Self in Relation
LucykPart i)
Our society has dictated to us which sports are appropriate for each gender. Men are believed to play sports that involve high levels of physical contact. Sports like football and hockey are great examples of this. These are two great examples as both sports are centered around aggressive contact. Society tells us these are sports that men should be participating in. They epitomize the “ideal man” tough, and strong. I experienced this idea early on in my life.
Since I identified as a boy my father eagerly urged me to play the sport of football “I was raised to play football the minute I popped out. I was born into a football-crazed family, my father a high school football coach molded me into a football player.”. This is discussed in my Travis Self Story #4 Man Up . By playing football I felt like a man because it was seen as a man’s sport. This is similar to my classmate Jordan who also felt this sense of being a man because of the sport he participated in. Jordan explains this feeling “Game time!! Looking back, this is definitely a moment of mine where I feel as though I “performed my gender perfectly”” Jordan and I both perfectly fit into our gender binary groups based on us playing sports that are acceptable for men to play.
My classmate Cassandra focused on her genders binary prescribed sport. After being tackled in a game of football the opponent apologizes to Cassandra profusely. “As I jog back towards my own team’s sidelines my mind is overpowered by the thought that all of these Saskatoon guys think that I am a wussy girl who can’t take a hit. For the rest of the game I could not get it out of my head how franticly upset this boy was that he tackled me, a girl.”. Because it was made clear to Cassandra that she was playing a sport outside of her gender binary she felt upset and out of place. This differs from me and Jordan who felt included as we were involved in a sport that complemented our genders. The three examples exposed the normative theme that only men should play contact sports like football and hockey.
All three stories explore gender binary in sports and who plays which sport. As Cassandra’s self-story showed sports can be extremely restrictive because of the gender binary. This restriction is enforced by a society which prefers their men to participate in contact sports. This stems from government policy decisions to promote masculine athletes as society role models, Lucyk explains on page 70 “Sports stars emulated the same masculine virtues as the war heroes they displaced: aggression, fearlessness, courage, strength, self-discipline. Televised sports turned athletes into role models”. It is believed women cannot display aggression, fearlessness, courage, strength, and self-discipline.
So when women like my classmate Cassandra try to compete in a sport that involves these attributes many people become uncomfortable with it and try to deter them from competing in the sport. The idea that the gender binary should dictate who plays what sport is the normative narrative in much of today’s culture. It is a myth and nothing more than that.
Part ii)
The normative narrative that certain sports should be restricted to one gender over the other is disrupted by my classmate Laura. Laura was a dancer, and at one dance competition, she noticed a boy dancing. The normative narrative in our society is that dance restricted to just girls. But as Laura noted the boy fit in perfectly “He was just as good or even better than our dancers and was doing moves and turns that were so sharp and concise that we couldn’t believe what we were seeing.”. This boy completely busted the myth of dance being restricted to girls. He proved that despite his perceived gender binary he could exceed at a sport that society did not believe to be “normal”.
This boy completely busted the myth of dance being restricted to girls. He proved that despite his perceived gender binary he could exceed at a sport that society did not believe to be “normal”.
Laura’s reaction to this boy who was outside of societies prescribed sport for his gender was one of admiration. This is shown when Laura says “It was in this moment where I realized that men could be dancers too. It wasn’t just females that were allowed to be dancers and be on stage.”. Laura’s reaction completely conflicts with the boy that tackled Cassandra in football when she was younger. With Cassandra playing a sport that is not seen to be within her gender binary so her competitor believed she could not compete because of her gender. The boy reacted by saying “Oh my god you’re the girl. You are the girl and I just tackled you. I am so sorry. Seriously I am so sorry. Are you okay? Seriously I can’t believe I tackled you!”.
By creating sports that are “girl sports” and “boy sports” it prevents individuals who do not fit in these two categories from participating in sport. For example, homosexual men are discouraged from participating in masculine sports. Because as Lucyk explains on page 70 “To maintain athleticism as a masculine attribute, then, it is necessary to exclude homosexuals, effeminate men, and women, by stigmatizing them as weak, soft, unathletic, and feminine.”. If gender was to be removed from sport then there would not be any worry about “non-masculinity” in certain sports.
