The Horrors of High School Gym Class

In my high school, each student was required to take at least two semesters of physical education. Most completed this requirement by taking gym in 9th and 10th grades. Freshman year, gym was split with health class. My teacher was on the verge of retirement. We spent health class watching movies like The Ringer and High School Musical 3, and gym class was fairly fun, with volleyball tournaments and a goal of personal improvement, rather than meeting any arbitrary standards of fitness.

However, the next year was brutal. My gym teacher was more like a drill sergeant. Each class began with running up and down the bleachers or doing sprints. We also did some calisthenics, like planks and squats. My gym class had like seventy kids in it, and we were combined with other teachers' classes as well. The gym was full of kids, all lined up in rows, trying to do push ups. I couldn't do a push up, so I just had to hold a high plank.

I was, unfortunately, at the front of the formation of students, lined up by alphabetical order, during this "warm up" session. We had to hold a squat, not do squats. And apparently, my form was bad. Our teacher wanted our thighs parallel to the floor, and our backs parallel to our thighs, as if we were sitting with perfect posture in a chair. I couldn't do this, obviously, leaning forward to balance over my feet on the floor. So my teacher approached me, took my hands, and told me to lean back until I was "sitting up." I did this, and as soon as he let go of my hands, I fell backward onto the floor. Of course. He looked down on me, disappointed, and shook his head. In front of hundreds of other kids, I was humiliated.

Disappointments continued. Unlike in 9th grade, our 10th grade class wasn't about personal improvement. It was about meeting a standard. For boys, that meant being able to run a mile in under seven minutes. Girls, graciously, were given nine minutes. For every second after that, however, your grade would drop. For reference, my best mile time, one which earned me an A in 9th grade, was 11:56, or something like that. I knew that nine minutes was an impossible goal. If I finished in over 11 minutes, it wouldn't matter. I'd fail the mile and at that point, the only difference was finishing. I tried my best. I never got below 11 minutes.

We had a roller skating unit, for some reason. Our local roller rink would rent out skates to the high school so we could skate circles around the gym. Flashback to the sixth grade skating party. I begged my parents to let me go, even though I couldn't skate. I thought I could learn. I got my skates on and slid out onto the rink. I faltered, and was scared. My dad, who was going to drop me off, said that he would teach me how to skate, but he needed to run to the store to grab some socks. He'd be right back. No one else's parents were there to teach them. Everyone else seemed to know how already. I was beginning to wonder why I even went to the stupid party. I didn't have any friends there, I was just sitting alone on a bench, feeling like a loser. I thought I'd blend in and hide better on the rink than on the bench, so I shoved off, clutching along the wall, trying to build confidence. By the time my dad returned with his new socks, I had sprained my wrist, was crying in front of all those kids who already didn't like me, and wanted to go home. Flash forward to 10th grade gym, tying the borrowed skates around my weak ankles. I made it one lap around the gym, clutching the walls while everyone, including my one friend, skated circles around me. Of course other kids were struggling, but apparently not like me. I broke down sobbing, anxiety and panic reminding me of how embarrassing I was, of how badly a sprained wrist hurts, of how much of a loser I was. I asked my teacher if I could skip the skating unit. He agreed, as long I walked the entire class period instead. That was fine. I'd rather be the only one not skating than the only one sobbing. But he docked my participation grade, of course.

Each unit typically had a written test associated with it. I hoped that these tests would be my opportunity to recoup my grade after collapsing out of a squat, failing the mile time, and opting out of the roller skating unit. I don't know much about sports now as an adult and I knew even less about them back then. Thankfully, the teachers provided us study guides. Unfortunately, they were indecipherable. Gym teachers don't exactly have a reputation for being coherent writers. They are, apparently, barely literate. The study guides were riddled with so many grammatical errors, like sentence fragments and double negatives, that I couldn't make heads or tails of the rules of each sport. Then the test would come, and the questions barely resembled the study guide. I never did well on any of the written tests either.

Then there was the locker room. Like anyone in high school, I had insecurities about my body, but we weren't allowed to go into the bathroom stalls to change. I always kept my eyes trained forward, focusing on the metal lockers in front of me. I might speak to my friend, with whom I shared the locker, but I didn't look at her, and I hoped she wouldn't look at me. This strategy failed me. One of the other girls in the same locker bay was interested in looking. And in touching. I was so afraid of being labeled a bigot or of drawing attention to myself or of being bullied that I didn't say anything about it. But needless to say, I was incredibly uncomfortable for that entire semester.

I ended the semester with some trauma and a B. From 10th grade on, that B in gym class was the only one I ever got. I was a straight A student, except for physical education. Nothing screams "nerd" more than that. In hindsight, especially through writing this blog post, I realize just how horrible the whole thing really was. I still feel violated, humiliated. Those experiences were things I had to claw my self-esteem away from. Honestly, I think my proclivity to be embarrassed stems from moments like the ones I shared above. I wrote this for catharsis, but also to say that if anyone else was demoralized due to gym class in high school, you're not alone. It really was bad, and we didn't deserve to be embarrassed by our gym teachers and classmates. Maybe it was never going to be our moment to shine, but it shouldn't have felt like getting kicked in the teeth repeatedly either. If there are multiple levels in math or English classes, why not gym? Why couldn't I have been in remedial Phys Ed, with other unfit kids, instead of the adonises from the basketball team? If public shaming wasn't the point, what was? It certainly wasn't to instill a lifelong desire for health and fitness. I didn't exercise willingly again until I was a college student, and even then I only ever went swimming or took a walk. I didn't attempt running, squatting, or planking again until after I was married. Gym class turned me off from exercise. For me, the practice was associated with shame and anxiety for a long time. I'm thankful that I was eventually able to reclaim exercise for a healthier future, but it was certainly no thanks to the gym teachers at my high school.