Sexuality and Softball: Living in a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell Culture

I played softball my whole life. It was my identity, my passion, my classroom, and my counseling sessions. I threw a ball, swung a bat, and knew exactly who I was, where I was going, and what I needed to do to get there.

Throughout my successful career, from five years old to twenty-two, I was always surrounded by strong, passionate women, both as teammates and as coaches.  I had the privilege to learn softball skills, social skills, and leadership skills from national champions and gold medalists. On the field, we were women who were able to break records, compete, and overcome. 

It wasn’t until my senior year of high school, though, that I was confronted with the reality that this sport that I loved was shrouded in a silent but many times overt cloud of discrimination. The strong, passionate women that taught me as coaches and teammates lived within this stifling cloud.

I remember the day when someone first called me gay and hoped it would hurt me. Maybe it was because I was too close to my best friend, maybe it was because I didn’t like to wear what the other girls wore, but it was definitely because I played softball. It was one of my teammates.  She carefully chose this word too, because that was the worst thing you could call a high school girl in our town – not whore, not slut, not bitch- gay.  In a panic of self-preservation, I, of course, denied it and continued to deny it for the next seven years of my life.

I knew the stereotype-you know, lesbian softball player. I heard my teammates joke about it in the locker room in a tone of assumptive privilege because they knew no one here would ever be that. We were the pretty, athletic girls.  And lesbian meant not pretty, manly, weird, and gross. The word became a common, laughable insult when a teammate would hug another girl.  Unfortunately, the result was then having to hear details of this teammates recent date with the boy from her Algebra class, so that she could prove that these rumors were false.

My teammates would wear ribbons, bows, and makeup while we ran shuttle sprints and, between strained breaths, talked about Jennie Finch being their favorite softball player and that she was “so pretty,” not that she is one of the best pitchers and players of all time. And I joined in because I was an immature high school girl afraid that I could possibly be that stereotype, praying every night that I wasn’t.

I tell my story because, unfortunately, it is not unique within women’s athletics-a place that should be open to all ways of expressing diverse femininity. Softball pushes young women to compete when society often urges us to settle.  Softball tells young women they can accomplish great things when society often reminds us that we can only do certain things.  Softball allows us to get dirty and mess our hair up but still feel great about ourselves when society unfortunately still forces one idea of beauty and self-confidence onto us. Therefore, these injustices and inequalities of society often creep into the sacredness of sport implanting fear and discrimination and impacting the developing self-image of young women.

I proudly came out a year and a half ago after a seven year silent battle against these stereotypes and negative messages.  The feeling of fear that I felt in my bedroom that night in high school never leaves, though. Sometimes I still hear that teammate in my ear and wonder if I should really be who I know I am. I met many beautiful teammates and coaches in my seven year journey that have this same fear.

We have been witness to the cloud of discrimination in softball that allows jokes to be made about teammates being gay, whispers to be shared about the woman our coach spends time with, and vacuums of silence to be formed keeping anyone unsure of their identity silent. We have been friends with the girls that love bows and makeup but also those who wore them only to end the rumors after practice. We have abided by the unspoken don’t ask, don’t tell rule within many college softball programs. We have labeled her a roommate, friend, or fan when we knew and they knew she was more.

We have been afraid. Afraid that our identity would somehow take away from the accomplishments we had in our sport.  Afraid that a teammate would feel uncomfortable just because of our presence in the women’s locker room. Afraid that our careers, built on success and confidence, would end because of who we love. Afraid that we would have to choose love or our sport.  Afraid of being known. Afraid of what parents might think of us coaching their daughters. Afraid of being just another stereotype. 

I now coach my own softball team, empowering young women to experience all the lessons, accomplishments, and successes that I was able to in my life.  I see the cycle continue, though, and often feel powerless to stop it. Young softball players listening more to the lessons of society than of their sport.  Defining womanhood in a small, narrow box of limitations instead of inclusion. Choosing bows because they like them, but also because it is what they are told is better. Exchanging jokes and whispers at the expense of a possible silent minority.

