And then my car died...

I almost made it home. I was so close.

Buuuuuuut with half a mile or so to go, my car's battery- which hasn't been holding a charge, on account of a busted alternator (which is scheduled to be fixed tomorrow)- completely went, forcing me to pull over and call my friends for help.

Thank God for friends with jumper cables, right?

Days like this make me laugh at the notion that at some point in our Real Life Grown-Up existence we actually get it together. I really don't think we do because this kind of crap will always happen. Cars will die at inopportune moments 'cause we're a) too attached to let them go, b) too poor to accept a car payment on a new one, c) whatever else keeps us from being sensible.

Other stuff will happen, too. One of my friends forgot every major meeting she has next week until this morning, so cue a preparation crunch. Another managed to lock herself in a bathroom stall and had to crawl through the space under the door to get out. And it just goes on, heh.

At least it's all of us going through it and laughing about it afterwards.

Life, right? It's pretty ridiculous.

My War

Every time National Poetry Month comes around I get to read a lot of great work. The Internet is awesome that way. It always inspires me to write something, even if I haven't written anything else all year. This piece is just-written, raw, and- honestly?- not what I planned on writing when I sat down. But I guess it's what I needed to write, so here it is.

My War

It begins with a photograph

of me flashing a peace sign

at the Secret Service
while the President is speaking.

I'm twenty years old and

I think I can end the war this way.

My brother asks me why,

thinking I'll say, 

"Because I don't want you to die."

And that's true. I don't. 

But I really don't want him to die

in a war I'm not sure he needs to fight.

"Like you know anything

about wars," he says, scathing,

like I'm not a student of history,

not a soldier's daughter. 

How can he look at me,

and forget that we have the same father?

This is how my war begins

This is how we end up on opposite sides.

And when he comes home 

from the country's war-

the one I'm still not sure he needed to fight- 

the war at home continues.

Because I wasn't there,

(he wasn't here)

I wasn't there for him

(and I had to be there for our parents)

when he neded me

(and I wasn't enough to make them happy)

so now I don't get to be

(so now we're a fractured family)

and I'm not sure if he forgives me

(but I can't blame him for it)

Crappy Writing

I met Kelly Gallagher at NCTE.

He shook my hand, asked me what my name was, and handed me a stack of photocopies. My buddy, Jess, got the other stack, and together we did our best to pass them out quickly. Two things you should know about this: Kelly Gallagher is a rock star in our profession, and I wasn't originally supposed to be there.

Jess was the one who'd actually been invited to help out. I got to tag along because, about three weeks after she'd gotten that invitation, she and I had submitted a proposal to do our own NCTE presentation (about our team-taught capstone project) and it had been accepted. I went hunting through these blog archives to see what I'd written about those fantastic days of learning, presenting, basking in our success, and- yes- distributing photocopies for educational rock stars.

It turns out I didn't actually write a lot at all.

And I suppose that underscores one of the points Kelly made when I heard him speak again today: first draft writing is crappy writing. 

That's okay, though, because it gets better. That's what revision is about. 

I'm not going to go back and revise all my blog entries because I kind of like looking back at my life as I wrote it in crappy, first draft rambling (and maybe the prevalence of blogging is making successive generations of students less afraid of crappy first drafts... that's worth pondering a bit, isn't it?) But, lest ye be disappointed, I do have some poetry written as part of one of Kelly's lessons (write a poem about a possessive phrase: grandfather's watch, school's computer network, etc...). I revised it once, so that it is now only semi-crappy, and since this is National Poetry Month and it's track season, I think it's fitting to share it:

My coach's advice 

still echoes in my ears

"Leave everything that makes you 

less than you are

off my track."

It takes me back to being nineteen and afraid

of not being good enough, not being strong enough, 

and learning that

"Every race is a privilege."

Now I tell my own athletes the same things

because I want them to be all that they are,

and to know how it feels

to be good enough,

to be strong enough,

and to run unafraid. 

Catholic School, Argentina, and a Soccer Game At Recess

There were three or four priests at the parochial school I attended in Georgia, but none of them were particularly interesting to the ten-year-old version of me. Sure, Father Roy played a little basketball and had a supernatural (god-given?) talent for knowing when I was hiding in the library instead of sitting in class where I belonged, but even that didn't capture too much of my attention.

But then there was Father John.

Father John was a mission priest in Argentina who'd made a project of getting school supplies for the children in his village. Since my classmates and I routinely donated so much (and since he was a family friend of one of our teachers), he wrote to ask us if he could come visit the next time he was in the States and maybe even say a Mass at our church. Being fond of any and all visitors who could get us out of classwork, we said yes to this pretty immediately.

I don't think any of us expected the Mass that Father John said. For one thing, he was young- far younger than any of the regular parish priests- and  the whispers that he might not even be forty (a terribly advanced age) started circulating before the opening hymn was finished. The nuns glared at us to put a stop to that, so we were mildly subdued when Father John asked us to make the sign of the cross.

