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Are you kidding me? Prop 8?!!!!

How can it be? How can we elect a black man President and we can’t condone gay marriage (read: equal rights for all) in California, what should be the most progressive state in the nation? The state that should represent the vision for what this country should stand for. Why isn’t anyone drawing the comparison that a mere 20 plus years ago, inter-racial marriage was illegal in many states, a marriage that has produced our recently elected President?

Isn’t gay marriage the civil rights issue (analogous to racial equality) of our day? The slippery slope of “if gays can marry, then teachers will teach our kids to be gay” is outdated, outmoded, ridiculous, unenlightened, backwards and downright silly. People are with the people they choose because they CAN’T HELP IT.

My husband is black. I am white. Our kids are mixed race. Should this be banned by law? NO! But a couple of decades ago, many states would have said, “Yes, it should be illegal.” It’s immoral. It’s wrong! Are we not better than this? In California?!!!! As proud as I am that this country elected Barack Obama, I am that saddened by the Prop 8 ruling today.

On Compassion

I recently went to a memorial service for the father of my friend Belle. Belle’s sister, Brady, spoke at the service. She talked at length about how much her father loved animals and she even went so far as to say that he believed a love of animals was a sign of a person’s capacity for compassion. She joked that some people thought her father loved his animals more than his kids. She said it lightheartedly, with a toss of the head; but there was a sad truth to it.

He was an angry man, unkind at times. He was most committed to taking it out on Belle’s brother, the oldest child, Robert. Poor Robert bore the brunt of his dad’s frustration derived from a life lived without any breaks. Despite his cantankerousness, Mr. L felt a kinship with dogs, cats, all animals. He talked to them about his life, he told them his story at the end of his days. He confided in his pets and sought forgiveness, Brady told the gathered crowd.

I hate animals. I don’t hate them. That’s an exaggeration. But I don’t really like them. I don’t want to hurt them. But I don’t really want to be around them either. Unfortunately, I have a cat. His name is The Brain. My husband and I re named him that (his original name was Lenny) when we realized he wasn’t very bright. Aren’t we ironic? We often joke that our cat is an asshole. He’s everywhere you don’t want him to be. When I want to work, he sits on my keyboard and bites my hands. When I want to sleep in on the weekend, he sits on my chest and screams in my face until I feed him. When I want to read, he positions himself between my eyes and the page, biting my wrists with significant vigor. He pees on the bath mat instead of in his litter box, he vomits to get my attention so I’ll feed him. See what I mean? Asshole!

All of that being said, I would never hurt him. I spend about $3 a day on cat food so that he gets the fancy canned food he likes. He sits on my belly while I watch Project Runway and we fall asleep together mid-way through. He’s lived with me for 14 years, a gift from my husband after a fight early in our relationship. Some gift. A cantankerous cat that squawks in my face all the time, wakes me up at 4 a.m. and leaves excrement in the bathroom because for some reason, the litter just isn’t fine enough for him.

So I don’t hate animals. I just don’t LOVE them. I’m familiar with all the studies that say that animals make people happier, prevent depression, keep old people from withering away and falling into abiding sadness, giving up on life. But this whole angle that Mr. L maintained that a person’s treatment of animals is indicative of their true character, their innate humaneness, is a crock, if you ask me. These people that were heartbroken during Hurricane Katrina because dogs were stranded, but were completely immune to the human suffering are a conundrum to me. Why would the dog stuck on the roof cause a person to pick up the phone and give money but a woman stuck inside her home, would not? I know I’m offending the animal lovers out there. But before you skewer me…consider this:

I believe empathy towards your own family comes first. Then friends. Then humans. Then animals. If a father is persistently unkind to his children, he’s a not a good father and I’d go so far as to say, he just might not be a good man. All people have good and bad in them; no one is all bad. An unkind moment doesn’t make someone evil. But a life spent yelling at one’s children, disparaging them at every turn, dispensing violence in frustration, is a life spent inhumanely, without compassion. No matter how kind you are to animals.

I’m not implying that we should be dismissive or unkind or abusive to animals. Not even close. But lets measure compassion by how we extend it to our own children, our spouses, our loves ones, our species, first and foremost. We can give the love leftovers to our pets.

Bloggers!

I’m now officially fascinated by the blogger phenomenon. Not the people that actually write stuff, posting their opinions, experiences, social commentary for others to read. Rather those that choose to comment on what those who actually write stuff write. Comment is probably the wrong word in many instances. Belittle, malign, skewer, accost. These come closer.

Sure there’s the whole line of reasoning about anonymity allowing one’s mean streak to come out. It seems that 9 times out of 10 the meanies don’t use their real names so I suppose this is part of it.

But where is all the anger coming from? And why so much anger over things that are so seemingly silly and meaningless?

I wrote a piece for Salon recently about how I can be a real jerk because sports fans irritate me. As a former athlete, it sometimes seems as though the armchair fan demonstrates little true understanding of the travails of professional and Olympic level athletes when said fans sit in their living rooms, screaming at the television about some athlete or other choking or letting the team down. Or how it's worth it to compete in the Olympics with a broken ankle, not a big deal really.

To me, it comes across a little bit like: I could’ve done better. Or: I could've done that.

I realize I’m most definitely projecting here. I guess I’m a bit sensitive and defensive of the athletes.

Anyway, I write this silly little piece that is intended to be kind of a joke – a little bit snarky, a little bit confessional. A little bit just to encourage deep down honest awe for the athletes who sacrifice their lives for gold.

There were over 300 comments back in less than a day. Many of these people I think might like to take my head off if they had the chance. I’m expecting a mail bomb any minute now.

My favorite variety of comment was in the realm of: you’re just a loser gymnast who never made it, you have no right to comment. Now you’re a wanna be athlete turned sucky writer. You need mental help because you can't get over your failures as a gymnast.

In parsing this statement, I find quite a few points I’d like to challenge. And don’t get me wrong. My dissection is not some coldhearted, unemotional response. These comments stung. But if I try to be rational, I find the following faulty:

1) I 100% acknowledge that I was not a gymnast on par with Liukin or Johnson. I don’t even have to acknowledge it. I didn’t go to the Olympics. I didn’t win a medal. I know this. I don’t deserve to hold their hand grips. But that doesn’t make me a loser either. I don’t consider the Olympics the only measure of having succeeded in one’s sport of choice. If not going to the Olympics were THE measure of loser-dom, we’d all pretty much be losers.

2) I have some insight into the training regimens of high level athletes regardless of whether I went to the Olympics or not.

3) I’m an adult with an education that has nothing to do with the fact that I was an athlete. I can be a writer just like anyone else. I wouldn’t call myself a writer yet. I’m not sure what the line is when you cross over and are officially a writer. I suppose its when you make your living at it full time. Which I do not. I’m not a writer any more than my kids who like to draw are artists. But I’d like to be one day.

4) If I’m not qualified to offer insight into the world of gymnastics training having trained 40 hours a week for almost 10 years as a child, how are you, Mr. Blogger, qualified to tell me I need mental help? Are you a psychiatrist?

I recognize that the things I wrote were perhaps a tad provocative. Perhaps a tad self-indulgent. Admittedly I was sharing something shameful about myself, I thought with a bit of embarrassment and humor. I guess I was wrong.

But I’m astounded at why it made people SO angry. Get mad about the Americans still dying in Iraq not to mention the Iraqis, get mad about the earth heating up and killing our future grandchildren, get mad about the fact that too many children don’t have enough to eat in this, one of the wealthiest nations in the world.

Don’t use up all your energetic vitriol on some loser former gymnast who thinks she’s a writer and needs to be institutionalized for being a narcissistic egomaniacal, delusional asshole.

Salon blogging

http://www.salon.com/sports/olympics/tag/jennifer_sey/

Blogging for salon.com

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

Real Sports...for real?

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.

Reuniting

My former gymnastics team, The Parkettes, is having a 40-year reunion this weekend. Very few of my friends from back then will attend, not due to any particular grievance. Life just gets in the way of reuniting sometimes; and I suppose a weekend in the ever cosmopolitan, always picturesque Allentown, Pennsylvania isn’t always first on everyone’s list of summer vacation hot spots.

Unsurprisingly, I wasn’t invited. Despite my now well-documented issues with the years I spent there, I am very curious about how all the girls have fared, what interesting lives they have built for themselves. How child athletes turn inchoate drive into fully formed adult determination (or don’t) is a subject of unlimited fascination for me. Successful athletes have a moxie and tenacity uncommon amongst the general population. I am always curious how it morphs or grows or simply dies in the pursuit of non-athletic endeavors. I plan on getting a full report on my generation of teammates from those I know who are attending.

Even if I hadn’t written the book and become an official foe to my former coaches and a couple of teammates, I wouldn’t have attended the reunion. I left on not – so – good terms and haven’t been in touch since about 1992 when I returned for a mini-reunion just so that I could be a grumpy, rebellious Gen X style pain in the butt. I had just graduated from college and I was puffed up with Stanford liberalism and bulimic ice cream binges; I wanted to rub my I am part of a much bigger world than you are pride in their faces.