Ideally, society should reach a point where the gender binary has zero impact on what sport an individual decides to participate in. Where girls can play football or hockey with no worry of their teammates looking at them as anything else but a teammate. Where a boy can dance without a second look, where he can be looked at as just a dancer, not a boy dancer. This society can be accomplished by taking the idea of gender out the sports world.
Self Story #4 Man Up
I was raised to play football the minute I popped out. I was born into a football-crazed family, my father a high school football coach molded me into a football player. I was taught toughness, hard work ethic, and basically how to be a man. Football is seen as one of the manliest sports, so early on in my youth, I adapted traits that I was told good football players have. They disregard pain no matter how bad the pain is you play through it, you NEVER show pain or discomfort because that will be seen as weakness. That idea was relentlessly drilled into me by various coaches throughout football.
I’ve played through far too many injuries, later in my life, I will definitely regret those decisions. In a playoff game, I took a shot to the head that I still remember to this day. I had just caught the ball and was turning upfield when POP. It goes black. Next thing I know I’m staring up at the sky my teammate has his hand held out to help me up. He helps me up, and that’s when it hits me, I’m seeing stars (the expression “seeing stars” is accurate. It’s as if there’s little holes in your vision and a bright light is coming through those holes) and then I start getting dizzy. My teammates are running off the field passing me by because to them nothing is odd, I took a big hit it’s normal to be stunned. But this wasn’t normal, I barely made it back to the sideline. I immediately went to the bench and sat down staring straight ahead, it was as if I was in a fog. My coach must have noticed because he immediately came over to see what was wrong. I discussed what I was feeling after I was done listing the various symptoms I was feeling my coach simply explained I took a hard hit but I would be fine. I asked him if I had a concussion that question was replied with “look I can get the doctor and he’ll find something wrong with you, but we need you to man up and fight through this”. Of course, I did because I wanted to win and because I had been raised to fight through the pain. That’s what men do, I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.
I’ve always been taught to channel anger into football, there’s nothing wrong with anger it’s a manly emotion and totally acceptable. Now fear, sadness, pain, those you keep to yourself. That’s the culture on the football field, and I was raised on the football field so I quickly adopted these ideas.
I had many moments that I would lose my cool and let anger spill out. In our provincial final (my last high school game ever) the refs made a call that I believed to be very wrong. So my anger came out, this ref was going to take the win away from me. I ripped my chin straps off and started to go off. I started vulgarly yelling at the ref, he looked at me and did nothing so I continued to berate the ref until a teammate came and pulled me away. When I finally got to the sideline I ripped off my helmet threw it at the bench and began a mini tirade by myself. No one came to intervene, by the end of it I had tears of anger. Later a coach came up to me and said: “don’t worry about it, that ref is full of bullshit”. I was allowed to make an embarrassment of myself and my team because anger is an accepted emotion for my gender. Fear is not, though.
“Don’t be a pussy” it’s a phrase I’ve grown to hate. The rugby coach at my high school was also a football coach. When I informed him year after year that I wasn’t going to play rugby for him he was never happy. He would tell me not to be a girl or a pussy, in front of my teammates. He did this because I didn’t want to play rugby. I would explain to him that rugby has a high rate of injury and I didn’t wish to get injured which he interpreted as me being afraid. And men aren’t supposed to be afraid of anything so the only explanation he could find was that I was being feminine. He tried to get me to do something by embarrassing me in front of my peers for something I shouldn’t be embarrassed about. It’s this that made me aware of the dangers of dictating how a gender should perform.
What is Whiteness?
I hate saying that I am white, it feels wrong to say. Whenever I’m asked how I would describe myself I do everything I can to avoid classifying myself as white. I just feel as if there is a negative stigma behind calling yourself white. That if I look at myself as white, I also look at other people’s colors. If I look and acknowledge color I’m racist, at least that’s how I was taught growing up.
Denise Balkissoon’s article talks about a connection between being white and racism. Not that whites are actively engaging in racism (there are those who are) but that when you are white there are certain societal benefits given to you. And for most whites this is true, but there is a common misconception that being white ensures you belong in the middle class or upper class. This is not true as there is a large number of white individuals that belong to the homeless population. Along with this misconception, the article states “Being white in Canada means a lower chance of developing cancer, hypertension and asthma”. I’m not entirely where this stat comes from. If it’s implying that being white grants you better immunity to these diseases then that’s questionable, to say the least. Now if it’s referring to the idea that being white sets you up better to fight the diseases from an economic stance then that makes sense.