Most priests, despite a lackluster opening, would just continue on with the rituals. Father John stopped, told us we had to try it again with feeling, and proceeded to shout, "IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER! AND OF THE SON! AND OF THE HOLY SPIRIT!" like they were the most exciting words he'd ever said. When we- after a slight hesitation- decided to mimic him, he lept into the air, did a full 360-degree spin, and happily applauded our efforts. The rest of the Mass involved more jumping, more spinning, more enthusiastic prayer, and an epic Eucharistic backflip. He peppered us with Spanish and made sure we were learning it; I can still sing "Pescador de Hombres" because of that Mass.

So basically? Father John was a rock star.

If you need further proof, consider that when he came into the cafeteria to join us for lunch, every single table full of kids started shouting- top of the lungs shouting- for him to sit with them (he sat with our teachers). It's all too easy now to associate priests- especially the ones who work regularly with children- with scandal, and that's something the Church has to deal with, but Father John was a genuinely good man. He'd just given us all the epiphany that our faith was meant to be fun, so, of course, we all loved him.

We did manage to convince him to come to recess with us. There was some debate about what we would play, so Father John told us that kids in Argentina played soccer in the streets everyday and he would love to play soccer with all of us.

This is the point when my ten-year-old heart sank.

I had never joined the soccer players at recess because my asthma was too severe at that point for me to run around as much as they did, and they inevitably made fun of me for it. My asthma was too severe that day, too, but I tried- I really tried- to keep up because I didn't want to be the one who got left out. I just couldn't do it, though. I had to stop playing. I'd love to tell you Father John noticed- I desperately wanted him to notice- but he didn't.

So this is the day that made me really love my faith and later influenced me to learn Spanish. But it's also the day that turned me off to soccer for the next seven years (until I went to Europe, couldn't avoid it, and got addicted), and the day when I learned that even the best people in the world are only human.

I hadn't thought about this day in years, but when I heard the news that the new Pope had come from Argentina I remembered it.

I hope Father John did backflips.

The Marathon Awesomeness

I said that the culminating experience of my Year of Athletic Awesomeness would be running the Disney Marathon, and I did it: 26.2 ridiculous miles, and I've got the medal to prove it.

It was seriously an amazing experience. I'm slightly sunburned, my legs are sore, and I have an impossible amount of confidence now. But let me start at the beginning.

I flew to Florida on Friday. Since I was wearing running clothes (because I live in t-shirts and black trackies), the flight attendant guessed that I was headed down for the marathon; turned out he'd run it the year before, so he wished me luck. Yay for positive vibes, right?

My friend, Mel, picked me up at the airport and we went to the Wide World of Sports to check me in, get me my race swag, and wander through the expo (picking up more swag). Mel and her boyfriend ran the half marathon on Saturday (doing both races is called Goofy's Challenge, but I just call it crazy) while I lounged about and watched some Premier League matches on their awesome TV until they got home. Really, Saturday ended up being about watching all the sports ever. Mel put on a college basketball game after she'd showered. It ended twenty minutes into Real Madrid's match against Osasuna (which I will refrain from remarking on), so then we switched over to that. Then it was time for some American football- Ravens and Broncos- and, since we all had to get up early for Sunday- then it was time for bed.  

We left at about 3:30 on Sunday morning in order to get there, park, and get to the starting line. We were in different corrals, so we split up (after a couple "Have fun storming the castle!" jokes and such), and I proceeded to make friends with the people I ended up standing around with. Because when you're in the middle of 27,000 people, what else are you going to do, right? Plus, runners are generally awesome people, so it was fun. There were a lot of other first-timers in my corral, and we were all high-fiving each other and getting advice from the pros. And, speaking of pros, guess who gave the pre-race pep talk from the stage (which was projected on jumbo screens to those of us who weren't up front)? The Legend himself: Frank-friggin-Shorter. 

After that, the hype man on the stage said a bit more, a really talented Disney singer sang the anthem, and the fast people up front took off- with fireworks!!! I was worried it would feel like forever before they got to my corral, but I found myself at the starting line pretty quickly. And then it was time to run! The start of the race is in one of the parking lots near Epcot; from there we ran out onto one of the roads headed toward the Magic Kingdom. I figured there would be tons of spectators in the parks, but I had no idea they'd be on the roads in between, too. It was awesome to go into those first few miles and discover that there were all these local marching bands set up at different points, and DJs blasting music, and people who got up early to hold signs and cheer for us. 

