When I was young, I, like many children, wished I could fly like a bird. I imagined that if I lay on the water and paddled with my arms, I could take off into the sky. But floating wasn’t easy. Frustrated, I once asked a skilled swimmer friend, “I’m going to jump in at the deepest end—please pull me out if I drown.” Then I leaped into the water. Maybe that absurd bravado—believing, “Even if I drown, I’ll live,”—is what kept me afloat. For over ten years, I lay in the community pool, staring at the skylight ceiling and paddling as if I were flying.
That day, however, was unlike any other. As I entered the locker room area, I noticed the pool window was covered with curtains—I couldn’t see inside. That had never happened before. While opening my locker to change, I nearly fainted: every locker held a blonde wig, looking eerily like severed heads. They stared at me ominously.
Inside the pool, there were no men—only women dressed in long skirts, floating in the water (their skirts ballooned like round, floating shapes). Every gaze turned to me, the small Asian woman in a swimsuit. I was utterly bewildered by the surreal scene. Slowly, I swam across the pool to understand what was happening. A pale woman approached me.
“Do you need a job?” she asked from the water.
I was stunned. A job—in the pool? I stammered,
“What job?”
“Cleaning job.”
A moment’s pause, then I pieced it together—it seemed the Jewish lady was asking if I could clean her home. I smiled and replied gracefully,
“I need a cleaning lady too.”
She floated away with her group, her annoyed, reddened face glancing back at me like a tofu drenched in red chili paste.
Later, dripping wet, I went to the front desk and asked. They told me the pool had changed its schedule: every Wednesday morning, a few hours were reserved exclusively for Hasidic Jewish women. These women follow strict modesty rules and cannot swim in mixed-gender spaces. I lay back in the water, paddling gently, pondering: “In this mixed-up, diverse New York, I’m not the only stranger here—so why the need to push me out like this?” It stung a bit, but understanding their way of life and cultural needs softened the discomfort.
As I floated, I reflected: if I resist the natural flow of water, I’ll drown—but if I let go and move with it, I’ll survive.
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