The Awkward Truth About Gym Class

Emma Chao/Fatherly; Getty Pretend you’re a tree . This was my earliest memory of physical education: our teacher, a tall and thin woman whose broad nimbus of dark hair was edged with gray, asking us to make-believe. By, as I understood it, not moving. In gym class. I was in second grade, and I was already confused. Somewhere here in my elementary school’s wood-floored gymnasium, I knew, there were ropes to climb, mats to tumble on, balls to kick and throw and dodge. And yet we were being corralled into this dumbed-down modern dance — the kind of hippie sh*t, I would later understand, that was typical of our Western Massachusetts college town. Not that I was craving, or ever did crave, a traditional gym class. I was not made for gym. I was small — perpetually the second shortest boy in my grade — and slight and uninterested in the big sports that make up the bulk of public-school gym. I did not own a catcher’s mitt; no sane, responsible adult would let this shrimp play football. At the same time, I was physical . I was a kid, after all. I wanted to run around, try a handstand, lift a dumbbell, shoot a basket, make a goal. And as uncoordinated and unenthusiastic as I was, I was not entirely untalented. I remember running a seven-minute mile in fourth grade. I could touch my toes and put one foot behind my head. My friend Jason and I competed to see who would be the first to knock out 60 sit-ups in a minute. I don’t remember who won. The psychosexual torture continued when gym c…