But the overall message of the article is basically whites are complicit in racism even when we aren’t actively participating in overt white supremacy. But most of us are guilty of covert white supremacy. By not acknowledging white privilege it’s able to continue to impact our society. Once white individuals are able to look at white privilege and acknowledge it as being our reality and wrong. Then slowly white privilege will begin to fall apart and with racism won’t be as prevalent in our society.
Self Story #3 “Jokes”
In my friend group, I’m viewed as a bit of a comedian getting a laugh here and a laugh there. My friends constantly call me a savage due to my tendency to crack jokes that in most social circles would be deemed inappropriate. To me no joke is off the table, it’s just a joke right? My intention isn’t to hurt anyone’s feelings I’m just looking to get the gang laughing.
It’s a cold winter night so everyone is meeting at Tims to chill and decide what we’re going to do later that night. I’ve ordered an ice capp because really what else would you want? We find a booth and squeeze in together, our conversations vary but as it usually does we discuss current events. This could center around the recent abuse of black citizens in the states, the Syrian refugee crisis, or the uproar over Donald Trumps Presidency. After roughly half an hour of serious discussion. It then breaks into mindless banter about the topics, I don’t plan my joke but someone sets me up perfectly to say it. Without hesitation, I launch the questionable joke, immediately all heads turn to me giving me the look that shouts “did you really just say that?”. Those looks quickly dissolve into outbursts of laughter, I get a couple fist pounds from the group. I’m riding on the high of cracking the joke that is unquestionably racist. But the feeling of everyone laughing at your “joke” gives an undeniable high. You’re the center of attention, you just got a positive emotional response from your friends because of something YOU did. This blocks out any feelings of uneasiness that come with the racist undertones of the joke.
This one joke spirals our discussion into racially insensitive waters, but of course, we’re just “joking” we don’t mean anything that we’re saying. It’s just about getting some cheap laughs. It eventually gets to the point where my friends are spouting out racist statements in an attempt to be more “edgy”. Do I join in? Yes, no one wants to be the odd one out and I’m not immune to this none of us are. It’s a cycle of no one wanting to be the one that is deemed to be”overly sensitive”. Eventually, the topic is changed and not another thought is given to the “jokes” that were cracked. After all, we were kidding about everything, these jokes didn’t hurt anyone. Just some guys cracking some immature jokes. Right?
Self Story #2 Canada’s Birthday
I’m running through a parking lot dodging cars, my parents are calling after me urging me to slow down. The sun is just starting to set on a beautiful July 1st. Even though the sun has set it’s still blistering hot out, I’m starting to sweat due to my adventure through the parking lot. I’m huffing and puffing so I slow down and wait impatiently for them to catch up, this is something I must constantly do, I’m clearly the fastest one in my family. But today the wait is killing me. As a 6-year-old kid, getting to go see the July 1st fireworks show is one of the highlights of my summer.
Finally, my parents have caught up and we’re heading down the community sled hill to find a spot for the upcoming show. We got here late so the hill is clustered with people, I start to grow frantic that we won’t be able to find a good spot. I’m going up and down on my toes trying to see over everyone in the hope that I can locate a spot, my dad must notice because he scoops me up to give me a better vantage point. Finally, I can see clearly! I start to scan all over the hill up and down up and down, all I can see is people everywhere, there are families sitting together on blankets, groups of teenagers laughing together on the lush grass. It’s beginning to look hopeless, I can’t find a single spot that’s big enough for all of us. And then I see it, the perfect spot wide open on the edge of the hill there’s just enough space to put our blanket down. I excitedly tell my dad the discovery I’ve made, he gives me a grin and satisfying high five.
