The black framed glasses? Welfare glasses. As soon as I saved up enough money to buy wire-rimmed glasses, I ditched the glasses.
Those of you who read this blog regularly know that I have spent a good bit of my life moving, either from town to town or house to house. In 1971 my Dad moved us from Deshler, Ohio to Findlay, Ohio. I lived in Findlay from 1970-1974. I say “I lived,” because my parents divorced in 1972 and my Dad moved us to Tucson, Arizona in the early spring of 1973. I finished my tenth grade year at Rincon High School in Tucson, and once school was out I moved back to Findlay to live with several families in the church I attended. For a few months in the fall of 1973 I attended Riverdale High School in Mount Blanchard, Ohio, and then I transferred back to Findlay High School and finished out eleventh grade.
Got all that? Here’s my point in giving you a Bruce Gerencser geography lesson. From 1970-72, eighth and ninth grade, I attended Central Junior High School (which has since been torn down) in Findlay. Two school years, my longest consecutive stretch at one school without a move to a new school district (though we did live in 3 different houses during this time); when I actually had time to make a few friends.
While I am now a 6-foot, 325-pound man, during the two years I spent at Central Junior High, I was 5 foot 2 inches tall and weighed a little over 100 pounds. I was a late bloomer, not reaching my current height until the end of eleventh grade. Needless to say, I was quite conscious of my diminutive size.
Even though I was slight of build, I played city league baseball and basketball. I am left-handed, and being a southpaw gave me a decided advantage when it came to playing sports. Even though I loved playing, gym class at Central Junior High was one of my least favorite classes.
As I mentioned above, I wasn’t very big, and puberty came quite slowly for me. I enjoyed playing the various sports in gym class, but when games were over, came the dreaded mandatory shower. Here I was, a small boy with little underarm or pubic hair, among, what seemed at the time, giants. When I took off my clothes and glanced at other boys in the class, it was quite evident to everyone that I was in every way on the small side. Needless to say, I became quite self-conscious about my body.
The gym teacher was also a coach. He was a rough-and-tumble, crude man, typical of many of the coaches I played for. One day, he walked into the shower room where all of us were showering and he surveyed the mass of the nakedness before him and said, Well, I can tell who is having sex and who isn’t. His inference was clear; those with bigger penises and testicles were the ones having sex. Since I was one of the smallest boys in the class — and I mean small in every way — I was quite embarrassed. I am sure some of the boys thought, and we know who ISN’T having sex.
I was also the only redhead in the class. At the time, I had bright, flaming orange hair that definitely made me stand out. My gym teacher called me Carrot or Carrot Crotch. This only added to my self-consciousness.
One week for gym class, we square danced. The male and female gym classes joined together for dance lessons. I thought, This will be my chance to touch one of the cheerleaders. Typical, self-conscious boy’s dream, right? Well, my dream became a nightmare because my pastor, Gene Milioni, pastor of Trinity Baptist Church, came to the school and raised a ruckus about the dancing. As a result, my parents would not allow me to square dance. Later in the year, Pastor Milioni would complain about the choir singing Jesus Christ Superstar. I was in the choir, and as a result of his complaint, my parents wouldn’t allow me to sing. (Please see Good Independent Baptist Boys Don’t Dance.)
I still remember to this day sitting at the top of the gym bleachers watching my classmates square dance. Next to me were two boys who were believed to be homosexuals. The proof of their homosexuality? They refused to take a shower at the end of gym class. Remember, it was the 70s . . . So there I was with the two “fags” who wouldn’t take a shower.
While I eventually grew up to be a physically fit 6-foot man, endowed well enough to father six children, I have been self-conscious about my body my entire life. Once free of junior high gym class, I never took another communal shower. When it comes to using the bathroom, I always try to use a stall. Just the thought of using a public urinal is enough to shut off the flow. If I have to use a urinal, I make sure no one is nearby. And if a man uses the urinal next to me? It’s like a vise grip on my urethra. It ain’t gonna happen. I have often wondered if my experiences in junior high gym class play a part in my inability to urinate when someone is standing next to me.
