Where I came from...

Eleven years old, I arrive for practice, although we never called it that. “Gym” was what I had that day and everyday after school for the better part of my childhood. The coolness of the gym air against my body in nothing but a leotard quickly turns to a flush warm as stretches begin. I am mesmerized by the “big girls”, as we liked to call them. I imitate their confidence and concentration. We all sit and find a place along the mat block to start timing for the dreaded “super splits”. My front foot from the ankle up on the block, the rest of my body on the floor. My legs start to shake and burn. When I was 9, super splits made me cry. I try not to count, because it always takes longer that way.

Bars is the first rotation that day. The smell of wet chalk and iodine for “rips” is familiar. We all stand at the chalk bucket first squirting our grips with water, and then using the chalk block on them for good glue. I like to rub the block only in a thin strip down the middle of my grips, being sure to leave them damp. Somehow I think it keeps me on the bar better. A little of the powdered stuff followed by a clap and a cloud and I’m ready. It’s like putting on socks and shoes. Repetitious and superstitious for many of us. During this chalk ritual I can hear the bars give from the “giant swings” behind me. My brain subconsciously counts to 10 before I hear the mat catch her. Everyday. 3 sets of 10 giants to warm up. Around and around like the hands of a clock around it’s’ center, only much faster. I feared giants. I’d fallen so many times that my heart pounded and my palms beaded with sweat as I jumped from the low bar to the high to begin my sets. Once I lost my grip, unfortunately I was completely upside down. I scraped the front of my face as I came down on the bar. A solid stripe from my forehead to the tip of my nose. Boys in the 5^th grade don’t think that’s pretty. My mind can’t help but replay those moments. Breath, breath, be calm, relax, focus, tap your toes, hollow out. I talk to myself. My coach’s voice gives me direction. TI!! With his Chinese accent. So I squeeze the muscles in my back and legs. Took me 2 years to understand his ramblings.

Beam is the second rotation. Four feet high, 4 inches wide, and 16 feet long. Aerials have been on my mind. A cartwheel with no hands on beam is a notable skill sure to be noticed by the big girls. I start on the floor, using a line made of tape as a guide. Focused solely on the tape and blue floor behind it. Everything else is distant noise. “That’s enough”, yells my coach. “Up high!” Her accent is more subtle. My coaches arrived in America in 1985. China received the team bronze medal in Women’s and the silver in Men’s Gymnastics in the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. They loved the States so they came here shortly after, settling in Las Vegas. They brought their sharpness with them. Standing on the beam with one foot in front of the other, all my weight in my back leg. Jiani stands below me to the side. Her tiny hand at my waist, barely touching. “You don’t need a spot!” Translation: I’m only going to stand here in case you can’t land it. Really I have no intention of spotting you. I’m only standing here for your security of mind. This is why I stutter a few times. Lifting my front leg up as if I’m going to take the plunge. Deep breath, count to three. . . wait, I’m not ready! Start over. One, two, three, and I go. Her hand floats through me, giving me the confidence I need. Gymnastics was psychological battlefield for me.