Resistance Training
I’m known by many names.
The one I was born with sits across my shoulders
at times, heavy and rigid as I move across the court.
Words are lobbed at me with the same force as the ball.
Was I expected to catch them?
Hold them?
Should I lob them back?
I smirk to myself as I sink the ball in the basket.
Their volleys won’t sink in so easily.
Such weak attacks, really.
This court, where I am judged constantly
because of my sex,
my skin, my faith.
I was expert at blocking the slurs.
You think your derision counts?
That it will stall my momentum?
Attacks come at me from all sides.
Your gibes are nothing to the reality I deflect.
Where authority, parity and longevity
are the points to play for.
Muscle memory born of resistance training.
The contrast of my brothers’ world to my own.
A playing field where I stood at the sidelines
waiting to be chosen.
I stopped waiting. I took my spot.
I will earn it every day.
I know how to play this game.