I do know that my religious training resulted in an unhealthy view of the human body and sex. The Fundamentalist churches of my youth spent significant time preaching against short skirts, pants on women, long hair on men, and premarital sex. Even masturbation was considered a sin. The body — the flesh — was sinful and corrupt and in need of salvation.
How about you? Were you body self-conscious in school? How did your religious upbringing affect how you viewed your body? Please share your experiences in the comments section.
Bruce Gerencser, 67, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 46 years. He and his wife have six grown children and sixteen grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist.
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when i was in middle school (east coast had “middle schools” west coast had “junior high schools”) in buffalo, new york, in the mid-’70s, my school had a swimming pool, which meant that we had swimming once a week. the school policy was that girls wore tank suits, and boys wore nothing… we swam naked! something, i am totally positive, WOULD NOT happen these days. i was actually relieved when there were “fun-nights” where the entire community had a party, with music and dancing, where the gym and swimming pool were open to the public, because THEN i got to wear a swim suit.
i do remember one boy who wouldn’t swim laps with everyone else, and stayed in a corner of the pool by himself, while everyone else was swimming laps… and everybody assumed that he was masturbating. 🫤
Bruce, you have me in tears. I now recall the terror I, like you, felt not only about communal showering but of having to change from regular to gym clothes, and back, with boys in the locker room.
It’s one of the reasons I try not to use public restrooms (another is that so many are filthy) to this day. But now, at least, I use women’s bathrooms, which always have stalls—and no urinals, which I can’t use anymore anyway.
I went to Junior High School in the mid-1980’s and gym class was similar. We had to take a shower and actually open our towel and show the teacher we had “showered”. At least the stalls were semi-private. Degrading doesn’t begin to describe how I felt as a shy boy going through puberty.
My female classmates always alleged their gym teacher seemed to take a while to stare at them when they opened their towel. I can’t say that happened to me in the boys gym locker room, but our gym teacher definitely dispensed some crude humor, usually by calling sensitive appearing boys “honey” in a fake sympathetic tone of voice. Ahh, I sure do miss the 1980’s!
Thinking back on it now, I theorize that junior and high school gym class was just preparing us for potential military service. The Soviet Union was still around and seemed like a threat to our national safety.
Bruce, btw, I find redheads, male and female, to be fortunate having that “shock hair”. Every time I encounter a redhead, of either sex, in my daily routine, I go out of my way to complement them. As long as they don’t appear like they would knock my teeth out for commenting.
btw I can relate, to social awkwardness, but mine came earlier than yours. My drunk ass, alcoholic mother, left me a wonderful legacy as a newborn: Cross Eyed, Right Testical undropped, and a Right Ear formation defect / TERRIBLE ear aches in my early years (Thanks Mom). And who knows what type of brain development syndromes.
Happily my dad was somewhat successful and the hearing and cross eyed situation was solved via surgeries.
The testicle thing never was quite right but it did emerge (sorta).
I’m not seeking a pity party, just to tell you that my elementary years in a rural school went like this:
Good morning Clarence the Cross Eyed Lion. That lasted until the corrective surgery at 12.
Ummm – kids are cruel at all ages, but particularily in elementary and Jr. High.
As far as brain development, well, I did graduate from H.S. with a 3.3 and scored a 22 on my ACT and that was with little effort, and did get accepted at UF, FSU and S Alabama.
Anyway, I can relate!
Bruce, I am sorry you went through that. It’s difficult to fathom the meanness of “teasing” vulnerable children going through changes they can’t control and which are scary and awkward.
I remember being self-conscious about my body for much of my life. I grew up in a 4 generation household, and I remember seeing the ravages of time on my great-grandmother’s body – her 2nd toe crossed over her big toe (she had to cut slits in her shoes to accommodate the bulge), she had batty triceps that she’d wiggle to amuse us kids, I’d see her using tweezers to pluck wayward chin hairs. My mom and grandma and aunt were CONSTANTLY talking about their weight and how I “needed to not get fat though if you’re female in our family you’re destined to get fat.” I hated puberty because I knew it was the start of “getting fat as familial destiny”. Relatives constantly made comments about my body – my size, how much I ate, getting boob’s and butt, slouching…..
