Langston Hughes on #Ferguson

I took my kids for a bike ride yesterday around the pond by our house.  I needed to get out of the house and off my computer. I couldn’t read any  more tweets, articles, blogs, Facebook posts or newscasts about Ferguson.   I needed a break.

So the boys rode and I walked along behind them and we stopped often to toss pebbles in the water, climb on the rocks and run in the grass.  About halfway around, Gryffin noticed what looked to be a behemoth birdhouse tucked just out of view.  When we got closer, he yelled, “mama!!  there are BOOKS in there!”

Turns out it was a Little Free Library.   That’s an actual thing, apparently.  People put them up in their front yard or in a public space and then folks just put books in or take books out when they pass by.  I read the little notice inside of ours detailing how it works and then we eagerly started digging through the books.  The boys were disappointed that there weren’t any books for them but I couldn’t believe my luck.  I walked away with 4 books!

I was most excited about Farewell to Manzanar  and Black Voices: An Anthology of African-American Literature.  I plopped down in the grass while the boys ran around and opened it to the poems of Langston Hughes.  If you aren’t familiar with Langston Hughes, he was an American poet, social activist, novelist and playwright.  He was a leader in the Harlem Renaissance and one of his most famous pieces is his poem, A Negro Speaks in Rivers.  

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As I read through his poems in Black Voices, I realized that I hadn’t escaped the frenzy of Ferguson after all.  It’s not possible to escape it.  It’s all around me.  It’s in the black boy playing with his baby brother in the grass behind me.  It’s in my neighbors ambling along the path.  It’s in the squad car slowly rolling down the street.  It’s in my kids and my family, my church and my community center, my sons’ school and the Y down the street.   And it was right there in my new book.

While he didn’t grow up there, Langston Hughes was born in Missouri in 1902 and his poetry is prescient for the people of his home state.   It’s like he’s marching alongside them.   In his poetry I feel the longing and the frustration and the anger and the weary resilience that I’m seeing in Ferguson.

Dream Variations

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
       Dark like me —–
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance!  Whirl!  Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening…
A tall, slim tree…
Night comes tenderly
       Black like me.

As I Grew Older

It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,
In front of me,
Bright as a sun –
My dream.

And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
between me and my dream.
Rose slowly, slowly,
Dimming,
Hiding,
The light of my dream.
rose until it touched the sky –
The wall.

Shadow.
I am black.

I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.

My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this sahdow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!

 And finally, this one.   This is an excerpt from Hughes’ poem Theme for English B.  

Theme for English B

It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age.  But I guess I’m what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me — we two — you, me, talk on this page
(I hear New York, too.)   Me — who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records — Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn’t make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white –
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That’s American.
Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that’s true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me –
although you’re older — and white –
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

——

So I can’t escape it and I don’t want to.  It’s good for me to be disquieted and discomfited.  I’m supposed to be uncomfortable right now.  But I think today I’ll sit with these poems instead of so much Twitter and Facebook.   The message stays the same but sometimes it helps to change the medium.

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Misplaced Imagining

I can’t stop thinking about Ferguson, Missouri.  Last night my dreams were full of Ferguson hashtags and anger and people protesting.   As I sat in lament last week, I kept thinking about Mike Brown’s mom and grandma.  You know how it is.   You use your  imagination to picture yourself in someone else’s circumstances and you attempt to feel what they are feeling.   Empathy 101.

And that’s what I was doing.  I was imagining what it would be like to see my son lying dead in the street, uncovered.  I was imagining what I would feel like if Gryffin or Isaiah was shot more than six times in the street in broad daylight.   I was imagining what it would feel like to have complete strangers pick and choose which photos to show the world of my boy; to pick and choose which of the millions of threads that made up his life and who he was to put on display for the world to see.  I could scarcely breathe just imagining it.

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Mike Brown at 16 with his brother.

But you know what?

I was imagining the wrong mother.  I was imagining the wrong grandmother.  Don’t misunderstand.  It’s good to empathize with Mike Brown’s family and friends. It’s good to imagine what it would be like to step into someone else’s skin.  But if I’m really willing to step inside this narrative?  If I’m really  willing to see what I ought to be seeing and feel what I ought to be feeling, I shouldn’t be picturing Mike Brown’s mama.

I should be imagining myself as Darren Wilson’s mother.

Because if our country continues along its current trajectory, the likelihood that one of my boys will wind up unarmed & dead at the hands of the police is slim to none.  It’s almost laughable, really.   It’s much more likely that one of my boys will end up as the white cop holding a smoking gun.  And the thought of that  is equally, if not more, unbearable.

Was Darren Wilson thinking, “oh, look, a black kid… my white skin is superior to his black skin so I’m going to gun him down?”  I don’t know.  I highly doubt it.  It’s seems more likely that he, like you and like me, like white folks and brown folks and black folks, had been socialized in both subtle and not-so-subtle ways to see black men as criminals.  To see white skin as normal and safe and dark skin as dangerous, unknown and scary.  I know I have been socialized to think that way.   And it takes time and concerted effort to change the way that one has been socialized.