And I’m afraid. Afraid for them. Afraid for myself. But, in my fear, I remember the courageous women that taught me, even in their forced silence, that change is not easy but it is necessary.  Even in my fear I am confident that things can change.  We change the culture of softball when we choose to focus on an athlete’s ability not her image.  We change the culture of softball when we refuse to talk about a person’s sexual orientation without their permission.  We change the culture of softball when we see playing and succeeding as an expression of femininity. We change the culture of softball when we are allowed to talk about and be open about our entire identity without the fear of repercussions. We change the culture of softball when we are able to compete, succeed, accomplish, and love whoever we want without feeling the need to apologize about it.

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Omar

One year ago today, Omar Castel lost his life. I was awoken early in the morning by numerous missed calls. After calling my friend back and hearing “Omar was shot and killed.” out loud I nearly threw up before I started crying all day. I will never forget you, Omar, and you will always remain a part of me.

Welcomed Wanderings

Every time I try to write this my hand won’t let me
won’t let my pen solidify in ink, which seems more permanent now than ever,
the fact you are no longer here.
Each word I try to suppress like the tears that I won’t let myself cry for you
but as my pen now confesses the truth that we all know
tears fall with aimless rhythm.
And I finally let myself cry
because you were a child
because you were a child
because you were [in some ways] for a year my child
———————
I wouldn’t let myself write for each word etched into
the tightly woven fabric of a page
felt like drops of your blood now forever confined within the concrete
the asphalt, black as death.
———————-
No I won’t let myself write because it can’t be real
but every time I pass that corner I’m forced…

View original post 469 more words

To the Boy that Killed My Friend

To the boy that killed my friend,
I don’t hate you.
For months, yes, I did in my anger and grief.
I yelled at you, cursed you, sometimes I still do
when I cross that fateful Marshfield street.
For a year I tried to understand you,
I tried to imagine your grip on that trigger
and how you slept that night with sounds of sirens
rushing past to clean up your mess.

But whenever I imagined
all I could see is him.
A kid.
Facing the barrel of a gun
held by another kid.
Not in this country, you’d think…
not here, you’d think.

To the boy that killed my friend,
I don’t pity you.
For months, I wished his same
lonely, fate upon you
hoping you get what you “deserve”
but who truly deserves that?
Through eyes engulfed by tears,
I’d cry aloud for vengeance, for answers.
Yet, silence remained.

But then I remembered
that blood
that blood that now has been washed
clean from the street
will remain with you,
stained into your conscience.
For you must now live regretfully with something
more painful than death’s immediate relief.

To the boy that killed my friend
I do not fear you.
Maybe once I shivered at the dream
of your all-too-steady trigger finger
pressing again, again, again.
And then silence.

But that has stopped and all I can see
is you, or how I imagine you
a trembling child as fearful as he is feared
holding a gun bigger than his own hand
hoping his purpose, his meaning, his life
will come with each consecutive shot.

To the boy that killed my friend
I do not know you.
Maybe I could assume or guess
that you didn’t look much different than him
but I don’t know that.
You live only as an idea, a representation
of life’s quick cruelty and evil, uncontrolled.

But that’s not who you are.
And I don’t know who you are.
I know you have a mother.
I know you have a name.
I must believe you have experienced love.
And for a year I have tried to see you,
understand you as more than just this choice.

To the boy that killed my friend,
I don’t blame you.
For too long I have hated you.
I have seen you as other, evil, worthless
but I can no longer hold that excruciating hate within me.
But instead each day I must let go
and live forever in his memory instead of my pain.
I hope that this moment has defined your life
not so you live in fear and shame
but that you hold precious each breath and hope for change.
For you deserve this hope, this chance
because my friend can never have it again.

