Black Kids at the Pool

 

“It’s gratifying to see so many Black kids in line for the pool!” S. nods at the tumbling, boisterous line of children in front of the Richmond Swim Center. On their way to Swim Camp.

            E. and I are sitting outside the facility, just downwind from the line of kids, chatting about how her daughter came down with COVID after going to a concert in San Francisco. Yes, COVID is still with us even after 5 years. S. has stopped to chat, too. She’s already told a story in the locker room about how she refrained from swearing at her husband that morning when he refused to take her to the gym. “I was so proud of myself when he went back on his promise! I didn’t use one single swear word. I just walked outta there and came to the pool!”

            Now, standing in front of us, her round black body pausing for a moment, her ample bosom straining at the Kamala Harris T-shirt, her comment about the black kids in line further ignites her narrative skills.

            “You know, black kids don’t grow up swimming. It started during Segregation. When Black folk weren’t even allowed in public pools.” E. and I nod. “And then,” she continues, “it gets passed on down generations as fear. First fear of the harms from segregation. Then fear of the water. My mama. She was afraid of the water. And she passed down this fear to me. Now, I swim.” She laughs loudly, shaking her head. “Well, I don’t really swim, but I look like I swim. I was thinking of taking swim lessons.”

            “They do give swim lessons here on Saturday mornings,” I interject.

            “They do? Well, that’s good to know. Maybe I’ll sign up. I’m not afraid of the water like my mama, but I never learned to swim because she was. And, after all these back surgeries. I’m not having any more. Thank you very much! The doctors said for me to swim. That this would be the best therapy for my back.”

            “It is!” E. and I both sing out.

We all laugh. “It’s true,” S. continues.

“If only we could be in the water all the time!” I exclaim.

“Now, wouldn’t that be something?” S. muses. “I want a big water bubble surrounding me so when I’m walking around, I’m in the pool. 24/7!”

Didn’t I write about this idea before? A pool bubble? I think so. But back to the black kids standing in line today. The changes that have happened for them in order for them to be at the pool, at swim camp. I never had thought of segregation as being responsible for so few black swimmers. Of course, I’ve noticed that most swimmers are white. At this pool, there are a lot of old white ladies. But only a few old black ladies. And a couple young black swimmers: one is the underwater swimmer I was next to today. She wears long blue and green fins, dives deep under water, and blasts across the length of the pool, holding her breath until she gets to the other end. Amazing! So, obviously, there are a few black swimmers, but only a few.

            Now I know why. Racism and bigotry's long arms of oppression. And, still it goes on today. 

         “I gotta git home now and fix my husband lunch!” S. proclaims.

            “Haven’t you already done enough for him today by now swearing?” E. asks.

            We all laugh.

            “I think you deserve Wife of the Year!” I say.

            “Hah! You’re right. I do!”

            “And this coming from two single women without husbands,” E. says.

            “Maybe we’re the best judges of who is the Wife of the Year,” I offer, but not really knowing why this would be.

            They laugh at me in any case.

            The kids are hustled into the facility now.  Their noisy shouts and shoves gone inside, to the pool.

I am glad for the sudden quiet, but at the same time, I’m glad for their opportunity to swim. It’s the best thing in the world. For white kids. Black kids. Asian Kids. Latinx kids. All kids!

Swim swim swim swim!