The writer is an anonymous swimmer from the Bethesda area. Some details have been changed to protect the identity of the author.

Ever since my mom signed me up for club swimming at age 7, it has dominated my life. Since then, I’ve spent at least four days in the pool every week. My friendships on the swim team grew as we saw each other constantly, from carpooling to hanging out after meets. Through countless difficult practices and successful events, I really thought our connections could withstand anything.

However, as it turned out, being gay was too much for them.

I found it easier to be friends with the girls on my team and had a harder time making friends with the boys, although I always tried to be sociable with them. I chatted with them in the locker rooms and during warm-ups, but as I grew older, I became increasingly uncomfortable around them.

They sometimes made homophobic comments, but they were never targeted at me, so I shrugged them off. Every time I heard one of their remarks, I justified it by telling myself that “boys will be boys.”

As I entered high school, I became more in touch with my femininity, and it became more obvious that I was gay. I never tried to hide my sexuality from my swim teammates, but I also never outright told them, that was, until the fall of ninth grade. 

We were all sitting at a table after a swim meet when someone jokingly referred to one of my female friends and me as a married couple. We looked at each other and burst into laughter. We tried to explain why that was funny to us, implying that we could never see each other romantically because I wasn’t attracted to girls. Most of my teammates seemed indifferent, like they already knew, but some were shocked. At the time, however, it appeared that all my friends accepted me.

At first, nothing changed. I still hung out with my teammates, and I barely noticed their targeted comments or uncomfortable remarks. It wasn’t until my best friend pointed out the microaggressions people used against me every day, like the occasional “gay voice” and stereotypical “gay mannerisms” that my male teammates used when talking to me, that I noticed the difference in how they treated me.

At first, I tried to ignore it; I didn’t want to be shunned by the boys. But as the swim season progressed, their comments grew worse and began affecting my mental health, eventually compromising my swimming. I no longer enjoyed attending practice, and I lost the motivation to push myself for the team. Hearing the mocking “gay voice” was now a staple whenever I talked to one of my male teammates. One specific teammate would often flirt with me and caress my shoulder as he passed me on his way to his lane, which made me uneasy. The girls noticed but didn’t think it was a big deal, while the guys flat-out ignored it or acted as if it were normal.

This continued for a month before I started to speak up for myself. At first, it was a quiet “stop” or a “that’s weird” just trying to show them I didn’t like it.

As this harassment progressed, I grew increasingly mad at those who did nothing to help me, as my friend, who first opened my eyes to these microaggressions, was the only one supporting me.

It got to a point where I couldn’t interact with my teammates without hearing some sort of comment, microaggression or behind-the-back insult. My best friend told me that if I didn’t tell an adult, she would. But I knew that wouldn’t change anything, because to straight men, it was all just locker room talk — boys would continue to be boys.

I told her that if another thing happened, I would say something.

I was stretching on the pool deck before a workout with my friend, stressing about the upcoming hard set. Suddenly, one of the boys who constantly harassed me sat down next to me. I tried to ignore him, but he kept talking to me and touching me to get my attention. First, he put his hand on my shoulder, caressing it like he was flirting. When I ignored him, his hand moved to a worse place.

I finally talked to an adult involved with the team about the harassment I was facing from some of my teammates. He said he’d talk to them and that I should just ignore them, exactly what I had come to expect from speaking up.

I didn’t know how to say I was uncomfortable and couldn’t be in a group with them anymore. From then on, I was the first in and out of the locker rooms. I didn’t spend any unnecessary time with them. I stayed with the girls on my team who made me feel safe and accepted.

It took me a few months of hiding to realize that I couldn’t stay in an environment where people didn’t treat me with dignity. I quit, switched teams and for the first time, felt free: free from harassment, free from degradation and free from the little things that built up into something big. 

Although I left them behind, the boys’ actions still haunt me. I stay with the girls, refrain from entering the boys’ locker room and never truly open myself up to them the way I did my old teammates. Despite the lasting trauma, my new environment was healthier, and I was happier. 

I didn’t need to hide anything; they all knew I was gay from the start. I knew there would be some unintended microaggressions, but they were so few and far between that I ignored them. I’ve gotten better at confrontation, too. I’m more confident in calling people out on their bigotry, especially since it helps many understand the wrongfulness behind their statements. 

While most of my new teammates are accepting, homophobia in swimming continues. I became friends with one of my new male teammates, but our friendship was marked by judgment. We would give each other dirty looks as a joke and throw petty insults at each other, and I never thought anything of it. However, one night in Bethesda Row, while I was hanging out with some swim friends, he drove past with two of my new teammates and screamed out of the car window, “F*ck you” to me. I was slightly taken aback; we had never said anything that intense, but it was late and, again, I thought nothing of it.

Another night out, my friends and I thought it would be a good idea to have a quick snowball fight. Towards the end, I threw one at my teammate, the one whom I would insult jokingly. Unfortunately, this particular snowball thrown by a gay guy made him really angry, angry enough to scream the f-slur at me twice and rush towards me, aiming to punch me. I’ve never been more horrified in my life. I’ve been called the f-slur before, but never with the amount of malice that was in his voice. I got in my friend’s car to go home, shaking.

Around two days later, he texted me an apology while trying to justify his actions. Despite what he thought, there is no justification for calling a gay person that. I told him he needed to apologize, not defend himself. It took me multiple texts before he finally realized what he did was completely wrong.

I don’t think homophobia in sports is going to end, but I hoped it wouldn’t be as blatant in the 21st century. I now know that “boys will be boys” shouldn’t be used to defend locker room talk, and while I can’t completely stop it, I can do my best to educate my teammates when they act bigoted. These homophobic comments and actions are going to continue, but I’ve learned how to deal with them.

While I still feel uncomfortable occasionally, I no longer need to hide, and I know that at my new team now, I can proudly be myself.