On Being a Woman and Unlearning the Bullshit

One year ago today, I realized I was smart.

The discovery bubbled to the surface, slowly, after 22 years of being filed away in a sea of manila folders. It was always there, tucked amidst the resumes and pamphlets and memos that read:

You must not dream big, for you must shrink yourself.

You must not reach, for you have further to fall.

You must not speak, for you are no more worthy of words than your counterparts.

I never conformed to academia. After diving into athletics my first year of high school, I knew my ticket into higher education didn’t require an impressive GPA.

As any 15-year-old would, I slacked off.

But unlike many snotty-faced teenagers, come college, I didn’t grow out of it. My focus was still centered on the volleyball court. Outside of the gym, it wasn’t important to hit high marks.

While others were studying, I was squeezing in an extra workout.

I did just enough to get by; to support the illusion I was here for school first, athletics second. My coaches applauded my B-average marks. I accepted mediocrity in the classroom, wearing it as a varsity letter on my Letterman.