To the boy that killed my friend,
I love you.
Not out of my own will or choice
for with those alone I have hated you
but because in moments like this there’s nothing left
nothing left but to recklessly love in hope’s that
things will change and that you will be the
last
the only
boy that will ever kill my friend.


Please read my original poem dedicated to Omar here: https://mackenseycarter.com/2013/09/04/omar/

Michael Brown: A Life for A Box of Cigars

Outrage In Missouri Town After Police Shooting Of 18-Yr-Old Man

Brown skin, still warm from the Missouri heat
lying, lifeless, on the asphalt
only the swarms of unwanted flies
show any concern for this young boy’s body.

“Get the fuck on the sidewalk”
These all too familiar words
spat thoughtlessly out at the boys
from behind the badge of authority.

Such a fateful moment when one
decided to treat another as less than.
One moment where disobedience
snatched the breath from a young boys lungs.

One shot rang out above the buzz of midday summer
a warning, an assertion
of power, of disgust.
A shot that changed protector into aggressor.

Hands raised in surrender
like he learned to do since boyhood.
screams of “I don’t have a gun”
filled the thick, questioning air.

For his body before it lay, lifeless on
the cracked, burning asphalt
was enough of a weapon, enough of a threat
to warrant suspicion, assumption, death.

For the police officer was not what killed him
this boy lay crushed under years of hate
years of injustice, years of suspicion.
This boy was born with this crushing fate.

Brown skin, still warm from the Missouri heat.
A boy, dead, abandoned, hunted over a box of cigars.
Fifty dollars is the price of this boy’s life.
And for this price this black body was sold to the Missouri asphalt.

(Photo by Scott Olson/Getty Images)

I Know You Didn’t Mean to Kill Him

Video

This spoken word poetry by Jasmine Mans of Strivers Row hits me hard every time I listen to it.

I will let its truth speak for itself but I wanted to share this amazing work with my followers in preparation for my anniversary post for Omar’s death.

https://mackenseycarter.com/2013/09/04/omar/

Why Do We Say “Classrooms Can’t Make Men”

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Teach a man, he’ll conquer the world.
What if this man must conquer such world to be taught?
One child in a classroom.
One plus one does not equal two.
As his stomach grumbles with only remnants of last night’s frozen dinner.
“Something ain’t” not “something isn’t” right
As his deep, muddy eyes strain to see scrawlings on the not too distant chalkboard.
Lincoln was Martin Luther King Jr. on that morning at Gettysburg
As he tries to remember the winter morning he last saw his daddy
but can only see those flashing lights
The classroom bleeds onto the streets.
Teachers become brothers.
Grades are issued with the finality of a bullet.
Yet if only this young man could conquer the world.
A world that provides the lessons he must learn to survive.
Then maybe, just maybe the classroom would teach his brilliant mind

I Walk, I Do Not Run for Justice

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I walk, I do not run for justice
Oh how I wish I could fly.
Soar above the despair.
Yet, the burden is too heavy.

This load, this crushing weight
My own, my brothers’, my sisters’
Forces me to take slow, heavy steps
Forward, always forward

But I fall, often I fall
For justice is not perfection
It is a devastatingly human desire
Full of lust, envy and failure

So I walk, I do not run for justice
For each human failure
accepted, noticed, loved
Makes the steps easier, the burden lighter.

My stumbles bring healing
For me, for my brothers, for my sisters
Their stumbles bring healing
For me, for my brothers, for my sisters

For how can I run?
When millions struggle to simply stand
Under these structural burdens
For only my privilege lets me run.

But if I run, I stand atop these burdens
Freely, swiftly
Pursuing a lofty end of justice
While adding more weight to these burdens

So I choose to walk, to carry this weight
Not run above it, adding to it
For a justice, sustainable
For a healing, universal.

May we walk, not run for justice
Noticing people, dreams, failures along our way
Building community that chooses to carry this unbearable weight
Understanding our privilege to even dream about simply running.