There’s only one photo of me to prove I learned to row for ten weeks, and it didn’t even make it onto the official social media. So all that exists of me being a part of that specific community is my memory and the memory of others, who one day might wonder, “Hmm, I wonder what happened to that American girl?” or maybe they will not wonder at all because I didn’t stick around for the season, where their bonds will be formed and their real memories will be made.
All of this sounds a bit silly (after all, who cares if you are documented on social media or not?), but this feeling of being there, but not really being seen there, is a big part of the reason I struggled so much with the decision to quit rowing. I don’t mean physically being seen at rowing. I mean, feeling that I, as a person, am seen and valued by those around me.
I joined rowing in my first weeks abroad in hopes of building community while I settled into a new home, thousands of miles away from everywhere I’d ever known. I also have always loved sports, but I didn’t grow up playing a specific sport and I’ve tried going to practices that said, “beginners welcome” where beginners were not actually welcome.
Rowing was different— two taster weeks to see if you wanted to try it out, then eight weeks of learning to row, then an invitation to row (or cox) competitively. I had absolutely nothing on my plate outside of a few classes on Monday and Tuesday, so I thought, Why not?
After the two taster weeks, I was invited to learn to row as a coxswain. The coaches said at the beginning of the program, “We really need short, loud, and bossy people to learn to cox.” And I thought, Oh man, these people really know nothing about me. *wink*
Coxing itself is a difficult job that I came to quickly appreciate for its vital role in and out of the water. I have never felt so thrown into the deep end with no clue how to swim than trying to command eight people to get a boat out of the boat house, into the water, moving together on the river, out of the water, and back into the boat house. I think I might’ve only done it completely right one time out of my entire ten weeks. Coxing was a lesson in presence. Of trusting my own sense of direction and quickly checking and fixing any problems. A distraction on my part could mean that someone falling under the weight of the boat or all of us headed straight for a bridge or the embankment. Being responsible for other people, while practicing clear, concise, and quick communication is a skill whose value is not lost on me.
My friends would gasp when I told them that I was leaving my house at 5:45 in the mornings some days to make it down to the boathouse for mornings on the river or that some days I was going to practice in both the morning and the afternoon, and that my weekend mornings were also spent on the water. But most of the time, I didn’t mind this.
The long walks from my apartment in the city centre down to the river were spent listening to new music or podcasts, and I’d always be rewarded with a fantastic sunrise. I liked feeling productive, like nothing in my day could go wrong because I’d already put my mind and body towards something challenging. I liked telling people that I was investing in something new. I liked thinking about all of the possibilities of the rowing season ahead. I’d never imagined myself as someone dedicated to a serious sport and yet there I was, going to practice five or six days out of the week.
So it sucked when by the seventh or eighth week, it was really sinking in that I was feeling out of place. Feeling out of place is normal, and I expected it especially as I was going through the motions of adjusting to a new place and missing my community and support system at home.
Mid-way through the eight weeks of learn to row, I’d gotten into a tiff with some of the leaders of the beginner’s program after making a suggestion to address a problem that had repeatedly come up in the beginner’s club. This was something I’d heard people talk about before and I felt comfortable bringing it up to leadership. Though I remained very respectful, it ended up in a petty back-and-forth that was escalated by ego, respectability politics, and expectations of behavior within a hierarchy.
After my suggestion was rejected (fine), and some heated responses from leadership, I asked to be spoken to with consideration and kindness while acknowledging their frustrations. Everyone else in the club was silent, even those who I’d heard airing grievances about intense messaging from leaders before (some messages being unsent, then resent because their first iterations were too heated.) It was clear over the next week that by speaking up and only accepting mutual respect, I had made myself a pariah.
Maybe it can be chalked up to a competitive air where no one was sure they’d be invited to the competition team and not wanting to make any enemies or spark any word that could get to the coaches. Maybe it was cultural differences and I looked like an ugly American. Whatever it was, it was immediately obvious that no one wanted to be like me.
This tiff was the first layer in realizing I wasn’t where I wanted to be anymore. As time went on, I began to notice that other girls, in particular, were forming bonds that I just didn’t have. After all those hours every week and I just didn’t feel connected to anyone. There were people who I could have pleasant small talk with, but no one who I might go for lunch with or spend a night out with. And I began to feel the pressure of the demanding schedule— I realized I had no energy left for my personal goals outside of rowing, like marathon training. The days were quickly getting shorter, darker, colder, and wetter and I was spending most of my afternoons taking naps after my exhausting early mornings. How was I going to add on more demanding practices if I rowed competitively?
I struggled with the decision to quit, but I gave myself one final week to put in my all and see how I felt. I tried to gauge my relationships with everyone; to see if putting myself out there would lead to being included in the little moments of community before, after, and during practices. I tried to focus intensely on coxing; watching videos and taking notes, trying my best to be clear and concise with directions, and getting out of my comfort zone with commands on the water.
And in the end, I still felt insignificant. Like, I could simply not be there and it would make absolutely no difference to anyone there.
This was a difficult lesson for me coming from a community where I felt a significant drive, purpose, and value in working to make it better, feeling connected to other people in my community, and feeling valued and appreciated back.
I would later hear from a coach that he’d heard about the incident with the leaders and that my peers had said I had “anger issues”. I do not see this as separate or coincidental to the fact that I was the only Black person in the entire club. I laughed about it with the coach, who did not seem to take it to heart, but I did. I immediately understood that I was the angry black woman because I was the only black woman there, and that’s the only role I can play for these people… even if I am perfectly agreeable, quiet, flexible, etc.
My time in Belfast has been riddled with micro-aggressions. It’s not that I don’t experience micro-aggressions constantly in the States; it is that here they are more subtle, in a culture that avoids talking about race and denies overwhelmingly participation in racism. And they sneak up on me— just when I think maybe I am safe, that I can get comfortable, I’m reminded that I am never safe and I can never fully be comfortable.
So in the end, I sent off my “I’m sorry, I’m quitting” email and I chewed on feelings of humiliation and rejection as I reflected on my inability to find community in a place I’d given so much of my time and energy to.
I paid 40 quid to attend the end-of-the-year rowing formal, which I went to wearing the only slightly-dressy dress I’d brought to Belfast and my platform crocs, and I gave myself one last night of trying to connect with the people in the club. I had a number of nice interactions, but almost no one had even realized that I hadn’t been at practices for over a week. I knew I’d made the right decision.
Throwing in the towel is hard, and I’ll always wonder what it might’ve been like if I had stuck it out and continued rowing through the season. Was the community I was looking for just a couple more weeks from settling in? Would I have gotten decent at coxing and helped lead a boat to medals? Would I have felt really proud of myself for sticking out something challenging and new?
I don’t know. But I felt a relief when I sent that email, and I feel proud of myself for setting boundaries and allowing myself to say, This is no longer serving me.
My first semester at Queen’s is quickly wrapping up, and as I write this, I’m in Georgia for the Holidays and Belfast feels like another world. My life there feels like a dream I can only sort of remember. Next semester, maybe, I will join the rock climbing club, which my friend Sarah has found really enjoyable and welcoming. Or try again with the running club. Or maybe I’ll join nothing.
I probably won’t find or feel the kind of community that I felt going to college in the same city I grew up in, but I’m aware that my time in Belfast is over 1/4 of the way done. Maybe the most important goal for my next semester is to simply be open to possibilities, yet wedded to none.