I was trying to prove to myself that I had moved on by showing up with a tattoo, a nose ring, a pack of Marlboros and a tough chick on my arm (not my lesbian girlfriend – I’ve never had one of those – but if they wanted to think so, fine). Ironic that to prove to myself I’d moved on I went back seeking the opposite of the approval I’d sought for so long; in desiring their disdain, or at the very least shocked dismay, I was just as entrenched in the morass of dependence as I’d been five years earlier. I needed them to hate me so I could be released from the need to have them love me. If I repulsed them, affirmation would be out of the question. I could give up and move on.

This must be some form of individuation, the means by which a child separates from the ‘parent’. Seems silly and immature and overly dramatic. But I was only 22. I couldn’t think of a better way to define myself than simply defining myself as DIFFERENT from everyone I’d ever known. I didn’t articulate who I was. I just shouted, “I’M NOT YOU.”

When Chalked Up was nearing release, an old coach called a friend and fellow 1980s gymnast to ask if we were in touch, if she knew about the book. “You don’t talk to her do you? I mean, you guys weren’t even here at the same time!”

Said friend reminded her that we indeed were there at the same time, with a smidgeon of disbelief that a coach who’d played such a formative role in her upbringing didn’t recall such an obvious fact.

The few years that each of us trained there – for some of us, over a decade; for me, less than five years - are etched into our memories. Less lively with age, the memories have a scribbled/scrawled quality rather than an ardent, incisive chisel. We have weigh-in dreams when feeling anxious and tend to be a tad too self-critical. We all remember the physical suffering from smashed up bones and torn ligaments but when we talk about it now we laugh, as in: “They insisted there was nothing wrong with that ankle! It was twice the size of the other one! Can you believe? Ha ha ha!” We also remember the good stuff – the medals, friendships and satisfaction.

Despite the muted current day impact of these 20-year old recollections, we remember all of it with astonishing precision and emotional clarity. We remember what it felt like then – the good and the bad; it just doesn’t carry weight today with two decades between those events and our adult selves.

But the coaches don’t really remember us with the same specificity. Each of us was one of many determined sprites with hair sprayed bangs, a ponytail and a limp. The lifespan of a college student has passed since any of my generation stepped foot in that gym. And there were twenty years of Parkettes before we’d ever graduated. Decades crammed with girls – some promising, some forgettable, some feisty, some acquiescent. Some champions. Some also-rans. If a ‘generation’ in gymnastics is 5 years, at least eight generations of gymnasts have floated, flown and fallen through those warehouse doors.

We were fleeting projects; if any of us didn’t work out, there were new projects just outside the rainbow colored walls on MLK drive.

Those coaches were everything to us. And we were cogs in the factory wheel, fodder for their dreams of coaching winners. We thought it was all about us. Until we quit or left or graduated and there were twelve others there, much younger and less tired, to take our places.

On sharing

I have two friends who have lost a parent in the last year. We are that age, after all. One of them was a friend prior to her dad’s illness, the other was merely an acquaintance, prior to her mom’s.

Liat’s dad had stomach cancer. When he found out, the doctor’s said: “We’ve caught it early. We’ll go in, take it out, you should be fine.” Upon ‘going in’, they discovered they were mistaken. He lived less than a year. She’s in her mid-twenties, unmarried, too young to lose her dad. Not a child, but her children won’t have a grandfather, her dad won’t walk her down the aisle. She’s athletic, a bright eyed optimist, a bit of a Berkeley hippie-chick in the very best sense of the word. She worked for me at Levi’s and taught yoga on the side.

Meredith’s mom passed away from ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. This rare illness overtook her swiftly, faster than many sufferers. Meredith was with her the entire time, from diagnosis to her passing. Meredith is sensitive, beautiful, thoughtful, a striver, a bit of a compulsive; she is forever changed by this experience. She is at once grateful for her friendships, her family and surprised by people’s inability to be ‘there’, to be in this with her. We are not a culture that handles death very openly. Forthright and understanding strangers can become our friends when faced with death.

My mom was also sick this year, from lung cancer (no, she never smoked). This is what brought the three of us together. Each had a parent suffering from a serious illness. My mother is the lone survivor, just one year later. She is the lucky one. She is not better, more worthy, more loved. Just luckier, if length of life can be equated to luck. I’m not sure I believe that it should be. Other things seem more profound – life experience and appreciation, for instance. Alas, I believe my mom to be lucky because she has another chance to develop an appreciation for her life, something at which she has not always thrived.

When I found out my mom was possibly ill (she was in the hospital with fluid in her lung), I hopped a plane to Philadelphia. I thought, “this is likely nothing, a bit of pneumonia, maybe TB.” By the time my plane landed, my brother called me to say, “It’s cancer.” It felt like a rock was dropped on my chest. And my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I was flattened. Lung cancer. She would die. People don’t live from that. When I was a teenager, I had a close adult friend – my hairdresser during my competing days – who died of lung cancer at the age of 39, the same age as I am now. Lung cancer is a death sentence. My mother is going to die, I thought. I didn’t think, I knew. I knew I’d have to make the most of the year or so we had left. I’d move to Philly, spend every waking moment with her, enjoying, repairing past grievances.

By the time I got to the hospital, the doctor said it was a late stage cancer. They likely wouldn’t treat it, other than to ease her pain. What? How could this be? Our year wasn’t even going to happen, the year I’d come to treasure in the short car ride from the airport to the hospital. It must be my fault. I’ve been a horrible person. I’ve been so caught up with work – obsessed – in the past year, that I am being taught a lesson about what really matters. I’ve given this horrible disease to my mother because I am an awful, disgusting person. I was short of breath with this realization that I shared with my husband as my mom slept fitfully, knocked sideways by truckloads of meds.

“This isn’t about you,” he said. I laid with her the rest of the night, in her hospital bed. Head on her shoulder, while tears streamed down her face, my face, soaking the pillow.

Liat was one of the first people I called for advice. Her dad was in the throes of his disease, very near death. They’d given up hope that he might live, had moved through that phase into making peace with dying. She gave me advice about cancer centers, homeopathic treatments, yoga. Another friend - a doctor - whose dad had had cancer five years earlier offered advice on books (Bernie Siegel) and alternative treatments if chemo wasn’t prescribed.

And there were others: Karen K, the mother of a friend who’d survived cancer years earlier, offered weekly emails of love and support. Total strangers, on-line, shared their stories, treatment approaches, feelings about losing a loved one. It all helped.

Meredith and I became friendly when I returned to work, after seeing my mother through her surgery. The cancer turned out to be not quite as far along as they’d assumed; it hadn’t yet spread to her other lung, making her a viable candidate for surgery and chemo and radiation. Meredith reached out to me about a job, but we bonded over having a sick mom. Over having felt to blame, having felt the shameful need to maintain some sort of life outside a parent’s illness, over how to best care for our moms whom we love deeply, over our compulsive over-achieving natures. Many months later, we are still friends. Building a tentative closeness based on the horror of losing someone (in my case contemplating losing someone) that we love.

I am so grateful that people are willing to share their stories. Whether on-line or with me in person. They are generous givers, willing to reveal their darkest and, at times, most selfish moments. I felt less alone in my parents’ basement, unable to sleep, for the two months I stayed in Philly nursing my mom back to physical and emotional stability, when I trolled the cancer bulletin boards, blogs and support groups. I felt I should’ve been handling this better, but I wasn’t. As a nearly 40 year old woman, shouldn’t I have known this was coming? Shouldn’t I have been prepared? And yet, I had not predicted this nor was I prepared to deal with the imminent loss of a parent, one who I’d had a contentious relationship with throughout my teens and twenties, wasted years now shaded with unbearable guilt. I was grown, old, some might say, and had enjoyed a lifetime with my mom. How greedy and selfish was I to be rendered helplessly catatonic with four decades of mom-time under my belt? What, did I think I should have a mom AND a dad forever? And, with my mom in such emotional distress, how could I even contemplate leaving, going home to my family because I missed my children. I was torn up with contradictions.

Through others sharing their stories, I realized it is never easy to lose a parent. It’s a cliché, I know. But talking with others in my situation made me feel so much less alone. I didn’t feel less unique or sad, I felt more understood, more loved. More a part of the human race.

Sharing personal experience of any kind can serve this purpose. I gobble up memoirs about addiction, though I’m not and never have been an addict. But these former addicts share horrific truths about themselves – self-loathing that leads them down unimaginable paths. I read them not with ‘There but for the grace of God…” gratefulness, rather with heartfelt empathy. They hurt too. We are the same.

I am especially moved when people share ugly, vile stories about themselves or things that cause them shame. When they are unkind, selfish, mean or weak. We all are sometimes, I’d venture. The guilt that can take over upon realizing we’ve behaved badly or without the strength expected of us, can be all consuming. Prompting even more self-indulgent behavior (what is guilt, if not self-indulgence?). But hearing from others, sharing in experience, helps one to move on with it. It happened, I did it, I feel it. But so did she. Or he. I can keep going. I will keep going. In fact, I will share my experience without shame or embarrassment or guilt or fear. I will share. The good, the bad, the humiliating, the shameful. I will share.

Thanks Meredith. Thanks Liat. For sharing with me.