The blanket fits in perfectly and we all settle in, the sun has finally set and darkness starts to settle in. The excitement starts to grow, once it gets dark that means the fireworks are about to go off. I’m absolutely buzzing, on the edge of my metaphorical seat waiting and waiting my 6-year-old patience is growing very thin. I start asking the same question over and over “when are they going to start?” I ask this multiple times with no answer. Finally, I get the answer I’ve been waiting for “keep your eyes on the sky Travis it’s coming”. My eyes dart up to the now pitch black sky, the stars are out tonight. I’m caught looking for the big dipper when my attention is caught by a small sparkler going off in the sky, there isn’t much sound to this but it’s the start of the show. Next thing I know another firework is up in the sky, all of these let off a bright yellow light, then I hear a deafening BOOM but there’s no explosion in the sky. I wait, staring up at the sky waiting for the explosion, and there it is, the sky completely changes the black sky is forced into the background as a bright red light takes centre stage in the night sky. The show has now begun fireworks of all colours are going off into the night sky creating a beautiful scene.
I don’t realise it when I’m 6 but July 1st is so much more than a day off work, or fireworks. It’s a day that no matter what’s happening around the world, in the country or in each individual community people around the country people come together to celebrate. We celebrate as a country, even though it’s one day out of the year we put our differences aside and come together. In a world where there is constant conflict over countless issues, having a day like Canada day is refreshing. Canada day has always been a day that makes me feel Canadian, the meaning of it may change over the years, but it will always be a day I’m proud of my country.
Self Story #1 What Home Is To Me
“BEEP! BEEP!” the dreaded sound of my alarm clock wakes me from my sleep, I immediately regret setting the alarm. I sluggishly get out of bed and hit the snooze button rather aggressively as if I’m making a statement to the alarm clock. I hop back into bed and wrap myself back into my cocoon of blankets, it’s roughly 9:30 Sunday morning I’m exhausted from my late night escapades. I know I only have limited time before I have to get up, so I try to enjoy every minute as much as I can.
The time goes by too fast, and before I know it I hear the all too recognizable voices of my Mother and Father conversing on if they should wake me up. I don’t pick up on what my mother says, she’s trying to be silent so she doesn’t wake me up. But I clearly overhear what my dad is saying, it’s one of his classic “dad sayings” as I affectionately call them. He knows I’m already awake so he says it just loud enough for me to hear “if he’s going to party like a man then he’s going to work like a man” there’s no work to be done today, but he just can’t help himself from saying it. Next thing I know the door swings open and I hear the all to familiar wake up greeting from my dad “wake up you lazy bum” he’s trying to sound serious, he always tells me that he’s trying to scare me but I know he’s grinning ear to ear as he says it. I reply wearily “yeah, yeah I’ll hop in the shower right away” this isn’t true at all I intend to stay in bed for at least another ten minutes.
Those ten minutes go by fast and soon enough my mom comes in and gently shakes me awake, she tells me that breakfast is almost ready and that I should jump in the shower. So eventually I slip out of the layers of blankets that are piled on top of me off, I immediately regret this as the cold climate of the house hits me. I think back to the warm snug environment I just left behind and want nothing more than to return to it. I know that I must push through the harsh environment that I have subjected myself to, the reward is too great.
I make the trek across the hall to my bathroom and prepare myself to shower, I think to myself “this won’t be too bad, a nice warm shower will be a great way to wake up”. So, I adjust the temperature just right, let it run for a bit so it can warm up. I jump right in, it hits me. An icy cold rush of water chills my body numb, I can’t breathe, it’s clear I did not set the temperature accurately this happens far too often. I’m blinded by the cold water; my hands are searching for the temperature gauge. I cannot find it, so this is how it ends. At last! My hands grasp onto the gauge and I quickly adjust the temperature and then huddle in the corner while the water warms up. After this harrowing event I dry off and change and head off to the kitchen, I’m immediately hit with the wonderful aroma of; eggs, bacon, and hash browns. My mouth immediately begins to water. I walk in and my parents are already seated digging into the delicious breakfast my dad has prepared. I rush to take my seat and dig into the amazing looking meal and start to shovel it down. My parents know my eating tendencies and wait for me to finish my first helping before engaging me in conversation, but once that first plate is down conversation is fair game. The conversations range from simple topics such as; what I did last night to what I want for dinner that later that night. But conversations can also take a serious note like our talks on current events, politics, religion, the complex Star Wars universe (this is where tempers flare). But it’s these Sunday morning breakfasts’ that make me miss my hometown more than anything, it makes me miss my home. My home is where I can speak my mind and talk about anything, and that’s where my parents are. My parents will always be home to me, it’s where I feel safest and where I can always be myself.
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