Personal Narrative: Basketball Hoop

For as long as I remember, I have been raised with a basketball hoop. This hoop stood firmly, looking down at the trees secured by patches of cement in my backyard, in my neighborhood, Dorchester. This hoop was my center of faith and tranquility surrounded by gunfires, shattering windows, car alarms. As a girl, I learned not to adventure any place else other than this hoop because going beyond its faded lines on the concrete is an unknown world full of hazards and danger. And when I did cross these seraphic lines, I could sense the bittersweet emotions running throughout the neighborhood, my home. In middle school, I tried out for the basketball team, dribbling my way up into high school. Unfortunately, my high school did not have sports
The girls basketball team would practice before the guys having a strict hour to squeeze in exercises, drills, and formations. Time restricted what we’d do. Afterwards, the guys would have their practice for eons. For someone like myself who’d try to improve my skills, I attempted to practicing with the guys, but they wouldn't let me. Genders were strictly excluded from each other's practices. Sometimes they would allow me to help practice their formations, but I would feel as if I weren't practicing but instead helping. I wanted to practice. I wanted to improve. I was excluded for being a girl.
I decided to advocate to the coach about my involvement in the practices as a player. As I walked into the hot and humid office of the coach, I waited until he was not as busy with his work. As the fan turned, he finally stopped what he was doing, “What’s up, Ariana?” the coach voiced. I explained my aspirations to play basketball. As I spoke, I watched his face, trying to get a sense of what he was thinking. After I stopped talking, I waited for his answer. He moved around as if it would help him figure out what to say when he knew his answer was