From the peanut gallery

I wanted to share some of the letters and emails I’ve received from total strangers both in support of and against the book (or me, or my films, as the case may be). I’ve been so moved by the endorsements and, of course, hurt by those more negative. Truthfully, some notes have brought forth tears. And I don't say this seeking sympathy. It's just true.

But I am learning to have a thick skin. Thicker, anyway. I need to get over being an approval seeker. Don't I? It's hard! It's who I am, how I've always been. 39 years!! It kind of works for me. Alas, the fact that all the supportive notes – which outweigh the negatives by about 10 to 1 - have been enough to pull me from the self-flagellation and melancholy and panic inevitable when being verbally assaulted is proof I'm not really over needing approval afterall.

Perhaps I have to live with being an approval-seeking, pathetic, needy, competitive wife/mom/professional/ex-gymnast/daughter and all around neurotic. And, in addition to these afflictions, apparently I have a disease called trichotillomania. I got a letter about this after describing the finger picking on NPR. My "nervous habit" isn't a straight up nervous habit afterall. It's a disease. Excellent.

Here goes:

1) Jen~ I found your book to be a total page-turner. Couldn't put it down. I am your age (or close enough) and have always been a fan of gymnastics. My younger daughter competes now. I found myself checking myself quite a bit while reading your book. I think it would be very easy to get sucked in.


2) You have so many people having your back...you have NO idea how many people are supporting you. Don't let those dicklicks from youtube get you down.


3) Hi, Jennifer. I just finished reading your book and I wanted to THANK YOU so much for writing it. As a former elite gymnast, I could pretty much relate 100% to every single feeling you described...even though I finally quit gymnastics almost three years ago, I can remember everything like it was yesterday. Your story made me cry, especially because it reminds me of mine in a lot of ways. Again, thanks a million. You were a beautiful gymnast, BTW =)


4) You are such an inspiration and NOT a pathetic liar. It was and IS no secret what assholes your coaches were … screw the people who are giving you crap. Like I said before, You are a great mom. That's all that matters! :)


5) I just finished your book this morning while riding the 24 to Levi’s Plaza from Marin. I sat there crying on the bus – true, I’m 12 weeks pregnant so my hormones are playing a role, but I was really moved by your story. I only competed at the Class III level, but even I endured weigh-ins, many hours a week in practice, and lasting body-image stuff as a result of gymnastics. I also know that I have an incredible work ethic and self confidence because of the sport. I too dream of gymnastics often. I went to competitive diving after injury but it never filled the hole. Then marathon running, which my body is just not made for. I still look for something to take its place and yoga is as close as I’ve come (although, of course, I bring ego and competition to the studio, which is kind of beside the point...).


6) I just finished your book. I was a gymnast in the 80’s, early 90’s. I finished as a low level 10. I experienced a lot of what you did. I’ve been reading your blog and seeing the people attack you for your experience and wonder where these people are. This stuff even happens at the lower levels. My mom took me to weight watchers at 14 when I was 5-7 and 110. I think her real problem was that I’d gotten too tall for gymnastics. Unfortunately you can’t lose height!
Thank you for writing it. I’ve been struggling most of my life with aspects of my personality and never understood where they came from and what to do with them. Upon reading your book I understood. I accept nothing but the best and beat myself up if things aren’t perfect.


7) Just wanted to take the time to tell you how much I enjoyed your book. I'm old gymnast who never quite stood out but just always loved gymnastics. I think most negative reactions are from those who haven't yet read it.


8) Reading your book brought back so many memories. I felt like I lived through so many of the exact situations that you experienced… Again, thanks for being so truthful about the sport and all of the “players” that surround it. (this one was from a former Olympian via email. That helped.)


And now for the other side of the story. And some of these were in response to my short film The Gymnast on youtube. But I’d hazard a guess that many critical of the film, are upset by the book and blurring the line between the two (one was fictional, one is memoir). I'm giving equal play to the critical and the non-critical. For fairness' sake.

1) sounds like it was written by someone who has no idea about gymnastics, and then I look and it's by a formal national champion. Talking about how the girl still "survived" gymnastics. I'm sorry but I think you're overdramatic along with your first blog post on your blog. oh PS: a lot of kids do know what they want when they are young, don't generalize because you were nieve


2) Jennifer Sey lies in her book shes nothing but a big fat lier


3) Oh believe me her book bassically makes her look like a spoiled brat who acts like her parents forced her to do all this stuff in which they didnt she wanted to


4) that was the dumbest thing I've ever seen. I hope her book isn't as stupid as this crap, I just bought it.


5) I think that this was horrible. Why do you need to blam others for your life? Can't take responsibility?


6) This book is gymnastics' version of "A Million Little Pieces."


7) Jennifer Sey is a liar by any definition of the word. Even if every word in her book is true as she remembers it. (And that’s been contested by some of her teammates from the time.) If you disagree with me, buy her book. If not, encourage everyone you know to boycott Chalked Up. You can read it, but don’t purchase even one more copy. If Jennifer Sey wanted to exorcise demons from over 20-years-ago as a memoir, she could have done it on her blog. That she chose to release an inflammatory book in the run-up to the 2008 Olympics smacks of opportunism.


8) … it is ironic that Sey was probably the winner of the worst USA Championships ever. Then she drifted into obscurity.I still remember watching 86 USAs, wondering how US gymnastics got that bad since the 84 Olympics. Everyone was awful. The commentators couldn't even get excited about Sey's performance.I don't think USAG even posts the results in their archives.And now she's back...with a book. It's right before the Olympics and right in the middle of USAG being thrust into the media spotlight for allegedly harboring child abusers. I may read the book...just to give her a chance...but the first thing I thought of when I heard that a new dramatic gymnastics biography was coming out, I thought, "Oh...HER??? How dramatic can that be?"


So that’s a short summary of the good and the bad. No analysis required.

Do you remember...?

I’ve recently reconnected with some old friends from The Philadelphia School, my progressive hippie dippy elementary educational school.

It started with Jacob (now Jake) Tapper. He found me on, where else, Facebook. Apparently we had our first date in junior high. We went to see “Jaws II” and he put his hand in my Coke; not like the movie “Diner” where, well, something else markedly un-hand like went in the popcorn. I believe his hand in my Coke was accidental. Though I can’t be sure because I don’t remember this so-called date that turned into a non-date because we were somehow joined by several other kids from TPS, as we called our beloved school. Today, he’s mock heartbroken that I don’t recall this monumental date of ours. After much prodding I do remember him in his Philadelphia Fliers jersey doing Richard Nixon impressions. His political astuteness has served him well; he's a national correspondent for ABC News. I'm sure he was quite a kid - smart, interesting, funny, kind - as he's quite an adult. I wish I remembered more.

Jake re-introduced me to Liz Cohen. Now Elisabeth LaMotte. I nearly choked to death on a butterscotch candy at her house in seventh grade. Someone - her mother? - performed the Heimlich and the candy was gently and un-dramatically brought forth, allowing me to breathe again. My throat was bruised for days after, a reminder of my near-death experience in her oh-so-swanky center city townhouse. We both remember this incident with fondness, despite the scariness of it back then. Liz, however, also quite impressively remembers every word of a student-scribed song we used to sing at TPS about our favorite Phillie baseball player, Steve Carlton. I have no recollection of this ditty though I do remember our city’s famous lefty pitcher.


His number's thirty two and he makes the batters boo; He always strikes them out with never any doubt; He comes to every game and he's gained a lot of fame; He doesn't hesitate to close the gate and win the game; Steve Carlton, always doin fine Steve Carlton, fastest of his kind Steve Carlton, will never be outdone Steve Carlton, always -- number one!

Liz re-introduced me to Susan Levine, Zahavah or “Z” today. Susan was impossibly cool and sophisticated. She was in the KISS club (Ace Frehley), had a boyfriend, took public transportation and taught me the ways of crank phone calls. We spent an afternoon in “Is your refrigerator running” hysterics after school one day when, I apparently did not have gymnastics practice. I recently got in touch with Zahavah through Liz. She lives in San Francisco, about 2 miles from me. She is impressively accomplished as legal counsel for YouTube and just as cool as ever.

And finally, they all brought me to Liz Spikol. Another TPS-er, Liz was recently featured in the New York Times for her writing, video blogging and general outspoken-ness on bipolar disorder. She fondly remembers my favorite teacher from back then, Lisa. I recall Lisa being worldly and enthusiastic, a curly-haired hippie in flowy skirts. Liz remembers her outfits differently, though we agree on her general appearance.

"She had brown wavy hair. She was really nice and was quick to laugh. She used to wear an off-white sweater and brown pants."

I guess Lisa had brown pants and hippie skirts. Or maybe not.

Liz Lamotte seems to recall that I, along with Zahavah, killed our class bird Chico, the Spanish-speaking parrot. Z and I let him out of the cage, allowing him to walk atop the lattice, where he fell between the bars and hurt his little bird legs. He died soon thereafter, I’m told. Liz felt left out, not having been bonded for life with Z and me in this tragedy. I don’t remember any of this. Not the faintest, “Yeah, that sounds familiar.” Nothing. In fact, I am likely getting the details of this avian murder all wrong because I don’t remember there even being a linguistically gifted Latino "pajaro" in our classroom. Still, I have no doubt this poor flapper died because of my carelessness.

