kip fulbeck

So I swam a swim meet a couple weeks back. For those of you unfamiliar with the sport of swimming, it’s incredibly white, pretty middle to upper-class, and highly individualistic. Maybe in Australia star swimmers are the equivalent of Kobe Bryant fame-wise, but here in the U.S. we’re just a bunch of people wearing Speedos looking at a black line on the bottom of a pool all day for the most part. Anyway, I dig it. Keeps me sane. Somewhat.

So this meet is a Masters meet, which means it’s for those of us past a prime age where you get to compete against other folks in the same age group who also happen to be getting slower every year as well (which is fine by me — might even put me in the top 10 this year since I aged up into the 40-44 bracket … yikes those #’s are hard to write.)

I get to the meet with Heather and we realize quick that 1) the ratio of men to women is 10 to 1 … at least. And 2), no one looks like me. Well, there was ONE other brown guy … I think he was Mulatto but he was only 25 and just finished his college career so he was a ringer. Everyone else is white. And there was no one sporting much, if any, ink … let alone full sleeves and a back piece (remember, no hiding in Speedos). Not a lot of tattoos in swimming. So walking around I got my dose of new-kid-from-other-world set of stares.

Anyway, I swim the meet and did well. Cool. Then a couple days ago I run into my old college swim buddy Dave, who tells me he heard about my races.

“How did you hear all the way up in Santa Barbara?” I ask.

And he tells me people were all talking about this new black guy who showed up out of nowhere wearing all these tattoos that could sprint real fast but died like a pig in the longer races.

“And you knew it was me?”

“Of course.”

I haven’t been black for awhile. Not since I had a shaved head in college. Wait, I take that back. About 10 years ago I was getting my hair straightened (because I’m an idiot) in some mall in West Covina (because I’m really bored) and I’m sitting there all foiled and flattened with plastic squares all over my head sitting next to a black woman who’s doing the same thing.

After about 5 mins, she says to me,

“Ain’t nappy hair a bitch?”

“Well, I wouldn’t really know because my hair is …”

“You’re black — what do you mean you don’t know?”

“Actually, I’m not, I’m …”

“Well you’re part black.”

“No, I’m actually not, I’m …”

“You can not start with me denying your black culture! What gives you the right to pick and choose? Are you embarrassed? How can you …”

etc.

Anyway, we finally worked it out (no other choice really when you’re tied to medieval hair straightening devices for 20 minutes next to each other … you better work it out). Shared some laughs together. Nice lady.

So that was the last time. Occasionally black. Figure this time it must have been the swim cap that hides my hair. Either that or showing up to a swim meet in Santa Clarita in a different uniform.

And yes, as I told her, I would be very proud of my black culture.