“I don’t want to go to gymnastics.”

It’s always a bit dingy at gymnastics. The mats are worn, rope and wires seem to be everywhere. It looks messy. But then you see the power of the gymnasts, their strength. A handstand landing into a bridge, dive rolls, and handspring drills. An instructor with a strong eastern European accent sternly saying good job or try again. The dinginess fades.

“I don’t want to go to gymnastics.”

I hear this every week. It’s probably my fault. I put him in a class with all girls, naively thinking six was too young to notice you are the only boy. Class starts, his name is called. He hugs me twice, forgets to take off his shoes, looks back to wave. All this though I never leave the waiting room.

He goes out mutely. The chatty blond can’t coax him into conversation. She gives up and turns to a friend.

“Why can’t I just quit?” He had asked bluntly on the way in.

The difference in ability is often hard to watch. The girls swing themselves up on the high beam, walking confidently as they kick their legs up, toes pointed. He practices on the beam practically parallel to the floor. The coach sometimes holds his hand.

Sometimes I laugh at the awkwardness, sometimes my eyes water. The first day, I cried.

Rail thin, long legs, and huge black-brown eyes, he looks so vulnerable. What is he thinking? Does he feel like a fish out of water? Is he embarrassed?

Should I make him finish the last two months, I wonder. Can he quit? Am I over-thinking this? What principle am I even teaching? It’s just gymnastics.

I see him run, jump, and somersault onto a huge, red, squishy mat. I see him jump up to grab the high bar, hold on, fold his body to touch his toes to the bar. I see when he is struggling, a brown-haired girl kindly gets the coach to help him.

Class is done.

“How was gymnastics today?”

He nods, “good.”