Apparently, I don't remember every detail of my youth. I killed a bird, went on a date with the now famous Jake Tapper and had a whole bunch of teachers that I have only the fuzziest, if any, recollection of. They include: John the mountain man, Betsy somebody with red hair, Nancy someone with who knows what color hair, Tossi the music teacher (remember the name but not her – how could you forget that name?!) and Ellen the principal. There were also disco skating parties, spin the bottle sessions, ice skating at the Farm (our urban school’s way of getting us in touch with nature) and dramatic performances of Antigone. Nope. No memory. Perhaps I just wasn’t invited which jibes more with my recollection of not feeling like I fit in with all these cool city kids. Though I now know they didn't see me as I saw myself (nerdy suburban doofus with no idea who KISS was); to them I was some sort of flipping golden girl with loads of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and a mom who drove a white Camaro (still not sure if kids thought this was cool or pathetic) to haul me off to gymnastics practice before class was officially dismissed.

Funny thing, memory. Perspective driven, it is strange and slippery and prismatic. What is indelible to some, is non-existent to others. Two people can stand side by side and experience an event completely differently. Or one may not remember it at all. But that doesn't mean it didn't happen. May Chico rest in peace.

Am I a liar?

While the bulk of the responses that I’ve gotten to the book have been positive, ranging from empathetic to outright cheers (You’re brave. Thank goodness, finally!), there have been those that claim my depiction of the sport is not accurate. That it is filled with lies. There are even those who go so far as to assert that because I wasn’t a very good National Champ - perhaps even the worst ever (in the words of a few bloggers) – I am vengeful and antagonistic. They argue that my incompetence as a gymnast is evidence that the book is a retaliation, proof of my bitterness. I’ll concede, I wasn’t the best ever. Not sure that mediocre child champion = adult prevaricator. Seems like a tenuous connection.

I suppose I’ll just carry on saying what I’ve been saying: this is my story. Not an indictment of the sport. This was my personal experience, 20 years ago. Not drawing any conclusions that this is what everyone who participates in the sport experiences, now or back then.

What I find most distressing is people saying: releasing it now, before the Olympics, is bad for the sport. They don’t take issue with the content, per se, rather the timing. Vehement dissenters offer that the “marketing” of CHALKED UP – timing its release before the Olympics – is a ploy to optimize sales.

I wrote the book when it spilled forth, back in 2006. It’s just when it came out of me, after ‘cooking’ for over twenty years. There was no intent to time it for the Olympics which are every four years after all, so any book is pre or post Olympics, if you think about it. The fact is my kids were finally old enough that I was getting enough sleep to concentrate for extended periods of time. I wrote it when I wrote it; and I sold it when it sold. No control there. There is a standard delay of 12-18 months between when a book sells to a publisher and when it is released. That time allows for editing, typesetting, etc. That meant the release was going to be early 2008.

Thus, I take issue with the accusatory, finger-pointy “marketing!” claims.

And, it prompts me to ask: So you think marketing is opportunistic, huh, presenting facts in a manner intended to seduce the consumer? Sounds to me kind of like how gymnastics is marketed on television to secure ad revenue and attract new children to the sport. How only the cutest pixies bouncing happily and seemingly without effort are showcased. Viewers rarely, if ever, get to feast their eyes on those who ‘lose’, falling outside the top ranks; girls who plunge to the ground on their heads, faces, backs, bottoms, sometimes incurring unwatchable injuries. Eye-shielding falls are standard operating procedure in gymnastics as it is an incredibly dangerous sport. In football, we are exposed to the bone bashing, as it is somewhat palatable when it happens to big, scary, fully grown adult men. And because it is part of that sport's appeal, it is celebrated to an extent. But no one wants to see a broken-hearted, broken boned sprite sobbing in devastating disappointment or being removed from the competition floor on a stretcher.

Do objectors mean to suggest that my book is ‘marketed’ like gymnastics itself?

Rest assured, marketing or no marketing of this book, the sport will survive as it did after Kristy Heinrich’s death (and the attendant ‘bad PR’) and Joan Ryan’s LITTLE GIRLS IN PRETTY BOXES. Because most people that participate in the sport have positive experiences and most coaches have the best intentions. Just because that is so, does that mean I am ‘not allowed’ to share what wasn’t carefree and unspoiled about my personal experience? Just because most teachers are kind and giving and committed to providing an education to children, does that imply that if a teacher sexually abuses a student that that student shouldn’t speak up? Because it would hurt the education system? Prevent people from going to school?

The sport has a vast and enthusiastic fan base; they are passionate about gymnastics and offended by my story. But it doesn’t mean I made it up or falsely marketed it. And it doesn’t mean the sport will be irreparably harmed. Other sports have come under harsh criticism and flourished just the same. Football and baseball and ice skating. Each of these sports has been thrown into the spotlight for bad behavior (illegal dog fighting, steroid use, knee bashing) and has thrived. Blights on a sport often cause the community to turn introspective, to say, is there something here we need to examine?

When I broke my leg at World Championships, the rules changed soon thereafter, with the intent of keeping the girls safer. When a young gymnast by the name of Julissa Gomez fell on vault in warm up for competition and was rendered paralyzed (and later died from complications), the equipment was modified to accommodate new skills and protect the athletes from unnecessary injuries. These are good things. I’d hope that the community would ask themselves upon reading the book, do any of these conditions still exist and if so, what can we do about it?

Was I obligated to present both sides in a memoir? I don’t believe so. If I was writing a journalistic piece, then yes. But this is a story of personal experience. To suggest that I was morally obliged to illustrate that there are also good coaches with good intentions (which I do include, note: Lolo) would be to suggest that anyone who writes a book about growing up in middle class suburbia and becoming a drug addict must also present the case that some people from the ‘burbs don’t become drug addicts. Isn’t that obvious?

Houston!

I was in Houston a few days ago for a reading. It was a great little independent bookstore, my favorite kind. I was not insignificantly concerned that no one would show up except my escort, the lovely man hired to drive me around, to and from media appointments. On the other hand, I harbored anxiety that a bevy of ex-Karolyi gymnasts (his gym is located in Houston) would show up and pelt me with rotten tomatoes and epithets. I’d prefer the no one-showing-up scenario.

As I entered, a few women lingered near the stack of my books. It was quite a stack. Could they possibly sell all of these? One introduced herself as Nicky. She was instructed to be there by my aunt Jill. Whew. At least there was one. Another had heard about the book on TV and thought she’d pop in. Nice. Ok. Two friendly faces. No empty bookstore. No rotten vegetables.

The manager of the bookstore had moved a few chairs into a circle, a couch centering the arrangement. Just as we all meandered towards the sitting area, a woman about my age wandered in. She eyed me. I felt compelled to introduce myself. With an outstretched hand, I said, “Jen.”

“Jen! It’s Stacey!” No fucking way. Stacey trained with me in New Jersey before I made the move to Allentown. I remember her being very small, talented, fast, acrobatic; she had a father that hovered, monitoring her every move. And more importantly he watched the coaches with eagle eyes, to ensure they gave her enough attention and paid the respect for her talent that he believed she deserved. She left Will-Moor about the time I went to Parkettes. She chose Karolyi’s. When I was competing as a senior, she was still a junior. She came into her own when I was downward spiraling; she went to the ’88 Olympic Trials but failed to make the team. It was good to see her.

She came with her brother. They were glad I’d written this story, they said. Someone needed to and they’d been waiting for it for some time. Stacey and her dad had even talked about writing a book, from both perspectives. Parent and child, on the same path, viewing it from different sides.

We all sat down. I told everyone a little bit about why I wrote the book, about who I was and why I had some authority to speak about the world of nationally and internationally competitive gymnastics in the 1980s. And then another woman entered. Her face was so familiar, I stopped mid-sentence.

“I know you,” I said.

“Robin --” I got up and hugged her. I remember her as a little girl. All skinny legs and grace. She had also trained at Karolyi’s and then later, SCATs, though only briefly. She was a few years younger than me as well. When she failed to make the ’88 Olympics, she quit. Before finishing high school, she walked away. Good move.

I read an excerpt about moving away from my parents into a coach’s house. Stacey seemed saddened by it. She must have felt the same way, when she left her New Jersey home for Texas.

The non-gymnasts asked lots of questions. The three of us answered them together. Our experiences had been remarkably similar. Injuries, loneliness, physical pain, emotional struggle, some triumph and pride. Yet, our relationship to the sport while doing it was a bit different.

I was driven and competitive. I wanted to be in it, up until the final 18 months. Stacey never had her heart in it, but it was important to her father and it came easily to her (she was SO talented), so she went along. Robin was on the fence. And after too many injuries, she gave it up and her dad cheered the decision. Remarkably, she went on to compete nationally in both rhythmic gymnastics and diving. Talented girl.

