While Uppity and her designers look at finishes, learn their orders are held up and disagree over window placement, I'm holding up o.k. thanks for asking. I Continue to contribute to the Majority United, and feel joy anytime BJ pipes in with an update. But I'm witnessing the evolution of the Ones sidelined by the "One's" desperate need to beat the girl.
I used to run road races. I met lots of cool people who weren't competitively driven to cover the mile in under 5 minutes, but I saw a few who were. They got trophies and recognition at the awards ceremonies and were often paid just to show up and run at bigger events. When new runners announced plans to take up training for, say, a 10 K or a Marathon, they received enthusiastic support. Runners' Groups found joy in each others' achievements. Who won the "race" wasn't typically that big a deal. There were always several races scheduled for any given weekend and a runner who needed the trophy more than the challenge could choose the "off" race instead of the ones better competitors were likely to attend. Thus, a rising "star" in the racing flats could build a name and a "track record" to bring along to the bigger, classic events that were such an experssion of big time profile that it was the only race in town, so to speak, that day. At these races: the New York City and Boston Marathons, the Peachtree Road Race, the Breakers To The Bay, etc. the winners were instant celebreties and the world's top runners often paced the ready-for-prime-time contenders for their debut win. When Men and Women competed on the same course, without any distinction between their starts, distances, etc. only the clock noted when a runner crossed the finish line and the finishers were ranked accordingly.
Somewhere along the line, registrants are divided, for trophy purposes, into Men and Women Runners and 1st, 2nd, 3rd place finishers are further divided into age categories based on divisions like Under 12, 18 to 20, 20-25, Over 40, 50, 60 and even Clydesdales (over 200#) for the purpose of recognizing challenging personal physical limitations. Wheelchair, Special and otherwise appreciated participants lobbied for distinctions that expanded the field, the reviewers and recognition, which became the basis for studying the improved times of these competitors when permitted to compete among every day Joe.
I often cheered on runners who finished their own race then doubled back to the field and located their friends to complete the trek as support escorts. These racers had to "run off" their final kick pace to wind back down anyway, so they gave their buddies that special "kiss" of aura that could blend with their own finishing determination to better their times. Female runners were often surrounded by several men to protect them from being "fouled" by competitors to deny them victory. I once witnessed a guy whose running coterie found his whole training adventure a source of amusement and could see him closing in on the finish line on pace with the first woman about to cross. He was "cheering himself on" under his breath, his body language all but chanting, "Beat The Girl, Beat The Girl." Many male runners admitted that they were neither contenders nor wanna-bes but they enjoyed supporting female runners who entered the "All Comers" events with an egalitarian pleasure in watching women find their bliss in speed. I don't recall ever entering a race that had a separate division for skin of any color. I know the jokes about the Ethiopians who always won, about the track and field people who didn't run road/distance races because they weren't "sanctioned" and it would disqualify them from their own competitions should the ruling body learn of their participation. I smiled at the events where the 70 year old competitor was coming in hours after the others had already completed their run, downed their o.j. and bananas, even showered and changed for the awards ceremony and the applause he received was out of respect for his determination and will.
These fields of race-runners/walkers/wheelchair/special competitors were as diverse as society itself. They were anonymous. They were winning by participating. They were making fitness part of their lives and balancing the stress of the rest of their challenges with the healing power of exercise, friendly competition and fellowship. Some of the front-runners were extreme, but guided by sportsmanship. The judges and race officials - over time - mastered crowd control and spectators, clocks and calendars. Events were typically held in the early morning at parks or venues chosen for their scenic quality as well as the challenges presented by gradation, surfaces and accessibility. But, mostly, to me, they were exercises in dynamics. An event staged for next week would come together, explode with activity as it unfolded, then disappear without a trace. People passing by would learn, too late, what was going on and while they might wish they'd known in time, they are drawn to the scene and invited to be part of the next one. Thus an event gathers momentum and grows.
Such was the 2008 election. Thanks God (Hey, Noemi:) we won't have another one like that any time soon. The World learned about American Politics and friendships ended, families were divided, religions were tested. Last Saturday night, a group of my brother's family and friends got together for pizza and wine. He made pizzas while we talked about lots of things. We all knew each other and when the political stuff began, we all "went to our corners" and awaited the "bell" that inevitably rang us into the rink with our traditional yelling and insulting. But something different happened that night. Instead of the a-political and kids demanding we shut up and get back to "partying," those who didn't want to "party with us" went home and we, who needed to, talked politics. We yelled and disagreed. We took each other to task. We talked at, over and down to each other. We were obnoxious. But as we broke up and started for our cars, one of the participants said, "This was fun." For the first time since that toxic scourge, Barack Obama, poisoned the waters of our political discourse, we were no longer Bush/Cheyney haters or defenders, no longer Clinton lovers/bashers. We were all clamoring to be heard and laughing at the spectacle as we "heard" each other for the first time. I suspect it was a lot like the days when Republicans and Democrats could be in the same room without fear of being singled out as a "sympathizer." Since the divisive antics of the cabals who used money to destroy the conversation, we haven't had any such exchange. We've witnessed the explicitly personal, single-issue closed-mindedness, correct/incorrect, race-baiting, agenda driving incivility that has been the landscape of American Political Discourse.
Today, from the banks of the meandering river, I am simply aware that through floods, over dams, under bridges and into swirling pools, we can flow. We can flow north or south and come together at a Confluence, where - for a moment in the progression - we get to one side or the other in preparation to either change direction or keep on going. But at the Confluence, we are all one river formed from two who were formed from springs and tributaries and precipitation from storms. We don't merge for the long haul, but because we are all of the same fluid essence, we melt, meld and move as one, a current. And we get to the bank where we have elected to emerge to resume our life on Land. We are the Empire, the credit for being enough like everybody else to get along until we could get ahead. We had a little fear of water, a little apprehension about lightening and thunder which was alleyed by those floating boats, barges, rafts and driftwood all around us. But it was all downstream from where we began and we had a great picnic day ahead of us. So, to take a break from floating, we docked, disembarked and fellowshipped with the others on the trek.
Click, snap, snap, click, click, shutter, whirrrr, buzz. I'm being photographed. Half the rafters have pulled over and are already on shore holding their pricey cameras clicking away as the rest of us pick our way across the rocks to solid banks. They are waiting for the show to start on the other shore where a rock formation presents a platform for the "activists." They are climbing the rock, poised momentarily for the cameras across the water, then plunging, plunking, splashing and otherwise tickling the dragons observing their dives. In them, we see ourselves. About my ears, I hear a rise....murmers of "This is Annie." reach my schizophrenic consciousness in synchrony with a swimmer on the rock, removing her bikini top which she twirls like a Terrible Towel as she drops playfully into the river. I know this happened in 1982, Memorial Day Weekend, on the Chatahoochie. Like lots of other things I know and heard back in August of 1980 before Jimmy Carter was voted out of the White House, I also felt it was time in another time. I was taking notes. Under pressure, I wrote about Bain, about things I couldn't possibly have known, before the internet was a reality, I was aware of voices watching me. I was aware of currents carrying me. And I was aware of obstacles, undercurrents, quicksand, drunken boaters, Ski-Doos and Row, Row, Rowers gently down-streaming. My EYES cross with the pressure, still, but I get the sense that the order is establishing itself and everything will come together just so, and this Nation of Political Animals will go back to doing what we do in a dynamic environment until we can re-connect for a collaborative event that will attract "new-to-the-genre" initiates and take on a magnetism that will keep us together for the work.
No comments:
Post a Comment