The five-mile mark was at the Magic Kingdom. I blew through it in what was, for me, a rather quick 68 minutes. Since it was still dark and cool- and Florida's flat- I felt really comfortable, and my legs felt strong, so I just went with it. Running in the MK was awesome. For one thing, since I had a tiara on (why wouldn't I?), I got called "Princess" a lot, and that's just fun. We ran around the castle, then through the arch, where there were trumpeters. Seriously, trumpeters. After that, we ran along the edge of Fantasy Land, which is where there's a lot of new Beauty and the Beast stuff, and I got "Be Our Guest" stuck in my head for basically the rest of the race.

We ran past some of the hotels, where some guys who'd run the half marathon decided to come out to cheer wearing nothing but bathrobes and their medals. There were other people, too, but those guys were the most memorable. After that, there were a few more road miles, and then- for the ninth mile, I think- we got to run around the speedway. They had all these rockin' classic cars on the banks, plus the cars from the movie Cars at the end of the mile. That was pretty neat.

At the half we were in the Animal Kingdom. I keep switching pronouns from I to "we" because I was never running alone. It's basically impossible because there are so many people in the race, and it's awesome because there's all that support around you. Anyways, I came through the half in 3:10, and thought to myself that I should run a  half marathon sometime because it felt pretty good. The Animal Kingdom was cool because the trainers were out with various animals (I saw a snake, a hawk, a warthog....) and, in addition to there being a water stop, there was a banana stop (because marathoners are totally bananas... duh). I appreciated that since I can't be bothered to carry anything myself.

Miles 15-17 were the part of the race my friends had called "The Death March," a brutal slog up Osceola Parkway- sun fully risen, 82 degrees, no shade. Amusingly, the cast from the Haunted Mansion were out there, dragging shovels and generally looking menacing alongside "graves" that had been set up in the median. I was entertained, and- while I was feeling understandably tired- I still felt good until right around mile 16. Then, WHAM, asthma attack. I'm honestly psyched it didn't happen sooner because with that heat and a record-high pollen count, I expected to be wheezing my way through the majority of the race. At that point, there was no doubt in my mind that I would finish; I could look over my shoulder and see hundreds of people behind me, so I knew I was on pace, and there was no way I was going to give up after making it that far. I slowed to a walk, took my inhaler twice, and waited for it to work.

I tried to get back into a run at mile 18, then again at mile 19- both of which were in the Wide World of Sports- but my lungs weren't having it. I managed a shambling sort of jog through mile 20 (which was supposed to be "spectacular," but was really just a run around the baseball field, then out onto the road where these cool, giant puppets of Disney characters were set up, and there was a big arch to run under), walked 21 and 22, and took the time to biofreeze my tightening legs and shoulders at one of the med tents.

At mile 23 I told myself it was only a 5K now, and I could run a 5K, so I started jogging once again. It was hard, and it hurt, but we were in Hollywood Studios at the point and the energy there was so amazing. There were kids handing out chocolate when we entered the park, and- since it was open at that point- there were so many cheering spectators along the whole route. At one point, we came through an intersection, and one of the girls near me told the crowd waiting to cross, "Sorry to make you wait- we're busy being amazing!" and everybody cheered. At another point a little girl in a princess costume had her hand up to give high-fives to all of us and it was adorable. We ran around the stage where the dancers perform, past Sorcerer Mickey's hat, and down this backstage route that involved a tunnel, which was a great break from the sunshine.

Miles 24 and 25 were on the boardwalk. There were so many people there to cheer us on, including some awesome guests who'd gotten ice out of the hotel ice machines and were handing it out in bags. There was also one guy in a lawn chair holding a sign that said "Someday you will fail, but it won't be today" or something like that. I really liked that because, even though pretty much everything hurt at the point, I knew it was true.

The final mile was my favorite because it took us through the World Showcase at Epcot, which is my favorite thing in all of Disney World. There was great energy there, too, especially from the cast members. They were all cheering, waving flags, and generally being awesome. One guy in Morocco had a spritzer fan that he pointed at runners as they came by. I told him he was my favorite person ever and he cracked this huge smile. We ran out of the World Showcase, past Spaceship Earth, and came to the end of the mile in spectacular fashion: by that I mean we went around a sneaky backstage corner, and, boom, there was totally a gospel choir singing for us. Rejoice, rejoice- heck, yeah, 'cause that was 26 miles. The last .2 was past the choir, around another corner, and at that point I could see the finish line.

So I channeled my inner sprinter and kicked it in. I high-fived Minnie Mouse at the line, threw my hands up, and jumped up and down. No, I have no idea how I had energy to do that, but it was awesome. My finish time was 6:57 (15:56 mile pace). A cast member put the medal around my neck, another handed me Powerade, and I headed off to find my friends.

After that, there was much basking in our mutual fabulousness, much posing with our medals, and- even at that exhausted, achy point, I have to admit it was fun. I loved it. And the confidence really is amazing; there is nothing in the distance world I find intimidating anymore.

I ran a marathon. I can do anything.