We had dinner after – Stacey, Robin, Stacey’s brother, and I. We talked about all the people we knew from back then. The names! Sabrina, Marie, Julissa, Denise, Rhonda, Kristy, Phoebe, Scott, Mary, Heather. These girls and coaches from a lifetime ago! We talked about how we sort of ran away from each other when it was over, needing to define who we were without the sport and without any connection to it or those who did it. Stacey had tried to maintain ties, to extract some good from the friendships tainted by competitiveness. She was hurt when she found girls – now women – not interested. But she understood. We agreed it was nice to find each other again, the hurt of it all having faded.

We talked heavy-heartedly about how lonely and scared we all were; but how, as self involved teens, all riddled with guilt in feeling we were less able to endure the rigors than our training mates, we never reached out to each other. To each of us, the other had seemed stoic. And, ironically, we were all losing it to some extent. How, as mere children, were we able to mask such devastation with poise? I’ll never know.

We marveled that as important as the Olympics seemed back then, having gone or not gone seemed to have very little impact on our adult lives. While the three of us did not go, we certainly know many who did. They don’t seem better or worse off than any of us. Other than Mary Lou whose fame from the ’84 Olympics has, in some ways, defined her career path. Not her life, certainly. But her vocation. Even Olympians go on to get regular jobs, get married, have kids. Normal stuff. I doubt they wear their Olympic medals around the house but I’m sure they take pride in peeking at them from time to time, as they should.

But, that thing, those fabled noble Olympics, that we were all willing to practically kill ourselves over - to starve, and work on near broken bones, popping pain killers like Skittles, to endure screaming, angry coaches and/or parents – it didn’t matter in the long run. These two women seemed happy, accomplished, impressive. Stacey is a mom of two with a graduate degree in pyschology; Robin runs her own business after securing her MBA and learning the ropes at the Coca Cola Corporation. These two have it together. I suppose I'm doing ok as well. Great job, lovely kids, happy marriage. Things are all A-OK for the three of us. No bitterness looking back. Just pride and a touch of wistfullness over having wished we'd known we had each other.

If only to have had visibility to the fact that gymnastics - as important as it felt - was child's play. Olympics or no Olympics our real lives would happen as adults. What sadness and shame would have been averted if we'd understood this then.

Player Haters

I always get myself in trouble when I worry too much about what people think of me. When I strive to please EVERYBODY. That’s what I did back when I was doing gymnastics and it turned on me. I tried so hard to continue extracting approval from my coaches and parents that I denied my own best interest. The tension between wanting or believing something different than what others do and also desiring to have these people ‘like me’, creates havoc on my body and brain. I internalize their displeasure and it rots inside my gut.

I find myself struggling with this now but I am fighting to have learned from past experiences. I’m really trying to just be okay with some folks thinking that I suck. It’s impossible to have EVERYONE approve of you, right? What progress I will have made if I can shrug disapproval off with a smile and an ‘Oh well! You can’t win ‘em all!” avowal.

Recently, I was promoted at work. I now carry the hefty burden of the title, “Vice President, Worldwide Marketing, Levi Strauss & Co.”. Yikes. I fought hard for this position. I know that I can do it and do it well. I interviewed for months on end, took tests - psychological, IQ, leadership – to validate my worthiness. And after being poked and prodded for almost 4 months, I was handed the position the same week that my book came out. What a week! (As I left on book tour, I thought to myself as I boarded the plane, “I’m going to crash. I’ve had too much good fortune of late.” Neurotic? Yes.)

The first week in my new job and I’m on a vacation that I’ve planned for many months. Not much of a vacation really; I’ve been on a plane every day for 5 days, on book tour. Going from city to city doing readings and local press. This is a well-earned ‘vacation’, as I’ve ‘banked’ at least 7 weeks of time off at Levi’s, not having taken a break in the past year, in my effort to prove myself worthy of this new job. Yet, I am riddled with guilt at taking time off the first week of my new job. Thus, I’ve made myself available in every possible way – blackberry, email, phone, etc. I ring and vibrate from every pocket as I walk through the airport. I’m going to need a vacation from this vacation, for sure.

Despite my best efforts to stay connected to things at work, to push things forward - things like TV commercial shoots and such - there’s been a bit of a dust up over some issues not worth getting into. Some of my colleagues aren’t very happy with me. And so it goes, I feel more guilt. I feel practically buried by it at times as I sit on the runway waiting for my plane to take off for Houston or Cincinnati or home. One week into this job and I have convinced myself that people will be clamoring for my resignation in no time. Oh the humiliation. I am sure they are going to rescind this promotion. To say, “We’re sorry. You aren’t right for this after all. We’ve found another, more worthy. And, we can’t offer you your old job back either. Bye-bye. Best of luck to you and those children you’re responsible for!”

And then there’s the book hoo-ha. The nay-sayers (and it seems there are just a very vocal few) regarding the book are adding fuel to my self-destructive fire. The ‘you’re a liar!’, ‘you’re a pathetic loser and you’re just bitter because you never made the Olympics!’, and 'you must really need money!' types of comments can’t help but sting a girl.

But I’m in a new phase of my life. I’m nearly 40 years old. I’ve had therapy. Not truckloads of it, but enough to question my usual response to things; to suggest to myself there may be another way to handle disapproval; to steer myself clear of self-loathing. I’m attempting to have learned from my mistakes. I’m fighting to accept that sometimes people just don’t like me or what I have to say. I won’t cow to people at work that say I’ve not done my job well. Are there things I could do better? Sure! But overall, we disagree on this fact that I’ve really mucked things up irreparably. We don’t have to always agree. We don’t have to like each other, we just have to work together. In past years, I would have practically gotten on bended knee, bowing in apology and shame over having pissed some folks off. Not gonna happen this time. I’m going to stand my ground.

And so it is with the book. Not everyone will like it. Or me for having written it. But that doesn’t make it untrue and it certainly doesn’t make me a charlatan, cheater, liar, desperate-for-money loser, as I’ve been called. If I’d lied and been called on it, I’d feel shame. I don’t.

This is not easy for me, accepting that there are those who kind of dislike me right now. But I will live with it. I have to. Otherwise, I go back to being a 16-year old so desperate to please that she nearly self-destructs in a muddy jumbled mess of anxiety and depression and desperation and shame.

Hate me if you will. I’ll be just fine with it. I’ll try to be anyway. Given that there are people I don’t like a whole lot either, it seems only fair that I should have to endure being disliked too. I’m aiming for empathy – rather than disdain - towards those who are angry with me. I try for understanding. For calm.

In the words of my husband and some rapper I don’t know, I’m striving to not hate the player, rather, hate the game. (Best when pronounced “playah”, of course.)

My Escort

I just got back from Ohio. A book tour stop in Dayton and Cincinnati led me there. Apparently, when you go to a market for a book stop, you get an “escort”. Not THAT kind of an escort. Not Eliot Spitzer style. The traditional kind: a single person accompanying another or others for protection, guidance, or courtesy.

Her name was Barbara. She was probably in her early 70’s. But she could have been anywhere from mid-60’s to late 70’s I’m guessing. She was, by far, one of the most interesting people I have ever met. I felt like Ira Glass, sans tape recorder. She drove me back and forth from Cincinnati to Dayton to Cincinnati to Dayton and back to Cincinnati within the span of about 10 hours. We probably covered a good 250 miles, at least. She did all of this with a knee that was recently replaced.

Here’s just a tad of what made her interesting... no…not interesting. She was more than that. She was insightful, opinionated, outspoken, resillient, tough. She was cool.

1) She shared some of the most personal moments of her life with me; and we’d only just met.

2) She married her husband at 21, mere months after meeting him. While perhaps it began as a marriage of convenience (when he was told he was being transferred, he told his boss he couldn’t be, he was getting married. And then she married him so he wouldn’t have to move), she grew to love him.

3) In the early 70s, while dining in a restaurant, a car came through the window and ran over her legs. She got less than $1000 in the settlement. And she's not bitter.

4) She has two daughters. One left Ohio and lived in Europe for ten years working for the UN.

5) She has one granddaughter. And she lost one grandchild. And she's not bitter.

6) Her husband was diagnosed with colon cancer at 59. He died three years later.

7) After mourning his death, she decided she needed some "new experiences." She went to work at a soup kitchen on Thanksgiving. She was disgusted by all the ‘do – gooders’ who came once a year to help the homeless so she decided to become a regular.

8) While working there, it was the first time she experienced being the only white person in the room. She developed some serious empathy for black folks.

9) She befriended a black man who volunteered there as well. When he took ill and had a leg amputated (he was diabetic), she volunteered to ‘help’ him. She became his caretaker. She brought him food, took him to the doctor, was his friend for many years.

10) They went to Niagara Falls together on a whim and he suffered a heart attack. She took care of him after that as well.

11) She received a letter from the man’s son, thanking her for taking care of his father. The son was in prison for shooting two people. They didn't die. But he shot 'em just the same.

12) She corresponded with the son and visited him often. When he got out on parole after 14 years (2 years early), she invited him to live with her. She got him a job operating a forklift. He held it for a while. But then he tested positive for drugs. Lost the job. She doesn't regret helping him, but it was time for him to go.

13) He moved away to Atlanta – didn’t go back to prison – to look for work with a friend. She talks to him regularly. On the phone and through letters.

14) She has worked as a dancer, chef, food stylist, writer–escort and Lord knows what else.

