132cm in height, weighing less than 30kg, I am a ten year old girl, in her first year at boarding school. My orange coloured house t-shirt is hanging on my frail structure, reaching my knees. My hands firmly hold the size 5 basketball. I am the smallest in size amongst the fifth graders who stand facing the two sixth grade girls. The coach has said, “The best way to learn is to teach” and the two seniors have taken the responsibility to teach a group of five fifth graders. I have not been much of a sportsperson before and my height plays to a disadvantage in this particular sport. In all, I am not a good player. But like every other little fifth grader, I dream of scoring impressive baskets and making my team proud.
One of the seniors has decided that we will divide into two teams and learn how to play a game. “We’ll choose one player at a time,” says a sixth grader to the other. They begin to choose.
Each of the two girls, hardly a year older than us, chooses one girl at a time. The best two players are chosen. Three of us are left. It seems like a source of amusement for them. I feel like a dress hanging to be sold, scrutinised by the girl who moves on to the next one and chooses her. There are two of us left.
The sixth grader does not take any time at all, to choose the girl standing next to me. The teams are divided equally. I am left standing, holding on to my basketball. The senior who had last chosen, turns to the other and comments, “you can have her.” The girl who has been addressed looks at me and I hear her say, “or maybe you could have her and exchange a player with me”.
Tears swell up in my eyes and I keep blinking to contain them inside. “I will sit and watch, I am not feeling well,” is my reply. The sixth graders seem satisfied and start the game.
I complained of a stomach ache and did not attend practice the next day. Two girls who were hardly a year older than me and were themselves beginners at the sport had evidently crushed my desire to learn the sport, using the commonly used means of comparison. It was the incident from fifth grade that would never allow me to compare two kids. Comparing them could hurt a child, probably beyond repair, only because the ignorant did not know that they were all too different to be compared.
One of the seniors has decided that we will divide into two teams and learn how to play a game. “We’ll choose one player at a time,” says a sixth grader to the other. They begin to choose.
Each of the two girls, hardly a year older than us, chooses one girl at a time. The best two players are chosen. Three of us are left. It seems like a source of amusement for them. I feel like a dress hanging to be sold, scrutinised by the girl who moves on to the next one and chooses her. There are two of us left.
The sixth grader does not take any time at all, to choose the girl standing next to me. The teams are divided equally. I am left standing, holding on to my basketball. The senior who had last chosen, turns to the other and comments, “you can have her.” The girl who has been addressed looks at me and I hear her say, “or maybe you could have her and exchange a player with me”.
Tears swell up in my eyes and I keep blinking to contain them inside. “I will sit and watch, I am not feeling well,” is my reply. The sixth graders seem satisfied and start the game.
I complained of a stomach ache and did not attend practice the next day. Two girls who were hardly a year older than me and were themselves beginners at the sport had evidently crushed my desire to learn the sport, using the commonly used means of comparison. It was the incident from fifth grade that would never allow me to compare two kids. Comparing them could hurt a child, probably beyond repair, only because the ignorant did not know that they were all too different to be compared.
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