice and met the kids who were going to see me almost every day for the next six months. After introductions, I asked if there were any questions. A couple of awkward seconds later, one of the players raised their hands.

“How old are you?”

“I’m nineteen,” I answered, cautiously.

One should always be careful when asking about topics such as weight or age, both as a questioner and receiver. Saying that I learned this “untold rule” through observation and intuition, and not through the mistake of asking my high school girlfriend how much she weighed would be a bold-faced lie. So with that being said, after learning about this untold rule through sheer observation and intuition, I knew that these kids were already becoming skeptical for how young and inexperienced I was. The fear of failure and not being “good enough” had consumed me my entire life. This opportunity to rejoin the world of basketball had given me the chance to conquer the fear my injury had unjustly deprived me of: conquering the fear of being a failure.