15) She loves Barack Obama. She does not like Hillary Clinton, John McCain, Rush Limbaugh or Bill O’Reilly.

16) Each time we drove past this totally bizarre church - it had a giant Jesus waist deep in the grass in front of a sprawling, modern evangelical house of God that resembled a stadium more than a place of worship - she said: “Look, there’s butter Jesus! Doesn’t he look like he was carved from butter? Up the road there's a church with a Starbucks and a soccer field! Can you believe that?”

17) She’s driven Suze Ormann, Nora Roberts, Denis Lahane and many other people I’d never heard of. And seemed thoroughly unimpressed.

18) She's been to China, Hong Kong, Belgium, France. The list goes on. Paris and Florence are her favorite places on earth.

Damn, people are interesting! What a woman. Her openness prompted me to share some stuff too. We talked about the book, gymnastics, my work, my family. But I kept the fact that I voted for Hillary to myself. I feared she might pull over and ask me to get out if I were to convey that little tid bit. She really really doesn't like Hillary.

Thanks

I'm overwhelmed by all of the positive letters, emails and blog posts in response to the book. Glad to have touched so many of you, who claim to have had similar experiences. Have even gotten notes from people who were never gymnasts who say the story resonates with them. The feelings of inadequacy turned inward and self-destructive.
Thank you all for your support. I feel I've made many new 'friends'.
Jen

The blogosphere

I'm trying not to troll the blogs and websites with reactions to my book. It's all a little too much. But I've peeked at some. There are those that seem upset by the book, claiming it's all lies, that I'm a hopeless, pathetic pessimist that never got over not making the 1988 Olympic Team. In truth, I pulled myself out of that race, as it just didn't matter to me anymore. Seemed pointless suddenly, after having dedicated my young life to the sport. I've never once felt a single pang of regret, sorrow, sadness over not having made that team though parents and coaches promised I would.

In point of fact, I am more of a hopeless optimist than most people I encounter; friends would likely vouch for me on this. How else could I believe that I could write a book while maintaining a demanding job and full family life? And do so with no formal writing training, no 'ghost writer' and then, upon completion, have the perseverance to find an agent and get it published? I have a shoe box full of rejection letters from agents. But I kept going as I did back when I was a gymnast. I pulled it off through sheer force of optimistic will. Gymnastics taught me that and I am grateful.

I take offense at being called a pessimist more than I take offense at being called a liar. Isn't that something? I just learned that about myself this week when I found this post on a gymnastics website:

"... the Parkette's are very upset...much like when they were blindsighted with that CNN documentary, which was supposed to showcase what a wonderful club it was (and of couse made Donna look like a horrible person) The whole lot of us from the 80's....Gina Stallone, Tracy Butler, Tracy Calore, Jamie Raines, Sarah Balagosh, Cindy Rosenberry, Lisa Panzeroni...even on to Hope Spivy and Kim Kelly etc...all recall things a lot differently. My time at Parkettes was great and we all go back for Alumni programs and still all keep in touch.

I really do think that a lot of on'es perception of inicidents has to do with the outcome for them, as well as their general outlook on life. Some people are genreally psimistic and are going to see any little negative thing as so much bigger than it was, where optimists are the opposite, and can shrug off the negative ... It seems maybe Sey never got past that one letdown ['88 Olympics], and htat is really sad.

Ok. A few things I have to point out about this post, none of them related to the typos that I've left in for authenticity's sake (and I'm sorry for being a tad snarky):

1) The Strausses weren't made to look bad. They behaved badly and it was aired on national television. There is a difference. Editing can't force the insults and epithets from their mouths.

2) I am in touch with some of the women she cites above as her friends. They have been wholly supportive about the book, as have many other former and current gymnasts, some I don't even know. One of the Tracys referred to above wrote me this email the day after the book came out:

"Hey, Jen. I just finished the book. I really enjoyed it....yes, I cried and laughed...You took me back to a different time and place. At times I could feel the gym again. But I also realized how alone we all felt. Interesting how we all internalized so much of it...and tried to battle the demons within us alone. I wish we could have been there more for each other! "

I stay in touch with many of my friends from Parkettes as well as other gymnasts from the 1980's that I competed with and against. The women that I speak with look back on that time with some fondness and some sadness. Same as me. There were hard times, filled with triumph as well as tears and devastating physical pain. We don't feel the need to whitewash the whole experience in order to feel good about it. We are proud of our accomplishments as gymnasts. And prouder of those after. The hard times are what made us the people we've grown up to be. I, along with my former gymnast friends, embrace it all. The whole kit and kaboodle.

Now that's a positive outlook!

Some press coverage

On salon.com and gawker.com. Check it out.


http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2008/04/23/chalked_up/

http://gawker.com/383067/gymnast-author-confirms-gymnastics-is-full-of-sickos

Thank you...

to my good friends: jen s, suzanne, sergio, nora and brady. For celebrating my special day with me. As I told you over several martinis, it felt like a combination birthday, wedding and giving birth day (other than the drinks - none of those during giving birth). It was joyous. And you guys made it more so. You forced me to acknowledge the wonder of this incredible day. Yahoo for April 22, 2008! It was the only day in my life that I will ever have been able to say, "I published my very first book today." Thank you. You guys are the best.

Quel Surprise!

It is the eve of my book’s release. It’s hard to resist the desire to feel like my life will change in an instant, the minute the book hits the shelves. I know this isn’t the case, yet I yearn for it to be true. Not that there is anything wrong with my life. It’s just great the way it is. But somehow the promise of something new and exciting and glamorous and unexpected at almost forty years old, holds unfathomable appeal.

Surprises are things of the past at this age. I know what my Christmas presents will be (a few books from my husband, a sweater or purse from my mom); I know - basically - what I’m going to do everyday (go to work, get myself tired and just a tad frustrated, have dinner with my family, go to bed); I know both of my kids will be - are - boys; I know who I’m going to lie down next to each night (my husband), even on a weekend when I get really drunk; and I generally know what’s going to happen every Saturday evening (dinner at a neighborhood restaurant, Suze Orman on TV – God I really am boring! - and some of that lying down next to my husband) no matter how much I imbibe.

No getting into the college of my choice, no beautiful unknown boys to flirt with, no "he called me! we're going out Saturday!", no unplanned Sunday morning wobbly walk of shame in shiny satin/sequins/too high heels, to be met at home by my roommates who want all the tawdry, kind of romantic and very surprising details about a night I kind of only half remember.

In middle age, the only surprises I can expect are the not-so-desirable kind. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this. It's -------." Fill in the blank. "It's cancer." "It's incurable." "It's the woman next door and I'm in love with her."

But now, something truly surprising - and good - could actually happen. Rationally, I know it will all be relatively tame: the book will go on sale, I’ll do a few readings, I’ll do some media, and it will be a bit frenzied and chaotic for a time. I’ll sell a few books – not that many – and I’ll go back to my regular old life as the Senior Director of Wholesale Strategy at Levi’s (that really does sound boring. What does that even mean!?)

Still, unlikely as it may be, this book could create a change in my life heretofore never conjured. I could sell not a few books, but A LOT of books. I could become a best-selling writer. I could become a media pundit asked to speak on the abuses and dangers endured by athletes the world over! I could write magazine articles, and newspaper pieces, and appear on radio shows talking about how awful it is that so many athletes take steroids, but “is it surprising, really, when this culture of ours prioritizes winning above all else? What can we expect, really?”

It’s like dreaming of winning the lottery, which I’ve never actually played. But it isn’t money that would be won, rather a new life - a writer’s life - more valuable to me than currency.

And, come to think of it, I suppose I can say this writer’s life is mine already. I derive pride and satisfaction from seeing my words on a page even if no one else reads them. My knack for perseverance assures me that I will write other books, even if no one publishes them. And I will write short pieces. They may appear only here, on my un-read blog, the equivalent of a slightly better version of a junior high schooler’s diary. But I will write them.

In the end, I’ve already happened upon my surprise. A hard-won unexpected treat, backed by toil rather than a dollar at the convenience store. I’ve won this writer’s life. It’s a glorious mid-life nugget. I will honor it with the reverence it deserves. Before my next surprise, of the "I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you..." variety.

Cry Baby

I’ve always identified with the Holly Hunter character in “Broadcast News”. She’d allow herself a brief crying session once a day. Affording herself that moment of weakness prevented her from completely falling apart as she embarked upon the challenges of life. At least that’s how I took it. She was so close to losing it at any given moment, but granting that release, that cleansing moment of tears in total privacy, was regenerative. Giving her just the bolt of courage, nerve, stability, she required to carry her through each trying day in the world.

I’m always on the brink of falling apart. At least that’s how it feels, though I don’t think I appear to be. Like Holly Hunter, I cry or want to at least once a day. I look at my kids while they’re sleeping and think of the heart break that will befall them, the joy that will flood their lives, the fact that they’ll grow old, and I cry. I look at my husband and I think how lucky I am that I found him when I could so easily not have found him and ended up with someone I didn’t love or no one at all. On the way to work, I think of the day ahead and the criticisms and pressures I will surely endure with a calm smile and a nod and an “I understand. I’ll get back to you.” And I cry a little. At least on the inside but often on the outside too.

