My sales partner was a good swimmer. I asked how he learned to swim.

He said, “I was thirteen when my father moved us up-state. We were the only black family in town. One day my homeroom teacher announced that the YMCA was offering swimming lessons for boys eight to thirteen. I brought a permission slip home.”

“Classes were separated by age. A man with a clipboard checked off our names as we entered the lobby. When we were all there he led us into the locker room, assigned us each a locker, and told us to strip. He brought us into the shower room and told us to wash up with lots of soap. We had to get all the sweat and dirt off to keep the pool clean. After we showered he told us we’d be swimming nude and led us out to the pool. Our instructors were two young women. I assume they weren’t married since we addressed them as Miss.”

“No way,” I said. “You’re kidding, right.”

“Nope. Miss Adele and Miss Lucy. It was a little weird at first, especially when they held me up in the water to learn how to breathe and kick properly. We learned freestyle, the breast stroke, the back stroke, and the butterfly stroke. The back stroke was especially embarrassing because when Miss Lucy held me up my penis was out of the water and jiggling around right in front of her face. We also learned how to do a racing dive off the edge of the pool and how to tread water without getting tired.

“Parent’s night was held at the end. All of the different ages got together to show our parents what we’d learned. The twelve and thirteen year olds came out first, forty of us. I was first in line. The bleachers were on one side of the pool. We walked out along the other side of the pool and turned to face the bleachers. There were at least four hundred people there, moms, dads, sons. And sisters too, girls every age. I wasn’t expecting that. I could tell by the expression on some of the other boys faces that they were surprised too.”

“I was probably twice as embarrassed, being the only naked black boy in the whole town. Then I saw one of my female classmates. She was looking at me, smiling. I covered myself. Her smile got bigger when I did that. She slowly shook her head back and forth. Some of the other boys were covering themselves too. I figure that just gave them more to laugh at so I moved my hands back to my sides and just stood there.”

“The first five of us were called to the pool. Since I was first in line I ended up standing closest to the bleachers. I was shaking. I closed my eyes and told myself I could do this. The whistle blew. We dove in and swam freestyle to the other end, returned doing the breast stroke, then the back stroke, and finally the butterfly stroke. After that we went to the end of the line and stood there facing the bleachers until the last boy finished. The crowd applauded and we marched into the locker room. After that I was no longer ashamed of being naked.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s crazy.”

“That’s not all. The following week our homeroom teacher announced the YMCA was offering swimming classes for girls. Six of the girls in my classroom took permission slips home. I counted the days. When parent’s night arrived I begged my mom to take me. I never felt so excited in my life. My face ached from smiling. The girls came out. My smile disappeared. They wore swim suits. I felt cheated.”

“The girls lined up just like we did, facing the bleachers. They were smiling. It seemed to me they were saying, ha ha, we fooled you. I was pissed. I asked my parents to take me home. They made me stay for the whole thing. The next day at school I saw one of the girls at her locker. I charged over and demanded to know why they wore swim suits for the presentation. She gave me one of those looks girls give when -“

“Yeah,” I said. “I know that look.”

“She shut her locker, looked me in the eye, and said, “only boys swim nude. Girls wear swim suits.”