Disapproving eyes

(Inspired somewhat by a StoryADay.org prompt to write a story from the perspective of an idiosyncratic character, but fueled more by the high level of discomfort I felt today for stepping out of politeness and speaking my mind about race.)


Shakira entered the locker room with her gym bag as usual. What was unusual was that it wasn't a weekend or after 6 p.m. She had had a break between an emotionally draining morning meeting and an afternoon appointment with the course-instructional designer, and had decided to use the time to swim. She found an empty locker, slipped off her shoes and socks, and began to undress. She pulled her swim suit out of her bag and over her naked body.

As she made her way toward the swimming pool, she noted with some satisfaction that the suit, two years old and faded and worn thin from the chlorine, was beginning to feel loose around her trim, athletic figure. Not so loose that it would fall off in the swim but loose enough to remind her of the weight she'd lost slowly and meticulously over the past twenty-eight months. Slowly, as she approached age fifty, her physical body, strength, muscle tone, and stamina had performed an act of age-reversal, sliding backwards through her difficult, financially stressful forties back to the level of peak fitness she had felt at thirty-eight. She wasn't afraid of getting old, but she was afraid of losing -- one more time -- her good health. Since her teens, she had gone through multiple cycles of weight gain and weight loss, with the last weight gain adding an excess of forty pounds to her four-foot-ten-inch frame.

Slowly, patiently, she had rekindled her nascent exercise regime, subjected herself to a compassionate but honest daily weigh-in, and had sacrificed the most heinous habits of her daily diet, step-by-step. The ritual paid off. She was now at a healthy weight, and hoped to stay in that space of glowing wellness for the rest of her life.

She made her way to the public shower and then approached the pool. She was in good luck. Four of the pool's lanes were open for lap swimmers, and two were unoccupied.

As she started to contemplate her route, she noticed a middle-aged woman in the pool balancing a kickboard on her head and staring at her with what seemed to be a hint of disapproval.

Shakira shrugged, and then she noticed that the woman's gaze was traveling down her body taking in her neck, her bare shoulders and arms, and her breasts.

Shakira closed her eyes and shook her head. Why would this woman be looking at her so intently? Shakira used to get a lot of stares, back in the 1960s and 1970s when seeing a dark-skinned woman at a public pool was something of a novelty. Years later, she would read of how civil rights activists in her own hometown in the middle of America where the Ku Klux Klan once ran City Hall began a push for equality in the 1950s by forcing a desegregation of the local pool. A coach accompanied three African American male swimmers to the pool and kept watch on the water as the youths dove in and began swimming laps. The presence of the coach most likely kept the act of civil disobedience from turning into a violent altercation between the boys and the pool's other occupants, until police arrived.

Arrests were made. A lawsuit was filed. Protests ensued. The pool was closed for several weeks as city officials wrestled with the issue before doing the right thing and reopening the pool to all members of the public, without regard for race.

Still, Shakira had been swimming since she was six, and some four decades later often felt like a dark speck in a crowd. She had learned to build a barrier between her heart and the eyes watching her, to the point that she no longer really noticed stares. The problem with the barrier, though, was that the hurt inside her heart had no space to heal. The pain permanently lay trapped like two flies buzzing helplessly between two panes of window glass.

She decided to conclude that the woman wasn't really looking at her. She focused on her workout plan and within seconds forgot about the gaze. Until the woman hailed her from the pool.

"Miss, miss."

The hailing seemed like a sound of distress. Shakira stopped in her tracks and walked over to the woman's lane.

"Miss."

"Yes? Do you need some help?"

"Miss, you really need a new swimming suit. You're terribly exposed."

Shakira felt confused.It was a one-piece suit, faded from use, hanging a little loose, a little worn down in a few places, but exposed? Had the suit torn somehow? Fumbling for an answer, she began running her hands over her body, trying to feel for a hole.

The woman's stare turned into a frown.

"Really now," she said.

"Oh, it'll be okay," Shakira said carelessly. "Tomorrow's payday. I'll look for a new suit then."

She could feel her heart throbbing, as her pain radar kicked on. Best to stop the conversation now, she thought, and get into the pool.

She could feel the woman's eyes boring holes into her back as she walked away.

Jumping into the shallow lane of the lap swim pool, Shakira adjusted her goggles and forced herself to smile. The smile turned into laughter as she contemplated the possibility of the swimsuit suddenly disintegrating in the chlorine, leaving behind only patches on her body. What would the woman think? Shakira began swimming but couldn't find her usual groove. The woman, she noticed, continued to stand in the shallow end of the non lap lane holding her head up regally with the kickboard balanced on her hair.

What is this anyway? Shakira wondered. Practice for debutante night? Who stands in a swimming pool anyway with a kickboard balanced on dry hair?

Between breaths, Shakira noticed the woman twirling her body in circles, and stopping every so often to look at her, inspecting her swimsuit perhaps for further wear and tear.

Slowly, the stares had what was perhaps their intended effect. Shakira's righteous indignation over being singled out for wearing a shoddy swim suit evolved into shame for owning just that suit. Guiltily, Shakira remembered how she had bought the swim suit at T.J. Maxx's on a Memorial Day Monday following a similar swim. As she had climbed out of the pool, the suit she had been wearing -- its once supple fabric crusted stiff from repeated exposures to salt water and chlorine -- had ripped along the side. "That's the end of that one," she had declared, and even though money was tight, she had headed for the T.J. Maxx, figuring she could find a replacement there for under $15.

Shame became humiliation as Shakira thought of her current bank balance. She was in the red. Would it have made a difference, she wondered, if she hadn't had the bag of Fritos from the vending machine the day before?

Counting down the hours until payday, Shakira wondered where best to shop for a new suit. T.J. Maxx? Ross? Or online?

She was an athlete again. Maybe she could splurge on a $65 Tyr Razorback, but would there be $65 left after bills, groceries, gasoline for her car, feed for her hens, flea treatment for her cats? What about the books she wanted to buy, as well? The last suit lasted two years and cost $13. But now it was worn down and shoddy. Could she dare repeat the act?

The woman was still in the pool balancing the kickboard on her head when Shakira hoisted herself out, fifty minutes and 2,000 yards later. Excess water caused the suit to sag around her hips a little further. Quickly, averting the disapproving gaze, Shakira grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her waist and headed for the locker room.

Another woman stood underneath the public shower. Shakira smiled a half-smile as she pushed open the double-doors to exit the pool area.

"Miss," the woman said. "That suit has got to go."

"Apparently, you're not the first person to think so," Shakira said. "I thank you for your advice and your prying eyes."