It didn’t help that I was sent to fundamentalist Christian school in 5th grade. From 6th grade on the beginning of each school year began with boys and girls being separated and being talked to by same-gender teachers. We girls were told to wear deodorant, but also that God had designed us to be feminine and that we were required to look nice as part of our testimony, and then we went over the copious dress code rules from the handbook. We were shown how to test our clothing in the mirror before leaving home with a series of bends and stretches to make sure clothing didn’t move much to expose skin. We were warned about being a “stumbling-block” for our brothers in Christ. In 6th grade gym class we had a whole unit on hygiene, and I distinctly remember an assignment where we had to measure our hips, bust, and waist and report whether we had the “perfect female body type” with hips and bust being equivalent with waist exactly 10 inches smaller. One of the more developed 12-year-olds probably did have that body already, but the rest of us adolescents were found to be lacking, and one girl actually lied about her measurements (she was as underdeveloped as most of us were). I still despise Mrs Wall for teaching us that while she sat there in her button-down blouse, blazer, and pencil skirt judging us for being the little girls we were. She taught us how to sit properly so our skirts didn’t expose too much leg.
As a senior in high school, we had a senior trip to Florida for which we girls had to bring in swimwear for pre-approval. What did that mean? We each had to put on each swimsuit and model it before 3 of our female teachers. If approved, the teacher would write the description of the suit for the chaperones. No unapproved suits were allowed on the trip. To their credit, the teachers were very sweet and positive about a situation which was probably nearly as mortifying as it was for us.
Fundamentalist Christianity taught me that my body was a problem causing males to lust. My family taught me that being thin was preferred – but that I probably wouldn’t stay thin. Society in general has presented an ever-changing set of examples of what my body is supposed to look like. For about 5-6 years my fitness and hormones aligned to produce a body that I was OK with – I still felt it needed improvement, but it was OK. Postmenopause has brought changes outside my control, and while I continue to remain fit and compete in a sport, I’m about to say “fuck it” about fighting with my body to look a certain way. What worked a couple of years ago is no longer working. Fuck it.
I no longer think or care about my body being a “stumbling block” for makes – that’s their problem that I can’t control. But the other stuff is still tough. And I’m in my 50s.
Oh those communal showers The horrors! I was very inhibited and I was confronted with this when I attended swimming lessons at YMCA in Toledo. Not only communal showers but no bathing suits either. After a few miserable sessions that ended in a near drowning, I never went back, eventually learning to swim all alone in muddy Lick Crick west of Bryan.
Like Bruce I was also singled out for my red head. My first day at Macomber (then) all male high school was a disaster that shadowed my entire life. One male teacher had a strategy to establish his alpha male credentials by provoking confrontations early on. I with my orange head was a target. I had no clue what was happening and I never understood it till many years into adulthood. It was so upsetting I never entered Macomber High school again after that first day. Getting off the bus I simply walked down the street to a restaurant and stayed till the bus went home. After a week I was found out and ended up back In Bryan where I attended high school a few weeks before being expelled there for some status thing beyond my control. That was my formal education until enrolling at Tri-State College in my mid twenties. Being singled out may build character but I don’t wish it on any kid. I tell ya life ain’t easy for a boy with orange hair. It must be about as bad as a boy being named Sue. Am I right Bruce?
OC—So they wanted you to have exactly the kind of body that would “tempt” males. And then they slut-shamed you for having it. Talk about a mind-fuck!
I guess one good thing about growing up as a boy is that I missed out on that—though I was sexually abused by a priest. Since becoming a woman, I’ve had a taste—a taste, mind you—of what you and other girls experienced. I am shamed both for not fitting expectations and for fitting them to the point that I am told I bring sexual harassment on myself. And those seemingly opposite accusations are made by the same people.
The most insidious thing about victim shaming is when the victim comes to believe it’s really their fault. Kids are defenseless against it.