As a Christmas gift, I received tickets to the US Women’s Figure Skating Championship held in Cleveland, Ohio this past Saturday evening.

Figure skating, like gymnastics, is one of those sporting events which when are on television, you are mesmerized by the seemingly impossible movements made to look effortless. I like skating, but I’m not a frenzied fan. Like most people, I watch it if it’s on TV and can list the usual suspects of its biggest stars of Michelle Kwan, Tara Lipinski, Emily Hughes, and Kristi Yamaguchi.

I arrived to the event and was surprised by how much I was transfixed by the figure skating cult: aka, little girls with their parents swooning over the aura, dazzling spins, and the magic of the ice. Their high pitched screams hit falsetto notes that I was not sure was even possible to reach by anyone other than professional opera singers.

You don’t hear that on TV.

On television, viewers are graced with the only the top ten skaters, images of their coaches, and their parents supporting in the stands. Once in a while, the network will have a shot of a few fans with signs and cute acronyms. I was anticipating that.

I got so much more.

As my 29 year old body ages, I have come into radical appreciation for my health, flexibility, and its ability to recover from injury. While waiting for the skaters to begin their routines, I overheard a mother of one of the skaters explain to some nearby fans that her daughter skates about five hours everyday. Their discipline and commitment astounded me. So, you can imagine my amazement as I contemplated how much these young women and their families put into these short-lived public careers. Skaters peak young, most of them are in their mid to late teens, a handful in their early twenties. Alissa Czisny, the newest reigning champion, topped the age list at twenty one.

It gave me thoughts as to whether or not I could raise a daughter in such a driven culture. So much of what I was witnessing was artistic and majestic, but the gory details of day to day training, I hypothesized, was less glamorous; a schedule of sacrifice, driving, and more sacrifice. That kind of commitment is hardly glittering like the trademark costumes, but absolutely admirable.

And then the emcees for the arena interrupted my day dreaming. They were rounding up some young girls, all skaters, and asking them who they were cheering for and what they were most excited to see. Their answers were bright, cute, and funny. Their excitement translated to the crowd. And then came the general question, “What do you love about skating?”

The girls paused to think over the loaded question and the emcee filled in, “It’s the outfits isn’t it? OF COURSE!”

The outfits?

Not the thrill of gliding or the grace of the sport? The competition? Not even, how dare I put this out there, the pure love of skating itself?

The outfits?

I was more than annoyed at the emcee and chalked it up to situation being what it was: the emcee needed a quick answer. Nothing more.

And then I noticed a pattern.

As I sat nestled in between groups of young skaters, I noticed they alternated between screaming, “You hit your sequence! We love you!” and “Your outfit is ugly!” I was stunned.

What stressed me further is that their parents sat right beside them, saying nothing.

You don’t see that on TV.

Perhaps it is my ignorance of the skating culture, but I was appalled at the all too frequent references to skating attire, the colors of the skirt, the glint of sequins, the general appearance of the skater and not the glory of their athleticism. Sure, the dress is sparkly and interesting, but what holds the outfit together are the gorgeous muscles and flexibility underneath them, the unimaginable amount of hours pressed into their limbs striving for perfection and flawless landings. The art, sport, and execution of movement calls for respect. Each and every skater had mine. I assumed, wrongly, that those skates and their families who were in that realm of competition would understand and hold to that.

Some could argue that at the level of competition, people say rude and negative things about athletes. But I argue that if we are to raise healthy and strong girls to grow into graceful women who understand the rules of winning and losing, it begins when they are seven and eight years old, screaming disrespectful things to other athletes, and intervening. How we cultivate a sense of mutual respect for women, including our athletes, calls for radical parenting for our young girls.

And if I ever attend another skating competition in the future, I’ll try to sit near other regular fans like myself who don’t care to know who did the skater’s make-up or hair. Or if the colors of the skater compliment one another. I’m in it to appreciate their art, their unyielding effort at perfection, and the emotional bow at the end.

Maybe I’ll just stick to TV.

Cross-posted at Bitch Magazine.

Ready to throw? Throw your shoe for the world to see and link back HERE.

It’s a nasty thing.

I bought these boots back in ’97 when I was a teenager, loving purple, and needing to keep my feet warm. This shoe weighs like a brick and actually fatigues my calf muscles when I wear them for prolonged periods of time. This boot is stained with salt from shoveling sidewalks and driveways. It holds the sweat and dead skin of my feet working for twelve years. It’s purple, my signature color.

I throw this shoe for the people terrorized by the anti-terrorist laws that George W. Bush thrust upon the world in defense of 9/11. I throw this shoe for the innocent communities who have been terrorized by our wars and the man who screamed in my face that he was not a terrorist just because he was poor and asking for the right to live in peace.

It is my hope that the salt on this shoe stings the tongue of George W. Bush as a reminder of the dry assault we have inflicted on the people of other countries around the world. It is my hope that the smell of dried sweat haunts the rest of his days with the reminder of those who died for no reason other than being targeted by their government as an organizing community who demand basic human rights. It is my hope that the weight of this shoe is nothing compared to the weight on his shoulders or in his heart with the knowledge that the world, for eight years, simply suffered under his leadership and led a country of horrible debt and challenging policies into an unthinkable state of crisis in every sense of the word.

It is my hope that Muntadhar al-Zeidi, the brave shoe thrower, will return safely to his family and his life is blessed with witnessing the peace his country longs for and so rightly deserves.

It is my hope that when I throw my shoe, it is large enough to wack Dick Cheney as well.