Gymnastics, Stunt Biking, and the Stories We Tell Ourselves
In August 1984, I watched in awe on a 13-inch black and white TV as Mary Lou Retton scored two perfect 10s in the summer Olympics. I was almost six years old and could not even do a cartwheel in the front yard, but I told myself that day that I was going to be a gymnast. Turning the sofa into a vault and park benches into balance beams, I convinced myself I could do it. I wrote a story of becoming a gold medalist Olympian, defying gravity and amazing crowds around the world.
A few summers later, after seeing Rad, a film about a young man who wants to win a BMX racing competition called Helltrack, a new path was scripted. My best friend and I watched that VHS tape so many times it faded. For his birthday he got that magical blue and silver BMX bike, just like the one in the movie. My bike at the time was a green one speed with a banana seat, bought at a church garage sale. But that didn’t stop me from writing a story of becoming a famous stunt bike racer, traveling the professional circuit. My training led to broken bones and stitches. Shortly after a terrifying crash into a parked car while standing on my handlebars, I started writing stories about skateboards instead.
The first time I went to a University of Michigan football game with my uncle, I came home and wrote a story about being the first girl to ever kick a game winning collegiate field goal. It ended with a Rose Bowl victory on New Year’s Day.
The stories I wrote and told myself were quite fantastical. A sign of originality and imagination. A way of figuring out who I was and what I wanted to be. A means of escaping a harsh reality. A chance to dream and learn, and just be a kid, even when I had a lot of adult responsibilities on my shoulders.
Years after my Rad era, I walked into the school building for the first day of ninth grade. Every freshman had to take a class called Careers 2000. Plastered all over the walls, not only of the room, but also the hallway were signs that read IALAC. They caught my attention immediately. What was this word? What did it mean or stand for? It took days for the teacher to tell us that it was pronounced “eye-a-lack” and stood for “I Am Loveable and Capable.”
As you might imagine, it didn’t go over well. A bunch of ninth graders did not take it seriously. All things IALAC were a joke. For me personally, it felt less like a joke and more like a lie. The stories I was telling myself were no longer fun and inspiring or future oriented. The stories I told myself each day were formed by what I heard about my worth and dignity from others. Neglect and abuse told me I was neither loveable nor capable. Every time I saw an IALAC sign, I saw a red line through it.
A few weeks into the school year, outside teachers came to our Careers 2000 class to administer vocational assessments. For days they tested our manual dexterity, aptitudes and interests, personalities and values. And then we had a long agonizing wait for results. We all wanted to know what we were going to be.
I remember the teacher handing out those large brown envelopes with our names hand printed in the top right corner. I just wanted to rip it open. At the time, I thought maybe I’d grow up to be a soap opera writer or a perhaps a nurse. But the future is hard to picture when all your energy goes into surviving the day. We all flipped right to the last page. Classmates around me cheered as they yelled out,
Doctor. Lawyer. Teacher.
Scientist. Journalist. Actress.
Politician. Engineer. Police Officer.
I didn’t think I’d see gymnast or BMX biker on the page, but I didn’t foresee what was there.
Restroom Attendant.
Priest.
There was a heavy cloud of shame that parked over me. I didn’t know what a restroom attendant was, but it didn’t sound great. And back then I understood a priest to be Catholic and a man, of which I was neither. So attending restrooms was it for me. It fit the story I was telling myself about what I had to look forward, a story shaped by what others were saying about my capabilities and potential.
The stories we tell ourselves, may actually be written down on paper, but are more often those narratives that exist within us, shaping our perceptions of self and the world. These narratives influence our actions, behaviors, beliefs, and choices. They hold incredible weight and sway.
The story I told myself about winning an Olympic gold medal in gymnastics wasn’t really about floor routines and uneven bars. It was about believing in myself, setting a goal and working toward it. The story I told myself about being a rad BMX-er, wasn’t about bikes, but about being brave and unafraid. The story I told myself about kicking a game winning field goal, wasn’t about football, but about defying the odds and gender roles, and doing what others said was impossible.
