Jennifer Sey

Starting next week, I’ll be writing about the Olympics for salon.com.
So blogs posts here on hold.
But please check it out…

This week I appeared in a piece on HBO’s “Real Sports” about injuries in women’s gymnastics. There was some coverage of the show in the LA Times. An excerpt:

There seems an element of sexism, though, when every four years, the Olympics come around — and women’s gymnastics and figure skating invariably are singled out as being particularly cruel sports.

Nose around youth baseball and check out the surgical scars on pitchers’ elbows. Or women’s high school and college basketball for the knee and shoulder surgical scars. Has Candace Parker, her coaches or family ever been criticized for letting her continue to play basketball after her knee injuries?

These girls may be tiny, but they also are driven athletes. Shawn Johnson would rather be in the gym than on the computer, would rather eat grilled fish than a Big Mac, and says “that’s OK” if she ends up with aches and pain in 10 or 20 years. “So do football players,” Johnson says. “Nobody stops them.” -

Have you ever seen a professional football player 20 years after he’s stopped playing? Many can barely walk, some have premature senility due to brain pounding injuries. Maybe it isn’t a good thing that nobody stops these guys from bashing themselves to near death/brain damage. But, to refute the claim that anyone is stopping these girls, no one is. In point of fact, we hail them as heroes. They will be the most watched athletes in these Olympic Games. They will be our pint-sized idols, come this August, as they will likely garner piles and piles of medals. My intent is not to stop them, rather to point out that it is an incredibly dangerous sport in which devastating injuries can and do occur; that sometimes the cost for medals and for winning might be too high; that perhaps children aren’t equipped to determine whether or not that price is too high. Hard to conjure in our winning is everything culture. But let’s look beyond gymnastics or even sports for a moment. Look where ‘winning is everything’ has gotten the banks and lenders? They were so desperate to ‘win’, they issued sub-prime loans and won in the short term. And we all know what happened in the long run. They lost, as did we all.

I was injured quite often – a torn hamstring, broken ankle, another broken ankle, stress fractures in my shins and my wrists, bone chips in my ankle that required surgery and, my crowning achievement…a broken femur. I know more than a few that broke their backs, their necks, including my own brother. These former gymnasts are lucky they can walk today. And of course, I know a few that aren’t quite so lucky.

In this very dangerous sport, young girls are often taken advantage of by their coaches. These aren’t grown women. They are children. I began competing as an elite at 10 years old. I was in no position to tell a coach ‘no’ if something ludicrous was asked of me like returning to practices on a broken ankle after only ten day in an ‘air cast’, nothing more than a glorified bandage. This situation, the disparate power dynamic, creates the conditions whereby CHILDREN can – not always – but can be taken advantage of. These young ladies can serve as fodder for the Olympic dreams of coaches and parents. And parents claiming, “Its her decision. She wants this,” about a 9 year old is simply deflecting parental responsibility, in my opinion. A child has no concept of the potential future ramifications on her health and general well-being.

Regarding the oft hurled claim that it’s sexist to even call attention to the high injury rates and abusive coaching tactics in women’s gymnastics, what’s truly sexist is not pointing out that the sport eats its young. It would imply we believe our young girls are disposable and, secondly, not worthy of the financial windfalls their male counterparts are able to collect from being world-class athletes. Generally, these best in class gymnasts will not reap the financial benefits that their male counterparts in football, baseball, basketball will. Women’s athletics are largely unviable as commercial properties. And in every instance where female athletes do make money, it’s less than their male partners (NBA vs WNBA anyone?) I can probably count on one hand the number of female gymnasts who have made a killing in gymnastics. And that ‘killing’ likely can’t compare to a 2nd tier basketball player in the NBA. That’s sexist. Not pointing out that female gymnasts get hurt and sometimes their best interests aren’t looked out for by their coaches.

