Sink or Swim
Sometimes when I swam the backstroke I felt as though I was drowning. I took lessons in elementary school. It had taken the instructor so long just to get me into the pool, and then to get me to put my head underwater and finally to learn to swim. It was an indoor pool, deep as all fuck to a six year old. The exoskeleton of the pool was a pretty blue hue, with lines of black tile at the bottom running its length. I never did venture to the deep end.
I fought the first time the instructor tried to lift me into the water. I balled my little fists up and smacked her fleshy arms and she let go. My mother dragged me out of the building by the ear and told me harshly through tight lips that I was never to embarrass her that way again. The other parents were all there, and their children had gotten into the pool without incident.
The instructor had a friendly face and an enormous birthmark spanning her muscled back. Years later I thought of her raspberried back and wondered if she had intentionally chosen a profession in which she would constantly display this prominent mark. A way to overcome. Becoming comfortable in your skin.
I always had trouble with the backstroke. I couldn’t seem to travel in a straight line, couldn’t seem to float. I’d puff my chest up with air and point it toward the glass ceiling but everything else would sink. I’d hit the floaters separating the swimming lanes. Instead of slicing through the surface of the water, the top of my head would submerge with each stroke. The water rushed over my face as I would head-butt forward. I’d invariably take in water when I swam on my back. I have always been a nose-breather.
Drowning has an attendant smell. It is unmistakably the smell of burnt corn. At first I didn’t make the connection. As I stared beyond the glass above me, I had vague images of a Taiwanese countryside in the afternoon, with geese flying overhead and the smell of burning corn drifting to me from a street vendor. They say that when you drown, the first few moments are filled with agonizing terror, but as you actually begin to asphyxiate, a calm and etherized relaxation rushes over you. They say it’s really quite pleasant. Sometimes on my back, I felt sleepy and would wander far during day-dreamy episodes of cornfields and bamboo.
Copyright 8/99 Jennifer Chung.
All rights reserved.
I wasn't waving,
I was drowning.
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