Page 40 of Full Split
Peter stammered. “Well, that’s different?—”
“How is it different?” Weston asked.
“There should be regulations.”
“Okay, so you’re advocating for testing testosterone levels in athletes?“
Peter shrugged like the conversation wasn’t getting to him, but the clenching of his jaw said otherwise. He knew he was about to get schooled.
“So your solution is to disqualify everyone that doesn’t meet a certain hormone level? What about cis men who have lower than average testosterone levels? Should they be disqualified from competing? And what about cis women with high T levels? What about the women who’ve already been harassed and disqualified for not looking ‘feminine’ enough? There’s already a precedent for discrimination against women in sports, especially for women of color, and you know it. Are you advocating for that kind of discrimination?”
Peter tried again. “But if it’s a genetic advantage?—”
“So anyone with a genetic advantage should be banned?”
Peter shrugged again, but he had to know he’d argued himself into a corner. The room went quiet, and as much as I enjoyed watching Peter embarrass himself, knowing that everyone was watching and knowing who the conversation was really about was almost too much for me.
“Did you know that they’ve found over two hundred gene variants that affect physical performance? I suppose you’d be willing to submit to be tested yourself, and would of course step down if you were found to have any variant of these genes that are entirely beyond your control?”
Peter muttered something unintelligible, but then Rina chimed in, too.
“Michael Phelps has a freakishly long wingspan and a higher lung capacity. Should he give back his medals?”
“Or be banned for having mutant fish DNA?” Shane, one of the returning national gymnasts from California, added. “And he’s not the only one. There is actually a good bit of research about the high correlation of genetic advantages in elite athletics.”
“That’s different,” Peter tried again. “Those genes didn’t make them champions. They had to train their whole lives and work hard to get to this level.”
Weston scoffed.
“You don’t think that transgender athletes train their whole lives and work hard? That they likely have far more to overcome, social and medicaldisadvantages that outweigh whatever benefits you think they might have, on top of the extra bullshit they have to put themselves through to prove that they deserve to be here just as much as the rest of us?”
No answer.
“So we all agree that it’s only women and trans athletes who deserve to be policed?” Weston asked the table.
Peter started to speak, but Weston cut him off by standing up from the table and looking down at him. “Do you know how many transgender gymnasts there are at the elite level?”
Silence.
“One. One person. One person who has already offered to share his testosterone levels, which are within a similar range to yours. But you’re so intimidated by him you’d rather talk shit than put in the work or admit he’s better than you.”
Weston dropped his napkin on the table next to his plate and looked down at Peter like something he stepped on and accidentally dragged across the carpet.
“You’re worried about competing next to one of the best gymnasts in the country, and the best person I’ve ever met, because you know you don’t hold a candle to him. You’re not a champion, you’re a coward.”
Wyatt stood too, placing a hand on Weston’s shoulder. “Let’s go, son.” He caught my eye and nodded for me to follow. I stood, more than ready to get out of there.
But we weren’t the only ones. Nearly every other gymnast who competed this week and sat next to Peter while he talked shit all day today stood with us. Even their coaches and families followed. Peter, Shelby, and a small handful of others were the only ones left to stare up at us. Like they’d finally realized how alone they are in their bigotry.
Rina tossed her napkin at Peter. “You call yourself a proud ally and a champion for the queer community, but you’re a disgrace. And everyone is going to see you for who you are.”
Shane crosses his arms and stares at Peter with disappointment, then looks up at me. “I hope you know you’re not alone. Peter doesn’t represent the rest of us.”
I pulled Wyatt and Weston out while the rest of the room buzzed. Once we were outside and a few blocks away, I stopped and turned to pull Weston into a hug.
“Fuck that guy,” Weston said, his voice tight.
I look over at him now, snoring in the other bed. I love and hate how much he cares, how much he stands up for me. My best friend. My brother. I’m so lucky to have him.