You want to know what else is sexist? That we like these girls because they are cute. They look pretty and perfectly petite therefore we watch. They aren’t threatening in their accomplishment because they are simply darling with their big smiles and springy ponytails. This is how we like our female stand-outs, whether they be politicians, business women or athletes. Other female athletes will demonstrate equal feats of physical incredible-ness at these Olympic Games. Female shot putters, basketball players, soft ballers. These athletes will defy expectations with their physical prowess but it is likely that none will garner the attention and love that our gymnasts do. Whether they win or not. There are exceptions. We fell in love with the Williams sisters and their tough, muscular physiques on the tennis court. Brandy Chastain was all power in her running bra and triumph. But it is my humble belief that these are the women we make exceptions for because they are so dynamic that they demand it. Liking little cute things comes much easier for us. That’s sexist.

And finally, I know young gymnsats will say it’s okay to end up with aches and pains in 10 or 20 years, as Shawn Johnson indicates. And I’m proof that that is likely true. I don’t mind the way my body creaks. The way my ankles swell, my hips pop, my hands stiffen to the point that it is hard to hold a cup of coffee in the morning. But Ms. Johnson can’t know what she will be okay with 20 years from now. She doesn’t know what will matter at 29 or 39 or 59. And whether or not this life she’s participating in now will give her great joy and pride, or physical pain and regret (likely not…especially if she wins the Olympics) in a few decades. And what about the girls who train the same way, who will suffer from the same arthritis-y aches and pains or more as adults, but don’t have a gold medal to justify the “it was worth it!”? How will they feel?

Dominique Moceanu has a gold medal and has suggested she might not go through it all again. I don’t have one and I say I would, even if I didn’t get a gold medal again next time. Fifteen years ago I said it wasn’t worth it, that I missed having a childhood, that it splintered my relationship with my parents beyond repair. Now, with age and perspective, I dispute that, taking a more ambivalent view. I have nightmares about the traumas but I miss the good parts everyday. It just not that simple as to say: “I won’t mind if my body hurts when I’m an adult.” The body scars are the least of the issue, afterall.

I wish Shawn Johnson the best; I hope she wins all the gold medals and never has a moment of struggle in her post-gymnastics life. She seems impossibly talented, buoyant, charismatic and joyful. I’m merely saying that children can’t know what will be good for them later. We protect children in our culture in many ways – we don’t’ let them play in traffic, we make them go to school, we have child labor laws. Why is it okay to put these children to work? Because they say they like it? Or because they win?

And why (I know I said ‘finally’ above, implying I was nearly done…but allow me one more point) when we hold communism in such disdain, do we want to ‘cut and paste’ the model deployed in China of finding the most talented athletes at a very young age, honing their talents while still under 10, and springing them on the world as proof that their system is superior, gold medals serving as evidence of a country’s dominance? We don’t want all the stuff we think is bad about communism – lack of individual freedom and choice – in fact we’ve been willing to go to war over it, but we want to adopt the stuff we like, that involves winning, even if it also entails curtailed freedoms, albeit for 6 and 8 year olds?

Herein lies the hypocrisies of women’s elite gymnastics. Which, I daresay, are merely microcosmic examples of the world at large. As long as winning is a part of the process, we’ll do anything – sacrifice our young, our values, the culture of democracy we pride ourselves in – to get it.

I had to do something last Thursday that I’ve never done before. I had to present to the Board of Directors at Levi Strauss and Company. Sounds somewhat prosaic, not too horrifying. So what? A bunch of former executives sitting around a very long table, all of them twice my age, some of them half falling asleep, the awake ones listening while taking copious critical notes, their leather coasters holding glasses of water or diet cola, the Chairman clutching his mallet for adjourning or calling order. They either like it or they don’t. They like me or they don’t. Big deal. Add to this ‘so what’ attitude that I am generally unbothered by public speaking. In fact, I kind of like it. Shouldn’t be too awful.

But CEOs and former CEOs (the Board is largely made up of these) are a scary bunch. These are men (yes, CEOs are mostly men) who think they are always right and don’t mind telling you. In fact that is what they are paid to do. And this was to be my coming out party of sorts, of the junior executive variety. No prom-like dress and no handsome young bucks in brand new suits. But I would be thrust upon the ‘scene’ and evaluated for my looks and general carriage. It was my chance to prove that I’d been a good choice for this big fancy job or fall flat on my face and prove the nay sayers right. I hate it when others are right about my being no good. When they see my flaws as radiantly and clearly as I do, I fray at the seams.

