Discomfort
I’ve been thinking a lot this weekend about discomfort. About how sometimes we need to just sit in discomfort and let it surround us. To let ourselves consider why we are so uncomfortable and what action we can take to minimize or change it. I’ve been thinking about my American friends and how they need to sit with the discomfort not only that their President can call other countries ‘shitholes’ but that he was able to do so unchecked by everyone in the room. I’ve been thinking about the discomfort that we all have to acknowledge about the extent to which racism, sexism and sexual violence exists in our societies. The past year has forced us to take our heads out of the sand and sit in those murky waters. The conversations we have are difficult, layered, and oftentimes uncomfortable.
On weekday mornings I get home from work at about 7:30am and take my dog, Jazz, for a walk. On some mornings we’re out long enough that I start to see kids waiting for their school buses and I’m catapulted back to my elementary school years when I did that same morning ritual. Back then I lived in a small, suburban town with very few people of colour. I don’t remember how or why it started (doesn’t really matter anyway) but one of the boys decided to make those mornings as difficult as possible for me. He threw dirt at me and called me names like ‘dirty bitch’ and ‘brown cow’. His house was across the street from the bus stop and his dad was the bank manager. Despite my parents complaints to the school and their discussions with his parents it was decided that I would have to take a longer walk to a different bus stop every day. Our bus driver was an angel (I still remember her name, Vicky) and she made sure that I got home safely every day — she either dropped me off at my house or at my piano teacher’s house on my lesson days. I hope she knows how much her kindness saved me everyday. All of that happened when I was in grade 5 and 6. In grade 7 that same kid’s best friend called me the N word. His mom had been my grade 4 teacher but she didn’t believe that her son could have said such a thing so his punishment was that he couldn’t go to the school dance. My punishment was that half the kids in my grade and all the kids the grade above me looked at me with disdain until the end of high school.
So what does any of this have to do with fitness? Not much really. Sure I could make an analogy about the discomfort we feel during some exercises or the post-workout discomfort we may experience and how we can’t let that discomfort side-track us from our goals. I could tell you about how the stories I hear about racism make me so angry and dig up old hurts so badly that I use exercise as an escape. Those are the days when I push even harder to feel the discomfort in every muscle, to sweat out the distant and present anger, to strengthen my back against the stories that are yet to come and toughen my heart to the ongoing reality of racism.
But this isn’t really about fitness. Aside from the workout progressions, the focus on building strength or power, exercise gives me a way to feel in control of my body. To define my body on my terms, not based on prescriptive, racist narratives of my body. Somedays the exercises are uncomfortable - they are difficult. But its a discomfort of my choosing. And it helps me see that the only way we can make a shift in our society is by acknowledging, naming and talking about our realities. We need to hear each other’s stories - no matter how much discomfort they make us feel.
In strength and love,
KSA