Laughing so not to cry every time I saw the IALAC sign, was because I had stopped telling myself stories and started believing the stories others were writing about me. Every day through words and actions, people were telling a story that depicted me as unlovable and incapable. And I accepted it. For years, so many years, I accepted it. When life got tough or things didn’t go as planned, a small voice inside me would whisper, “they were right, you should of just stuck with restroom attendant.”
A few weeks ago, I went to the theater to see the new Superman movie. On the way out, I stopped in the restroom. There was a young woman cleaning the floors and stalls, wiping down the counters and refilling the hand soap. I hadn’t thought about being a restroom attendant in a long time. In that moment I was reminded of ninth grade, holding that envelope filled with life altering results. When I asked the teacher what exactly a restroom attendant did, she laughed before she answered, “you know, they scrub toilets.”
I know now that there is no shame in attending to restrooms or cleaning toilets or wiping up the messes of others. But oh, how I wish I had heard that story sooner. Since that day at the movies I have wondered about that young restroom attendant. What’s her story? What stories is she telling herself? What stories are others speaking over her?
The other option listed on my vocational assessment was priest. It’s interesting that I did go to seminary and for many years in varying ways served the church in pastoral roles. I suspect that both “careers” reflected testing results that showed a desire to help and serve others. And I hope those tests have progressed in the reports they generate and the discussions they prompt, although I doubt much has changed.
I’m not one to believe that we can manifest good things simply by speaking good stories or that bad things happen solely because we’ve written bad scripts. Yet, I do believe there is great power in the stories we tell, especially to ourselves.
I told myself a story of being healed long before I experienced healing.
I told myself a story of coming out of the closet, years before I took that first step.
I told myself a story of finding pride and joy, way before I walked into the light and said, hey this is me.
I told myself a story of being a storyteller, chapters before I ever shared a word with anyone but a notebook.
I’ve been sincerely discerning the kind of storyteller I want to be. As I seek to name and write the stories I want to tell others, I have had to really examine the stories I tell myself.
The stories I find most transformative are authentic, unique, and even raw. They don’t gloss over pain to get to promise. They don’t skip sorrow and disappointment to glamorize success and reward. They are like a birthday gift wrapped in newspaper because wrapping paper was too expensive and tied with a tattered piece of string because no one in the family has ribbon. They are more than what appears on the surface. They flow with wisdom deep inside.
I want to share stories with others who have been told they are unlovable and incapable. I want to write stories for those who dare tell others what they are worth. And to do this—to share these stories—I have to tell my own experience with IALAC. I have to remember the story of how long before I fell into depression and despair, I was training to be a gymnast in the living room, and teaching myself bike stunts in the driveway, and writing about playing in the Rose Bowl. Guided by creativity. Driven by curiosity. Willing to take risks.
Margaret Atwood wrote, “in the end we’ll all become stories.” I find these words comforting, but mostly challenging. I do not want to wait until my life is over to become a story. I want to be a story now. I want to write stories today. I want to share stories so that we won’t spend years allowing the stories others tell us to overtake the ones we tell ourselves.
What stories are you telling yourself?
What stories are others speaking over you?
Do you give more weight to the stories of others or your own?
If you were invited to share one memorable story from your life what would it be?
With water and a bucket full of stories,
Rebecca & 10CAMELS
Did you hear the exciting news? I signed a contract for my second book with Tehom Center Publishing. Want to know the details? Make sure you’re subscribed to Wednesdays at the Well. On September 3rd, which is also the 100th edition of Wednesdays at the Well, I’ll be sharing more about the book.
Wednesdays at the Well are free for everyone. Paid subscribers empower me (Rebecca) to continue turning words into water each week and assist with the expenses of expanding the work of 10CAMELS. Friday Field Trips are a small gift of gratitude, an extra serving of words and water for paid subscribers. Our next field trip is scheduled for Friday, August 29th. Save your seat today. I’ll be sharing about 55 word stories, inspired by The Good Listening Project cohort 11 experience.
*I* wanted to write for soaps when I was in high school too!!!
I first heard/saw IALAC when I was in college in the late 70s, and it was exactly what I needed. It nestled deep into my insecure heart and ministered to me for years, supported by the words and actions of my college friends. I'm sorry you had such a different experience.