While the public speaking and panel of mature men didn’t freak me out too badly, being rejected and assigned the ‘not good enough’ moniker surely did. I knew that I would be hounded, pounded, tsked tsked if I didn’t nail it. I accepted my onerous task and prepared as if I was training for the Olympics. A Board Meeting is the equivalent of “The Corporate Olympics” after all, so I studied and practiced like my life depended on it. If I was to stand in front of a bunch of megalomaniacs that think they are always right and explain to them why I was right - a ‘girl’, at least 20 years their junior – I’d better train like Dara Torres for her fifth Olympics.

Having to do this presentation, to stand before a roomful of skeptics made me as nervous as I’d been when I had to compete on balance beam at the World Championships in 1985. There is no lonelier experience than leaping on a four-inch wide plank, jumping and flipping, wavering in the chilling, silent, almost-still barely breathable air of a giant stadium. With all eyes on you. I don’t think I’ve been so nervous since that very moment, more than 20 years ago. And while the executive board room is not a sporting arena, it is as solemn and has the potential to host disappointment and dash hopes in a similar manner.

Thus, Board Meeting week was preceded by many days of rehearsals, revisions and outfit choosing; along with diarrhea, zits, canker sores, stomach cramps and sleeplessness. The night before I had nightmares about the equipment failing - the DVD not playing, the power point slides going blank, the lights going out and never coming back on. About my tongue getting tied, feeling faint, sounding stupid. The nerves were further stirred up on the morning of my unveiling by the fact that I was ‘coached’ within an inch of my life. “Wear this, don’t wear that”…”say this…don’t say that”…”If the audio visual equipment doesn’t work right, well…I’m not gonna say!” Could I be fired if I ‘dropped the ball’ on this one? Likely no, not immediately anyway. But it would loom in my not too distant future like prostate cancer for a seventy-something year old man.

Before I had to take the stage and ‘perform’, I had a lump in my throat the size of my fist. I feared I wouldn’t be able to spit the words out, the words so perfectly crafted during a week of dress rehearsals, fueled by 18 months of hard work that went into the project I would be sharing. My knees knocked, my pulse pumped, my head pounded. I feared I might choke, stand before them, draw a blank and have absolutely nothing to say.

And then I reminded myself, at least I couldn’t hurt myself if it went poorly. How bad could it get? I could humiliate myself, sure, but I wouldn’t break my femur, shatter bone chips off my ankle, land on my face and scrape my cheek, blacken my eyes, break my fingers, smash my nose. What were the chances that I would be removed on a stretcher and rushed to an emergency room? Pretty much nil.

If I screwed up, I’d get a scolding by my boss but I was equipped to respond to that now. I wouldn’t cry. I’d apologize and explain that it had been more disappointing for me than for those watching. Perhaps more embarassing for them, but more disappointing for me.

And, lo and behold, it all went swimmingly. I uttered a single sentence with a quaver to my voice and subsequently banished the nerves. I ‘went for it’ - decided to be myself, play it off the cuff, charm the old dudes. They laughed, some clapped. They pumped my hand and smiled at the end. And I felt triumphant.

I need this kind of stress and thrill in my life. Unless I put myself in situations where I’m so nervous I may pee pants, I don’t feel like I exist. If I’d failed miserably, surely I’d feel differently. Why do I do this? What’s wrong with me? Will I never learn?!! But the fact that I didn’t screw it up is proof that I love being under fire; I love pulling through in the clutch. I like getting so frickin’ scared that I think I won’t be able to muddle through and come out on the other side of it in tact let alone victorious. And it’s not the external approval on the other end that I seek so desperately; it’s the ‘I lived through it and did better than I ever thought I would!’

Living this way involves a high tolerance for failure. Sometimes victory eludes a girl. But ‘winning’ (and by this I mean outperforming your own expectations) 20% of the time is better than living a boring, non-adrenalinated life with no light-headed, knee knocking, blood pumping challenges that sometimes, sometimes lead to triumph.