I feel like crying regularly. But I don’t. My defense is to keep myself moving. By throwing myself into the heat of battle, I force myself to keep on keepin' on. Because who would drop their sword, sit down and say, “I give up! Take me!” when a warrior is charging at them with a deadly weapon? No one! You fight! You keep going going going until you’re slain! You defend yourself to survive. The moment you stop, you die. If I stop, I’ll fall into a heap of unproductive, paralyzed weeping. And “die.”

From the moment I wake up and drag myself from my bed, I’m on the move. I’m tired, of course. It’s 5:45 in the morning. But I eject myself from the warmth of my bed and my husband, into the cold of the morning. I make the coffee, make the kids’ lunches, unload the dishwasher, take a shower. All by 6:15. Busy! Then I drink my coffee, check my blackberry (work email), check my personal email, do my face, my hair and get dressed. 6:45. If the kids are awake by then, I make them breakfast. Pancakes, French toast, eggs, whatever they ask for. It’s a treat for mommy to be home in the morning to make breakfast. I’m happy to oblige. If they do not wake up amidst my morning flurry, I slip out unnoticed to get to work early and finish answering the prior day’s late night calls and emails from Singapore and Brussels and London before my work day officially starts. A clean email box before 8:30 is my goal. Then I can start the real work. Meetings, negotiating, presenting, writing. Before I know it, it is 5:00 and I haven’t cried once. I haven’t even teared up. Except that one teeny tiny little moment where I felt my dignity slipping through my fingers as I took the blame for someone else’s mistake to save face for the team. It would have been more undignified to hurl blame in said other’s direction. Thus, I swallowed my pride and took it. Like a man. Or a woman, I suppose. A man probably would have blamed the other person.

If I’m lucky, I’ve snuck in a workout at lunch and a chat with a friend or two during the day to keep me sane. Now it’s almost the end of the work day and I’m winding down. But before going home, there’s the email box and voicemail to contend with. Can’t leave the office with unanswered emails. That would make the next morning’s tasks too great to bare prompting floods of tears on the way to work. An hour or so of deleting, responding, ignoring, filing keeps me dry-eyed the next day. Delete delete delete. I’m a serial deleter.

6:30. I can leave. I race home to be with my family for dinner, for homework, for straightening the day’s mess which I haven’t been there to see being made. Whew. At 8:30 or so, I collapse on the couch to watch one of my favorite reality shows. “Biggest Loser”, “Top Chef”, “Project Runway”. Something inane enough to erase the day’s happenings and take my mind off of the frantic day ahead. By 10:00, my heart has stopped pounding, my pulse has slowed (hopefully, or I won’t be able to fall asleep). Sometimes, when I lay down, I’m reminded of the fact that I have a big deliverable due, that the family’s finances depend upon me being able to keep going, that someone is disappointed in me (me?), that I'm probably about half way through my life (if I'm lucky enough to live to 78), that I'm almost too old to have more children (when the hell did that happen?). And I weep just a bit, before closing my eyes and falling off into an all too often troubled dream state.

And then the alarm at 5:45. Sword wielded and ready to go.

The closest I’ve ever come to actually falling apart was when I quit gymnastics. I couldn’t imagine what my future held, my parents and coaches were devastated and disappointed in me. I felt like a total failure. I stayed in bed for three weeks sobbing as I tried to fathom a future for myself. Everything I’d ever known was over. Others my age were stepping into life for the first time as they entered college. I felt like I was going off to a retirement home. Sometime during the course of four years of college, I realized I had a lot of life ahead. But it took a lot of crying to get me there. There was one other time I nearly lost it. After I had my second child, Wyatt, I slipped into a postpartum haze; the lack of sleep, the lack of activity (days consisted of nursing and rocking a baby for the most part) elicited gushing tears. I rocked and fed and cried. I was a puddle. Thankfully, my dear friend Rae saved me. She pulled me from the depths. She interrupted the stillness that was giving me too much time to think. To stew in the horror of all the things that could go wrong, that could befall my sweet baby Wyatt. We walked, we talked, we moved. And I was fine.

My husband often tells me to slow down. “Relax,” he urges. I can’t. If I do, it will all be over. I’ll wind down and descend into gasping sobs, a pile of useless mommy. I must keep going. I’ll keep slaying dragons until one eats me whole.

I'm Stressed

Lately I’ve been extremely stressed. This term is overused in our world so I try to avoid saying it. I don’t like feeling unoriginal. People claim to be stressed simply by the mere fact of being expected to do their jobs. Something goes wrong at work, employee #1 is asked to correct it. “I’m stressed!” employee #1 squeals. That’s like a fireman being alarmed by the fact that he is being called to put out a fire. That’s the job requirement. It is an expected occurrence. Why so stressed? You get my point. People abuse the phrase, so I try to abstain from uttering those frantic words. Most importantly, I try to refrain from feeling it. I workout, I breathe slowly, I attend the occasional yoga class. I enjoy a glass of wine in the evenings after work.

But this time, I can’t resist the avowal: “I am stressed.” Everything seems to be converging. I have a book coming out in about a month. And I find out about an executive level position – a dream job - that I’ve been wanting for quite some time. You guessed it. In about a month. Add to that, I have kids that are growing up (makes me sad), needing to do lots of activities like karate and baseball (how to get them there with all this other stuff going on?! Oh yes, my husband generally takes care of that), a husband to at least pay some attention to, a house to clean (hubby takes the lead here, but I have some annoying particularities about how it’s done, so I do those things myself), a mom who’s recovering from a miserable year of finding out she had lung cancer and battling her way back to health (we hope) and friends to call back or just call (I need my friends! I can’t stop talking to them just because I have a lot to do. What will happen when I really need them? What if they need me right now but they are too depressed to reach out for help?) And this is my last year in my 30’s. I just turned 39. Already the anxiety over 40 is seeping in. Will I have enough time to do all the things I want to do? Life is short, after all. This is keenly felt at the approximate mid-point. Especially if your mother has just faced a life threatening illness.

It’s the perfect storm, a confluence of circumstance. Sometimes I feel like I might go crazy. My brain is never still. The thoughts feel like they could leap from my head, crack my skull, ooze through my ears, burn my eyeballs, scorch my hair follicles. My churning mind is hot and in motion constantly, creating friction in my body. I chew my lip, I pick my fingers, my body racing to keep up with my exploding cranium.

The job thing is particularly unnerving. Because I am the only internal candidate, my entire existence at work is a test. Every meeting, every memo, every comment must be pitch perfect, to impress the powers that be. An external candidate doesn’t face that kind of demanding interrogating reconnaissance. He just comes in, does a few one-hour interviews. And they decide. My entire ten-hour workday for the last few months has been a giant interview. After a presentation I gave the other day, I asked one of the senior executives in the company why he’d attended as his presence was not required. “I wanted to see you in action,” he responded. Again? You see me in action all the time. You’ve seen me in action for the last nine years that I’ve been at this company. Are you going to go to Mr. External Candidate’s place of employ and watch him present to a roomful of people? I think not. You’ll trust him when he says he’s poised, influential, a leader. I have to prove it again and again. It is really getting to be more than a girl can take.

Alas, my competitive nature keeps me in the game. I can’t throw in the towel. I’ve come this far. It just wouldn’t be me to say: “You know what? Not now. I’ve got a lot going on. I’ve got a book coming out. Give that job to someone else! I’ll take the next high level position that just happens to be perfect for me." (This would be about the time of the next solar eclipse, or when pigs fly, or when it’s a cold day in a hell – choose your ‘its going to be a very long time’ metaphor. They all fit the bill.)

Nonetheless, the other day while I was driving to work at 6:45 – I have a lot to do if I want to get this job – a fleeting, earnest thought entered my mind. Maybe I should pass on the position. Just let them pick someone else. For once in your life, Jen, would it be so bad to not try to win? And really, I wouldn’t be losing if I passed on the position. I’d get to keep my current job and it’s a great one. I like the people I spend my days with, I enjoy about 75% of the content (which is a pretty high percentage I’d venture), and I am paid quite well. This unfamiliar thought made me shudder. Not keep trying? Not keep pushing? Not keep moving up, up, up? If I stop moving, mightn’t I die? It has always felt that way.

I forced myself to consider this as a real option because even without the pressure of this pending job, I’ve got a lot to be anxious about. The book will surely cause some controversy. I’m going to have to face angry gymnastics coaches, riled up gymnasts defending their sport, hard hitting interviewers who want to know if I made any of it up, like so many memoirists these days. I could take it easy on myself, for once. Continue in my current role, while contending with the launch of the book, the struggle to sit down and write another, and sending my youngest off to school for the first time. C’mon, Jen, just chill.

