In “Second Skin: Part I,” we discussed the observed phenomenon of women of color wearing bright, oftentimes legless singlets to weightlifting competitions. This was discussed as part of a broader exploration of the following queries: Who is welcome in strength sport? Which bodies are valued in sports? Which bodies are able to move through the world in a particular way? Whose bodies do we judge and denigrate, and whose do we laud? I began this exploration with two articles advocating for the inclusion of trans athletes in strength sports (“Share the Platform, Parts I and II”), and highlighting USA Weightlifting’s Policy for Transgender Inclusion. Though they are certainly not the same, trans and BIPOC folx experience a similarity of oppression at the hands of the cis-het patriarchy, within a system of white supremacy. (We can’t really extricate cis-sexism from white supremacy from monocapitalism, and so on. Systems of oppression overlap and inform each other. But that is beyond the scope of these articles.)
 
As with the last article, before we go any further, there are few important things to note about both your author (that’s me) and my language choices: Throughout these articles, I will use the terms “women,” “of color,” and the acronym “BIPOC.” BIPOC stands for Black, Indigenous, People of Color. I know that many BIPOC folx choose the term “People of the Global Majority (PGM).” Indeed, BIPOC folx are statistically the majority of humans in the world! And, I love that the term PGM plants itself firmly in that status and power. However, after discussing this term at length with BIPOC humans in my life, and others engaged in critical race theory, I have gleaned that many people prefer “BIPOC” or “people of color” because it reflects their experience being oppressed by a privileged white majority operating within a violent system of white supremacy. Additionally, in my experience as an academic in the western, American context, I have found that the term “people of the global majority” oftentimes circulates within academic circles as a “more informed than thou art” term used by white folx to distance themselves from white guilt. For these reasons, I will be using “people of color” and “BIPOC” instead of “people of the global majority.” I will also be using “woman” and “women,” instead of “womyn” or “womxn,” because they are the spellings used by strength sports themselves, which do still operate predominantly within a binary gender system. I may even use “BIWOC” to indicate “Black and Indigenous Women of Color,” because it’s simple and everyone loves a good portmanteau. Furthermore, I myself am white, and I identify as queer and gender-expansive. However, gender is somewhat nonsense (again, please see “Share the Platform”), and I love being a woman in a strength sport. I also acknowledge that I have passing privilege, meaning I often appear as straight and cis, and given that I am also able-bodied, English-speaking, and indeed white, I hold a lot of privilege that it is my ethical duty to acknowledge as we discuss this topic. Onward!
 
When I began weightlifting, I noticed a repetition of BIWOC wearing bright, patterned singlets on the competition platform. This intrigued me, and I began exploring. Ultimately, as I discussed in the last article, I think these bright singlets are a means of BIWOC weightlifters eschewing dominant culture notions of beauty and of which bodies matter. These dominant culture standards disproportionately impact bodies that are “other,” including black, brown, female, trans, handicapable, and other bodies (the list goes on).
 
However, not only are these singlets shiny and legless, but they are often in animal print as well. I’ve noticed quite a few leopard prints, tiger stripes, and even fish scales on the platform. Jo Weldon, a burlesque performer and author, writes that “[t]he desire to dress like a dangerous animal has specific intention to it. … Those who choose to wear leopard print may not mean to say that they are predators, but they are definitely saying they are not prey.” What a way to return the dominant culture gaze, especially in a strength sport, than to suggest “I will hunt you.” This is so powerful, especially in a context where BIPOC bodies have literally been hunted, sold, murderered, and systematically eradicated. Sport truly is a microcosm for broader society, and I have no doubt that the social undercurrents that inform how “otherized” bodies move through the world inform how those bodies move on the platform as well.
 
So, it bears stating that the choice of print on these shiny singlets has its own power, beyond the subversion of dominant culture norms. Big cats are not only predators, but they are silent and slinking. Fish are swift, darting, and elusive. Some might even suggest that the fish scale singlets connote mermaids or sirens, beings that are themselves mythical, magical, sexy, and often deadly.
 
Beyond this, bearing the skin of another being has a certain magic to it. The shapeshifter holds power because the shapeshifter cannot be held down. I referenced #blackgirlmagic in the first part of this series, a hashtag that highlights the achievements and beauty of black women. Wearing spots, stripes, and scales on the platform harkens to a type of literal magic. When you consider the archetype of the black cat, this notion becomes more resonant. As Kristen J. Sollée, the academic and writer referenced in the first part of this series, states: “In legend and folklore, black cats are larger than life, and they’re often attributed a kind of spellbinding eroticism with a hint of ferocity…[t]he black cat is a potent symbol of the outcast and outlier.” To me, this is empowering. I am aware of the ways in which the black body has been likened to animals to justify systematic slavery, oppression, and murder. (Again, I am white, so my awareness is intellectual but I will never claim knowledge of the black experience.) I believe there is strength, power, and a little bit of magic in strong women of color wearing striking singlets to compete.
 
There is so much to unpack here, from the way BIPOC bodies are judged by dominant culture standards, to the way trans bodies are legislated. That I could even begin to explore these notions through the lens of weightlifting is a beautiful reminder of the way sport reflects and informs the human experience. Sport is so powerful, and the way we bring our bodies and our greater selves to our sports is meaningful.
 
Ultimately, I believe the platform is for all bodies. I acknowledge the barriers many of us have had to face, some of us more than others, in accessing the platform. We all go to the platform to get strong. But some of us must be strong in order to get there.