Along with three swim instructors and a cadre of volunteers, I recently completed an 8-week swim class for 20 women and one preteen. The women came from countries in Africa, Southeast and Central Asia, the Caribbean, and Central America, bringing different languages, cultures, histories, and relationships to the water.
Some women, after only a few instructions about water safety, gliding, and breathing, eagerly explored the deep end. Others struggled to put their faces in the water and repeatedly stood up when attempting to glide.
“I almost drowned once, but this time I’m determined to learn to swim,” one woman told me with a smile.
“We’re here to support you,” I reassured her, remembering my own near-drowning experience and the fear I felt when I entered the pool that first class and for many swim classes afterwards.
But learning to swim was only part of what was happening in that pool.
Most of the women, working wives and mothers, had carved sixty minutes out of already demanding schedules to come to class. They were making time for themselves.
“My teenage sons joked that I would still be terrified in four feet of water,” one mother told me. “I ignored their comments and came anyway. I was a little late, but I made it.”
Another mother explained how she made it work: “I realized I could arrange for my husband to take the children to Chuck E. Cheese, and other summer activities. I would be back before they returned home.”
The mother had figured it out and for one hour, she did not have to be responsible for everyone else. She could simply be a woman learning to swim.
There was something powerful about these women claiming an hour in the middle of busy lives to learn a skill simply because they wanted to learn it. They laughed, struggled, encouraged one another, and celebrated each small accomplishment.
From the beginning, we had an unusually high ratio of instructors to students. Barbara, a seasoned swimmer, told me that she and her friend Carla were swimming laps when they heard laughter. They looked over and saw a large group of women splashing around in the pool.
When they learned about the purpose of the class, providing a safe space for immigrant women – the two friends immediately understood its importance and wanted to contribute. They and others showed up each week to teach, support, encourage, reassure and celebrate our swim students.
The pool became more than a place to learn an important life skill. It became a place of community connection, laughter, and joy.
We often think of resistance as protest, organizing, speaking out, or challenging systems of oppression. Those forms of resistance matter. But resistance can also be a mother saying, “This hour is for me,” and community members uniting to facilitate and support.
Sometimes it is a woman who once almost drowned deciding to confront her fear.
Sometimes it is accepting the support of others while learning something new.
And sometimes it is simply showing up.
These women showed up for 8 weeks. They learned. They laughed. They supported one another. And, in the process, we created community.
To me, social justice is not only about what we resist. It is also about what we make possible.
What happens when we create spaces where immigrant women such as myself can step outside our familiar roles as mothers, wives, caregivers, and providers and experience ourselves simply as women with desires, curiosity, and the freedom to learn? In these troubling times, making room for joy is not a small thing.
For one hour each week, these women entered the water. And the water held more than their bodies. It held possibility.
So, I leave you with this question: What is one small space of possibility you can help create for yourself and or someone else?
Perhaps it is an hour. Maybe it is a skill. Maybe it is an invitation.
