Diversity Means...

This is a piece I wrote for school. We had to write about the topic "Diversity means..."

Everything except the ice cold drizzle had been planned. It was unusually chilly for a September morning, and the rain was not pleasant.

That’s okay though, it’s motivation for me to finish so I can get inside like a normal person, Lissie thought to herself. She had lost count of how many races she had ran in by this point. This particular 5K was just another one in a long line of meaningless gift bags and stale catered post-race breakfasts. She did not even enjoy running that much; she was not on her school’s cross country team or even track and field. She didn’t make great time, she got sore and hated the feeling of sweat pouring down her back when she ran in the summer. Sometimes she thought about stopping altogether. What’s the point? She didn’t run with anyone. Her parents supported her but could not understand the attraction. Racing was expensive, too, because she had to pay for shoes, races, and the hundreds of hair bands she went through in a six month period. (She had no idea where they all went, it was as if they hated being constricted to her hair, and escaped from her frizzy brunette prison, one at a time.)

The obvious upside was exercise. Lissie considered this as she stretched to warm up for the race, which started in ten minutes. The muscles in her calves strained against her skin as she spread her legs a part and touched the ground. Exercise was essential, and she valued the endorphin release that came from it most of all. She could be angry, depressed, or just anxious, and after running a couple of miles she would be distressed. Just like that. She started running as a release. When she was fourteen, her parents sat her down to tell her they were going to split up—something Lissie had never expected. She did not want to deal with the pain, with the reality, she just wanted to run away. That’s exactly what she did. Lissie had made it through the divorce and a ton of other little hardships, and her Nikes had absorbed the shock of every consequential release of stress.

It was dumb, having to volunteer at these races. My mom told me it would benefit me somehow, but I couldn’t see the value. It was mostly painful for me to watch. I mean, I used to win these things. And now I’m the stooge that hands out the dinky Dixie cups of Gatorade, only to have them thrown right back at me. In this gross rain. Embarassing.

I don’t mean to go off on some tirade where I just feel sorry for myself. I really don’t. I just miss running—so much that sometimes I think about going outside late at night, like three am (so my mom will not find out) and feeling the concrete beneath my feet, the swish of my ponytail, like a pendulum, the thumping of some crazy loud band in my headphones. I fantasize about this like people fantasize about winning the lottery. People don’t get it. When I tore my ACL, my track friends were jealous. “You get to miss practice! I wish I could just veg out at home like you,” said one of my less sensitive friends. Unlike most of them, I loved it. Running was my passion, and this ACL injury was really getting in the way.

Don’t get me wrong, I know I will run again. I literally can’t wait. I just hate that I have to start from scratch. I’ve been working on this since I was thirteen, and five years later I have to start all over again. My mom said volunteering at these races would make me feel better, but seeing all of the seasoned runners pass me by is depressing. It’s as if every muscle in my body is aching to join them, every fiber in my being is yelling let me run let me run let me run.

He had never expected to finish his first race, much less his second. Sure he was starting small, with a few 5Ks here and there, but each mile was huge to him. A mile was a milestone, and landmark, an achievement worthy of a memorial. Eli conquered them all and then some, running past 5Ks to 10Ks and half marathons and then a marathon. What had started as a personal test of endurance and perseverance had grown uncontrollably into what can only be described as an addiction. Each mile represented something different to Eli.

His first complete miles represented hope—a reason to continue running. If he could run three miles without walking, he was sure he could do anything. That’s why he started running in the first place. Eli wanted to prove something to himself. He wanted to try something new, something no one in his family did and something his friends didn’t really understand. He wanted to try it and he wanted not to fail. It was an experiment in his will, in his strength and in his dedication. If he had given up, he had no idea what his life would be like now.

When Eli crossed the finish line that morning, he had a smile on his face. His shirt was plastered to his back, a mixture of sweat and cold rain. He hadn’t won, but then, that hadn’t been his goal. He had worked for this. He had not given up. He had finished.

The 5K had been a complete success, despite the rain. Runners are a different class of people. They wouldn’t skip a race for something so trifling as drizzle.

A Love Letter;

She was in love with the skyline. Every tower and point and crevice was committed to her brain. She breathed the air in, her steps pumped in time with the heart beat of the sidewalk. The breeze fell over her, she fell into the breeze. Every skyscraper and park and tree and person created her. She loved that city because it had raised her and it knew her so well.

It was her cushion, it was her backbone. It supported her, it would never change. She would memorize the cracks in the sidewalk before her city would disappoint her. She was enamored with the traditions the city observed every year—it was a comfort to live a life full of history and memory and happiness. She had not missed a single tree lighting since she was four, she always went window shopping at Christmas time and loved doing random things like watching the toy boat races in the park. She had many traditions of her own, like the walk she took from her apartment to the little Strand kiosk at the edge of the park. She remembered her dad spreading out a blanket in the Great Lawn and reading her picture books. There were so many trips with her mom to meet her dad for lunch. Great long subway rides, exaggerated in her memory, when often times on the way back her eyes would flutter shut with the intonations of “Stand Clear of the Closing Doors.”

As she grew older, the city seemed less of a magical mystery guided by her parents and more like an unexplored land. It belonged to her now, not only to her mom and dad, and she depended on it. She was the one sailing the streets in search of life. She was scouring the city for treasures unknown. She dug up books and music and food. She discovered people that hurt her and people she never wanted to be a part from. She was the queen of this city, she learned more than anyone or anything had ever taught her. She fell in love that year; not with a man but with a place. Her tie, her connection to the invisible forces of the city was mighty and impenetrable. Perhaps people and interests would come and go, but this would never change.

