In My Skin by Brittney Griner Page B

it?” He was always making excuses about the car. But none of it was really about the car. In this case, he didn’t like my friend. He thought she was turning me out—you know, making me gay.
    A lot of times with my dad, he doesn’t actually say what he means, what he really wants. He uses other people, or things like his car, as his way of trying to get what he wants. So, for example, if I didn’t go home to visit for a few weekends, he would call and say, “You’re disappointing your mother. She misses you.” But then I would call my mom, and she’d say, “Baby Girl, you live your life! I’m doing just fine!” My dad could never just say to me, “Brittney, I love you and miss you. I would love to see you.” If he had actually said that to me, I would have gotten in the car and driven home. Instead, everything was always about something else—something I wasn’t doing the way he thought I should be doing it. And it was exhausting, always trying to read between the lines, feeling like I needed to keep my guard up at all times.
    That Dodge Magnum was his tool, like a GPS locator, and he used it to keep tabs on me, to continue wielding power over my life.

THE PUNCH
    I ’ve watched “the punch” at least a dozen times on YouTube. I grimace every time I see it, squinting my eyes as if somehow trying to change the outcome. Most people are spared the misfortune of having their most embarrassing moment captured on video: mine was broadcast live on television, then replayed on the news, then uploaded to the Internet for everyone to see, a cautionary tale for the masses. And yet even if I could press a button and make that clip disappear forever, I wouldn’t do it. Because as bad as that moment looks on-screen—and it was a whole lot worse in person—I know now that it was one of the best things to ever happen to me.
    When I was younger, the anger and frustration inside me often felt like a living, breathing thing, like a fish caught on a hook, thrashing about, demanding to be released. And a lot of times, the way I chose to release it only made things worse. Instead of the fish swimming away, it stayed in the boat, flopping around and making a mess. I used to believe fighting was a way for me to control things that felt out of my control. I was trying to take back the power, to show everyone they couldn’t just say whatever they wanted about me and trample on my feelings. But I’ve learned over the years that there are painful consequences for letting my emotions fester, and the real turning point came on March 3, 2010, when I punched Jordan Barncastle during a game at Texas Tech. In the days and weeks that followed, I would come to realize I wasn’t in control at all, and that allowing my anger to own me was actually making me more vulnerable, not less.
    WHAT MOST PEOPLE don’t realize is that the confrontation with Jordan Barncastle actually started a couple of weeks earlier during a game in Waco. Texas Tech was playing a smaller lineup, and Barncastle was guarding me for long stretches of the game, which was a mismatch because she’s six inches shorter than I am. To make up for the size difference, she started catching me with elbows, hitting me when the referees weren’t looking, just doing some of the dirty stuff that happens on the basketball court. I like to talk trash when I play, get inside an opponent’s head, so she’s thinking about what I’m saying instead of what she should be doing. But I’m not a dirty player. There’s no point to it, not with my size. Why give away the advantage I have by getting caught throwing elbows or grabbing someone’s shirt? It’s not like I can easily hide out there. At the same time, though, I have to protect myself. I can’t just let people hang on me and push me around, especially if the refs are swallowing their whistles. If someone gets physical