Who's that Girl?

It was the nature of races, of competition; there was a winner and there was a loser.

September 1987

I must have glowered whenever anyone called her petite, because after awhile I didn’t hear the word anymore. My firstborn, Kathleen, is smaller than “average” but the word petite suggested to me, weak, fragile, less capable. I had it fixed in my mind from the start that she would be none of those things, that she would do everything as well as anyone else.
When she was three years old we were at a birthday party for a friend of a friend. Kat was the youngest and the smallest one there. Everyone was having a good time, but then the girls went outside. They decided to have races. Between shoveling down macaroni salad and making mundane guy talk about garage door openers, I had an eye out in the back yard. Kat had no chance to win any races. They had already run three or four of them and Kat had come in dead last in every one. No one was cheating or being mean, but losing with no chance of doing better is a tough situation. The topic switched from garage door openers to camcorders. I reloaded my paper plate. The races continued. Now the girls were noticing the order of things, and celebrating it. Kat tried to join in on the laughter, but the subject of laughter usually isn’t invited to join in. This wasn’t going to last. Kat came in to the den ready to cry. I took her into the bathroom so we could talk.

“Are you sad?”
“Yes. They’re laughing.”
“It’s not nice to laugh.”
“I want to win.” I felt like this was a crossroads moment for her but I wasn’t sure what would be the right thing to say. I felt panicky.
“Yes, I’m sure you do.”
“They’re not letting me.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“I know.” I wasn’t sure she knew that.
“Do you want me to tell them to let you win?”
“No.”
“They’re all older and bigger. We can’t change that.”
She looked at me like there was something I couldn’t provide. I felt horrible.
“In a few years you will be strong enough to run as well as they do. But I know that a ‘few years from now’ doesn’t help you today.”
She started to calm down. It was something I couldn’t fix for her. It was the nature of races, of competition; there was a winner and there was a loser. There was no way around it. Make the girls look bad? No. Make racing look bad? No. There was only the future. This day would pass. She would grow; there would be better races. At the age of three she would have to suck it up for now. I looked at her and her resolve had finally arrived.
“Are you ready to go out?”
“Yeah.”
“There will be better days.”
“I’m ok.”

Nine years later she took the baton and came around the corner in such a burst that black girls from other schools began screaming, “Who’s that GIRL? Who’s that GIRL? Who’s that GIRL?” She built a 20-yard lead before passing the baton. The goosebumps on my neck felt great.