She loved the city because it was always there when she woke up in the morning. She loved the city because she could walk down the street alongside a Hindu man and exchange smiles as he walked his daughter to school. She loved the city because she could eat the same breakfast at the same café every day and the waiters would know her, or she could eat a hundred different breakfasts at a hundred different little cafes if she really wanted. It was a city with a pulse. There was always something happening—every window she walked by represented a different story. This family is breaking up, this woman is feeding yet another cat, this woman is going to try to talk to her brother for the first time in years. She could never know them all, but she imagined all of their secrets and whispered them as she passed them in the street.

In a city of eight million strangers, she never felt alone. In a city of thousands of buildings, she felt like each was her home. In a city of untold stories, her story was her own.

Perfection: Chapter 5

Two weeks later, Jimmy was proud to say, that he was having no dreams at all when he went to sleep each night. This made him feel ordinary; a feeling that had wavered for a couple days after his fieldtrip to the zoo. Being ordinary was the goal of every person in Shorben Valley, and why not? It’s embarrassing to be different and stick out amongst a group of people. Most of the people that weren’t ordinary were criminals that got kicked out of Shorben Valley.
At the moment, Jimmy was out with Michael, and a girl that Michael seemed to be fond of; Edith. They were walking through the vast woods that surrounded the section of Shorben Valley that they lived in, and debating which career was more interesting: quantum physics, or agriculture and the study of food. Jimmy was outnumbered in this argument, because Edith was studying QP (that was where she met Michael).
“While food is the main thing people care about on the market, the idea of moving particles is much more…compelling.” Edith nodded agreeably at Michael’s statement, turning to see Jimmy’s response.
“What could be more compelling then corn?” Jimmy joked, smiling at the expected laughter. Today had been a good day so far, and Jimmy had a feeling it would stay that way. The weather was great, as it was everyday, and the satisfying crunch of the leaves beneath his feet gave him hope for a normal life.
“Oh, looks like we found the next breaking point.” Michael was right, about twenty yards ahead of them there stood a building that supplied water, and a restroom. “I’m going to use the restroom, are you two?”
“No, I think I’ll stay back.” Jimmy answered politely, making his way to the bench placed next to the building.
“Me too.” Edith said joining Jimmy.
“Alright then.” Michael said with a yawn before heading into the bathroom.
Edith smiled at Jimmy in the silence that followed Michael’s absence. He smiled back. He had never really been alone with Edith before, so he didn’t really know whether it was necessary to start a conversation with her. He decided it was only right that he did, she was Michael’s friend after all.
“So, you seem very interested in your career choice, what made you want to study it so closely?”
“Oh,” Edith giggled. “It’s really just the family career, I’m not as serious about it as I come off, but you know… Michael likes things to be serious.” Jimmy laughed at this statement and pondered its unusual structure. It wasn’t normal for someone to joke about another behind their back, but Edith’s joke hadn’t been mean in anyway. He wondered if he should joke about her behind her back, as part of the governor’s rule, but he decided to let it go. It made him laugh, that was what mattered.
“I found your views on agriculture very unique by the way,” she added, “the way you see it as a form of entertainment, r enjoyment; rather than a staple for survival.” Jimmy flinched at the use of the word unique. It was a word he loathed, because of its negative connotations.
“Oh, well you’re right of course; it is meant to be a staple. I just like the taste of it in my mouth, you know, when the textures just right, and the temperature is perfect. It’s almost a form of leisure on its own.” It was funny to hear himself say these things out loud. He had always felt this way about food, and he wasn’t completely sure why.
“Leisure.” Edith repeated, lost in thought. “I think that’s a very nice point of view, I mean what is life without enjoyment?” She looked down at her shoes for a second, biting her lip and thinking. Then she looked back up at Jimmy. “People in Shorben Valley seem to be moving in one direction, and that’s efficiency. I’m not saying that it’s a bad thing, but I do wish more people would think like you, and understand that life is not about getting to the point where there are no mistakes; it’s about being happy.” Jimmy felt taken aback by Edith’s spontaneous way of speaking. He was surprised that she could just put her opinions to words so easily and give them over to him as if they were nothing. What surprised him more was what he said next.
“Perfection is not one of my goals. Happiness is.” And before Edith could respond in any way, Michael exited the restroom and waited for Edith and Jimmy to join him, before heading back on the path of the woods.

Overheard

“One day,” he said. He held his hat in his hand. The bill was dusty and worn. His hair stuck to his head in sweaty patches where the hat had been.

I had been sitting across the diner from him, in a booth next to the window. I had been looking at my phone, at people passing on the street—everywhere but at the bar stool he had been seated on. When I heard his voice, I turned and saw him starting to rise. That’s when he said it.

“One day.”

The words hung there, not said to anyone that I could see, not said in my direction certainly. The stool next to him spun. I couldn’t tell if he had bumped it or if someone else had just left, even less noticeably. The stools spun easily of course; they were the kind I always longed to sit in as a child, and never sat in now, even when alone.

He reached up with one hand and ran it through his hair, which, though not gray, seemed to have faded from what its original luster might have been. I’m terrible at judging a person’s age, but he was not young. His face was lined and seemed almost dusty, like the hat. He did not look in my direction. Without moving, he simply radiated a sensation of gathering himself together. He moved toward the door. No check on the counter, already paid presumably. He took with him only the hat, and any clue as to what his words had meant.

I did not stop him. I did not ask if he had been making a promise, to himself or an unseen companion. I did not ask what he had missed, whether he was also a dollar short. I just watched him walk out the door, donning his hat and pocketing his story for another time.

One day, I thought.