Swimming laps by Sue Robin

I wrote a few paragraphs about a bully at the gym and sent them off to Ruth for editing. She encouraged me to dig deeper. I started writing, and thirteen pages later, realized I am nowhere near disgorging the bile inside of me. So many years of hurt and anger caused by antisemitism, racism, anti-Muslimism, and disgusting misogynistic treatment of women, waiting for me to expel. I bet I am not the only one.

Not a day goes by that I am not triggered by the Bully-in-Chief. If it is not his horrific immigrant policy, it’s his firing of well-qualified people, or the stream of photos with Epstein and teenage girls, and on and on. He is incompetent, vengeful, petty, a world-class bully, and a man who has lost his moral compass—if he ever had one.

Recently, I was confronted by a man with some of the same anger and entitlement issues, though without the power of the office behind him.

Three months ago, I, finally, got the courage to do laps as I had thirty-five years ago. The first day, I surprised myself and swam three laps in a seventy-five-foot pool and did the aerobics class after, too. Yay!

Soon, I was doing fifteen laps along with the water aerobics. I shortened my time and felt my body grow stronger. The endorphins gave me a counterpoint to the pain of the latest news. My classmates told me how amazing I was to be doing laps and taking the class, too, and I was loving it—both the accolades and the sheer joy of swimming. I was hooked.

Then came the day that a man got into the pool in the lane I was in, even though the next lane was open. He’d said hello and smiled occasionally in the past, and we had shared lanes before. Two to a lane is the rule of thumb. Suddenly, he started berating me. I was swimming too slowly, taking up a lane meant for “real” swimmers. He had been coming here for years; I had “just started” and he didn’t understand why I and the “whale” (his word, not mine) in the other lane weren’t using the slower lane. I was flabbergasted.

Though I had seen this man harangue a class member for taking the ropes down two minutes before nine instead of right at nine when class begins because HE wasn’t done swimming, I had not expected to be bullied and harassed by him. I pay my membership fee too, I reminded him, and did not think my speed was relevant. He countered with, There used to be signs that the two left lanes were reserved for faster swimmers and the right lane for the walkers. I was swimming, I responded, albeit more slowly, and those signs had not been posted for the three years I have been there. I then asked why he did not just politely ask me to move to the empty lane. He had the chutzpah to tell me HE shouldn’t have to ask!

At that point, I realized this was a fruitless conversation. I wanted to get my swim in before class, so reluctantly moved to the outer lane.

Part of my goal is to put the news of the day aside and have a meditative swim. Though my goal was accomplished (I did not think of Trump once), it was hardly meditative as Mr. Entitlement in the next lane had my attention the entire time. I realized I had more to say to him.

I stopped him to reiterate that I have the right to swim in any lane and then wondered aloud why he had chosen the 78-year-old, 4’ 11” woman to confront (bully) and not the middle-aged man (whale) who had started swimming after me. I told him I thought he felt entitled. He looked at me, astounded, and said, “I am Black. I don’t know about white entitlement.”

“Entitlement is not reserved for whites,” I replied, “though they often abuse it, but I do know about male entitlement.” That ended the ‘discussion.’ He walked across the pool in a huff, and I went to wash the chlorine out of my hair and to report him to the clerks at the front desk. Then I cried. I had the sense that I had struck a nerve and, perhaps, he had received the message.

There has not been a need to share lanes since then. But on Friday, I said hello as he walked by, and he politely returned the greeting. I will get into a lane with him if it is the only place to swim. What I won’t do is allow him to ruin my swim time, nor to bully me ever again.

I hope he got the message. I wish there were a way to have Trump understand how toxic his behavior is. I would love to see him trudge across the White House Cement Rose Garden with just a smidge of knowing. But then, knowing without caring would still be worthless.