In the deep end
My children’s father has finally--finally--agreed our children have progressed far enough in their swimming education that they can quit lessons. Annabelle will finish a salmon, Jackson a dolphin, both within spitting distance of shark level. Their father, a surf-lifesaver for several summers at Point Lonsdale, likely envisioned more in regards to his children’s aquatic acumen. As far as I’m concerned, Jackson and Annabelle are champions. They never joined a swim squad or ever willingingly took part in a school swim carnival, but compared to me, they may as well be merfolk. Swim lessons definitely took first prize as ‘Lauren’s Most Hated Childhood Activity’.
There were two phases of my swim instruction. Swim phase one began at the Melrose YMCA. I can’t remember how old I was, only that I was old enough to know viscerally that I didn’t want to be there. I have little recollection of those lessons but for the traumatic imprint they left on my young brain. The Melrose teaching team consisted almost entirely of middle-aged Black women, women who reminded me very strongly of my own relatives. Looking back, their teaching methods were unconventional for traditional swim instructors, but not necessarily Black aunties. After a brief warm up period in the serenity of shallow waters, we were led to the ominous deep end. There, half of the aunties were treading water while the rest of them stood on the deck. The students were told to jump in and swim towards the teacher. If you didn’t jump voluntarily, an auntie ‘helped’ you in. I’ll give you a moment to consider which category I occupied.
During the thirty minutes of my lesson, I felt I had no control over my body, that I was functioning solely on survival instinct. ‘Keep your head above water, kick your legs, move your hands and live another day.’ This mantra played repeatedly on the tapeloop of my mind. I had ceded bodily autonomy to the cabal of stern women in charge of the pool, which by extension also included my mother. She was the one who had brought me there and squeezed my long, thick hair into a swim cap, a punishment all its own. Although there is no doubt in my mind that every one of those women, mom included, were genuinely well-intentioned, I did not consent to my sense of security and safety being violated in that way. Those swim lessons terrified me. I knew the women couldn’t and wouldn’t let me drown, but rational thought only existed outside of the swimming pool.
Phase 2 of my swim instruction was at the downtown YWCA. The teaching team there was an odd pair--a mother and son named Judy and Robert. Judy was a very large and somewhat intimidating woman who always wore her functional black swimsuit but never set foot in the water. She paced poolside meticulously instructing her son on how to teach her young charges. We had to leave for the lesson before the Saturday morning music video countdown show finished. Every week, I would inevitably miss the top two or three videos. Who wanted to spend time at a muggy indoor pool when you could be perfecting your Hammer dance? Not this girl!
My swim education culminated in a basic grasp of the major strokes and a rather fragile confidence that I would not drown, at least not immediately, if I found myself in a capsized boat or emergency water landing. I didn't give my children the option to forgo swim lessons; living here it was a non-negotiable. I sat poolside for a good chunk of their lessons, usually clad in a sundress and thongs to combat the clammy humidity and chlorine-induced brain fog. I watched closely, not doubting their teacher’s abilities, but rather monitoring how my children were feeling. Since I didn’t allow them to opt out of lessons, I wanted to be sure they felt safe while in them.
Part of our role as parents, teachers and carers is not only to keep children safe but also help them build the confidence and the words to speak up when something doesn’t feel right. Fundamentally, feeling safe is about consent--consenting to be in a space, taking part in an experience, ensuring that things are proceeding in a manner that allows one to remain in control of their own body and mind. Consent can be taught to children as young as 3 years old. What does consent look like for preschoolers? Not requiring children to hug/kiss/touch family members or family friends and knowing that adults/siblings/friends will stop wrestling/tickling as soon as they say stop.
The Takeaway:
Talk to your children about consent early and often.
Want to know MOrE?
This video by Blue Seat Studios is an excellent accompaniment to a conversation about consent with children. It’s probably most suitable for children 6 or above, but would be fine for younger children viewing with parents or carers. There are also several picture books available that address the topic of consent in non-threatening, age-appropriate ways. Ask your local children’s librarian for recommendations or do a bit of exploring at your favourite online book site.