I sat with that idea for all of twenty seconds. It didn’t feel right in my head, so distant from my standard approach. I felt a little cockeyed as I veered the corner onto Sansome Street, where my office building resides. I coughed as if I'd just taken a shot of whiskey, exorcising the concession speech from my body. I shook the doubt from my mind as I remembered just how much I can take. At only 11 years old, I endured the pressure of competing in my first national gymnastics competition. At 16, I braved competing in the World Championships despite the fact that I was scared shitless: performing on the world’s stage with a national team coach that seemingly hated me and an entire universe of athletes that were WAY better than me. At 17, I fought back from a supposed career ending injury – a broken femur – to win the title of US National Gymnastics Champion. There were times when I was competing that the nerves seemed to overtake my body, lodge in my throat, choke my airway. And somehow, I always pulled it together. Shaking legs, blurry vision from near tears brought on by nerves, hallucinations of disastrous performances. These conditions prompted poise. All the chaos inside somehow forced me to get it together. It’s not that I didn’t feel miserable anxiety. I just learned to harness it to motivate me. I was known as a girl who didn’t choke.

By the time I pulled into the parking lot at work, two minutes after my “take it easy, Jen” chat with myself, I’d resolved to go for it. Of course. There’s just no other way for me. I’d be denying who I am if I didn’t embrace the fantastic manic chaos of striving. And if I don’t get the job, I’ll rest for a moment. Then I’ll brush myself off, go do the required interviews and press tour for my book, and dive headlong into another challenge. I’ve got 40 years left, if I’m lucky. I’ve got a lot to do.

Best Review Ever (from my dad)

My dad sent me a letter just the other day. A real letter, not an email, that included his take on my book. A review of sorts. Here it is:

"My daughter’s graphic memoir is not only about the win-or-else culture of juvenile sports, but it is also a reflection of the muddled blueprint for parenting that frequently leads to unintended consequences. Most of us “want it all” for our children, but we had better be careful of what it is we want. The ambivalences of child rearing can be daunting, and Jen’s tale should be an omen for all would-be stage parents. I am forever chastened by my former preoccupation, yet I feel vindicated by the wonderful woman my daughter has become."

I feel obliged to share it here because 1) a father’s review probably won’t show up on any book jacket; 2) I was so moved by it. What a lovely commentary about a book that shines the harshest of lights on your very own parenting. I hope that what comes through in the book is that my mom and dad embarked upon my gymnastics as supportive and committed parents but somewhere along the road to what turned out to be nowhere, they transformed into slightly psychotic stage parents. Their own passions and desires got mixed up with the intense love parents feel for their children, and the ratio somehow shifted to create something of a bad recipe. Throw in my own compulsions and competitive ire and I’m pretty convinced that this thing could never have turned out any differently than it did. And, lets face it, raising your children to become happy, healthy, self-sufficient adults that contribute to this world we live in in a positive way and raise productive children of their own, is the main point of parenting. So hats off to you dad (and mom, of course.) This whole gymnastics thing was a hiccup along the way. And really, one could argue, adversity leads to resilience, so lets just say you planned it that way?

My point is this: what a great dad. He read something – which, truth be told, I was fretful about him reading – that was highly critical but filled with love and equal accountability, and all he could feel was pride. Not anger, not humiliation, not defensiveness. Just pride and love. If that’s not a great dad, I don’t know what is. I hope I can parent in such a selfless manner.

p.s. Dad – I think you should write your own book about parenting a super competitive, obsessive compulsive child. It can’t be easy.

My First Review

I just got my first real review. It was from Kirkus, a review service - a trade publication - for bookstores, libraries and industry types. It is for anyone who wants to know about a book before it goes on sale. Reviewers for consumer publications read Kirkus before writing their reviews. It is the mother of all review publications. It is the review that begets more reviews. It’s the book about books. The meta book. A good review in Kirkus is important is what I’m trying to say. As you can imagine, I was thrilled when I received very positive commentary regarding CHALKED UP. But it was the following excerpt that got me thinking:

“It’s admirable to aspire to become a champion gymnast, but Sey’s depiction of her roller-coaster adolescence makes the point that it’s far more important to have a happy, healthy and sane childhood.”

Really? I’m not so sure. After all I went through – the emotionally abusive coaches, the bone shattering injuries, the depression, the eating disorders, the temporarily psychotic parents – I’m not entirely convinced that’s true. In my head, I know it is. But in my gut, I don’t really believe it. I struggle with this as I raise my own boys. I want them to have happy childhoods, of course. But adulthood lasts longer, and in my heart of hearts, I believe hard work that leads to success (not financial per se, but achievement in your chosen vocation) breeds happiness in adulthood. Good habits start early. Learning the value of hard work (cliché I know) should happen at a young age. If you don’t learn it when you’re young, I think it may be impossible to learn it later. We all know lazy grown ups. They don’t do the work then they bemoan their fate at not getting what they want.

When people ask my advice about writing (which I find hilarious; what do I know…I wrote one book!), I tell them “just write.” Then I tell them: “after you finish your first ---- (insert document here – book, screenplay, etc), set it aside and write another one. Then do it again.” Practice makes perfect. No matter how much we all want to believe we can be Diablo Cody, the breakout screenwriting star who wrote one screenplay, sold it and won an Oscar, it generally doesn’t happen that way. Many screenwriters – even working screenwriters who get paid to write stuff – toil in anonymity their entire lives. They do re-write after re-write and never get anything made. That doesn’t even include those poor, hardworking (or not so hardworking, as the case may be) folks who write and write and never even get an agent. Their work may not be any good, but that’s not the point. If you don’t work, if you don’t practice, if you don’t keep trying after you get rejected, after you fail, you certainly don’t have a shot in hell at ever selling something, getting something made, let alone winning an Oscar.

I know countless people who’ve written a single screenplay. They send it to me for commentary. (Like I know anything about writing screenplays.) I give my honest feedback because I feel like: If you’re going to ask me, I’m going to try to be helpful. Nice, but helpful. They likely want me to say something like: “This is great! I’ll send it to my agent!” Never mind that my agent doesn’t sell screenplays, she sells books. Even if she did sell screenplays, I haven’t read anything I’d recommend without major revisions – other than my brother’s stuff. But he’s an actual working screenwriter, so that doesn’t count. I give the constructive criticism that I feel obliged to provide, and I suspect many of them give up because I never hear from them again. They never ask me to read a re-write or another story. Imagine, giving up after a little feedback from a barely working writer who knows nothing about that particular craft? If it was your first, it probably wasn’t any good anyway, and I was just trying to clue you in to the fact that you have to keep at it. The first effort is never any good. But perhaps you learned something in writing it that will lead to something better the second time. So that by the tenth time or so, you write something that is actually half-way decent. If you’ve got the natural aptitude to go along with the persistence.

But most people just give up. They try once, assume their God’s gift – the next Diablo or Matt/Ben combo – and throw in the towel when agents don’t line up at their front doors with million dollar offers. My experience has been entirely NOT that. I wrote and then I wrote some more. I’ve got a shoebox full of rejection letters from agents. Ten years after I first tried to write something, I sold a book. When I was a gymnast, I was the one no one thought was any good. But I didn’t accept it. And I labored. If a judge said I was fat, I lost weight. If a coach said I wasn’t strong enough, I did hours of extra conditioning at the end of practice. If a dance teacher said my toes weren’t pointed enough, I had my mother stand on them to bend my feet into perfect arches. I put myself through the grind to prove the doubters wrong. It wasn’t fun, to be sure. But it was satisfying in the end. And despite the brutal disappointment and harrowing and desperate depression that defined the end of my career, I have come to take great pride in what I accomplished.

I want my children to understand this – the value in never giving up, of self-belief in the face of adversity - but I strive to balance it with the desire for them to have pleasant, happy childhoods. I’m just not sure which way the scale should tilt. If I really wanted them to have happy childhoods – HAPPY childhoods – wouldn’t I just spoil them and give them candy for breakfast, McDonalds for lunch and chocolate cake with syrup on top for dinner? With a big glass of Coca-Cola on the side? With no homework, lots of TV and video games? That would make them happy! But I suspect their adulthoods might be filled with obesity, job loss and divorce (the divorce would be caused by activity encouraged later – screwing around, treating women poorly in general. They’d like that as teenagers!) None of these things would make them happy in their 30’s. But boy they’d be happy children.

Thus, I try to find the proper balance. They are young and just getting involved in sports. I like that their karate teacher can be kind of strict and give them the ‘I’m-disappointed’ look when they misbehave. Even though it makes the little guy cry sometimes. You’ve got to act right to learn, to achieve. You’ve got to focus, pay attention, maybe even be a little physically and psychically uncomfortable. My youngest wanted his new belt, the one after the starter white one, on the first day of class. Each day after class he cries because he hasn’t earned it yet and other kids in the class have fancier ones with red or yellow stripes. “Keep working,” I tell him. “You’ll get one.” He’s got to learn that not everyone is going to be enamored of his cute little face. Crying big tears won’t prompt the sensei to hand over the candy cane colored belt, so desperately craved.

The world just cares who does best. And while I don’t wish for them to be young champions or old, rich corporate raiders and I certainly don’t want them to sacrifice their health and well-being ala steroid crazed baseball players, I want them to experience an appropriate level of discomfort that comes from good old-fashioned hard work. To ensure their future satisfaction as adults. As unbearable as my competition days were, I am well-prepared for the world as a grown up. I’m happy. Accomplished. Satisfied. Sane. So maybe I’m not so wrong. Maybe a happy childhood isn’t the most important thing. Maybe a disciplined/healthy/moderately happy childhood is what we should strive to give our kids. It worked for me.