Need examples?  Want to see how this socializing plays out?

  • Do you know that 5x more white folks use illicit drugs than black folks?  Yet there are ten times more blacks than whites sent to jail for drug use.  WHY?
  • Do you know that study after study after study has shown that “giftedness” occurs at exactly the same rate across all racial groups?  Exactly the same rate.  Yet White kids & Asian American kids routinely outnumber the Black & Latino kids in our schools’ gifted & talented programs.  WHY?
  • Do you know that White people have better access to and quality of  healthcare than all other racial groups in our country?  We win again.  WHY?
  • Do you know that almost half of all preschool children who are suspended more than once are black students?  But black students make up less than 20% of the US preschool population.  WHY?
  • Last week ALONE, 4 unarmed black men were killed by police.  And from 2006-2012, a black person died at the hands of white police twice a week. WHY?

I could keep going and going and going.  It’s everywhere.  When will we learn?  When are we going to take our heads out of the sand and take notice of what is going on all around us?   When are we going to stop denying our role and start seeing our socializing?  It’s time, folks.  The people of Ferguson, Missouri are serving us notice and it’s time to look up.

Let’s look up and speak out together.

Do you need some ideas on where to start?

Then figure out what would make sense for your current season of life and take action.  Speak up.  Sign petitions.  Call your Senator.  Fly to Ferguson. Attend a rally, a moment of silence, a march or a protest.  Look for the racial disparities in your kids’ schools or your school or your workplace and take some action.  Be an agent of change, an agitator for justice.

Time is up.  Our notice has been served.  So let’s do something before our kids grow up and start shooting.

 

 

 

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A Song of Lament

It happened again.  The death of a celebrity has been the straw to break the camel’s back.

Yesterday at the produce stand I was talking with my produce guy.  I have a produce guy.   Robbie.  I see him every Monday and we usually shoot the breeze while I’m buying mangos and bell peppers and bananas.  Yesterday he mentioned in passing that there had been more wildfires in Washington over the weekend.

“There were?”  I said.

Yeah,” he shrugged.  “It was on the news.

More wildfires.  “Huh, I guess there is only so much bad news a person can take before they’ve reached their limit…”

Truth,” said Robbie.  “Truth.”

I got home late in the afternoon and I went downstairs to take the clothes out of the washer.  When I reached into the machine, though, all of my clothes were still dry.  I had forgotten to turn it on.  As I sighed I heard my husband say quietly from the next room, “hey, what was that Robin Williams movie you liked so much?

Patch Adams.  Why?

He died today.  Robin Williams.  He committed suicide.”

I was still hanging over the machine door of our front-loader.  And the valve burst.   No no no no no no no no.  I could no longer contain it.  I walked upstairs and wept.

I wept for my dad who is struggling with his health.

I wept for Mike Brown and John Crawford, both black, unarmed, and dead at the hands of the police.

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Crawford

I wept for their mamas.

I wept for the people of Gaza.

Syria.

Iraq.

For kids being killed and bombs and bitterness.

I wept for Liberia and Sierra Leone.

I wept for the kids who are alone, stuck in Texas, without any family or people, literally sleeping on top of one another while the bigwigs debate what to do with them.

I wept for the riots in St. Louis; for a people who have been pushed too far.

I wept for Jenise Wright,  Colton, and Anne Lamott’s dog, Lily.

I wept for Robin Williams.

Why did the death of a celebrity, of a man I don’t know, propel me beyond my limit?  I don’t know.  I do know that Robin Williams was a story-teller and people connect with stories.  He told stories with his acting and his comedy and his life.  I connected with some of those stories.   And his death, heaped onto the fast-growing pile of seemingly unsurmountable sorrow, was just too much.

I know what I’m supposed to be doing.  I’m supposed to be looking for the helpers and telling people that I love them and holding my kids extra tight.  I’m supposed to be searching for beauty, focusing on the good, seizing the day.

But I can’t do it.  Not yet.   As during the Lenten season we have to sit in sorrow before running headlong to the resurrection of Easter.  We need to mourn and today I’d rather sing a song of lamentation than rush too quickly to platitudes and efforts to repair, no matter how helpful they might be.

 

“We are filled with fear,
for we are trapped, devastated,
and ruined.

Tears stream from my eyes
because of the destruction of my people!

My tears flow endlessly;
They will not stop…”

Lamentations 3:47-49

 

The destruction of my people.  My people.

Mike Brown?  My people.  John Crawford?  My people.  Gazaians, Israelis, Iraqis?  My people.   My dad, Jenise Wright, Colton, child immigrants.  Every last one of them my people.  My tears flow endlessly.  They will not stop.

There’s a scene in the movie Regarding Henry where Harrison Ford’s character, Henry Turner, is slowly recovering from a gunshot wound and his secretary is pouring him coffee.  “Say when,” she says briskly as she pours.  But Henry no longer understands the familiar phrase and he just watches, confused, as she pours the coffee all the way to the brim and then over.  She finally stops, looks at him for a long second, and then explains slowly, “When you’ve had enough, Mr. Turner, you say when.”

Say when with me?  We’ve had enough.  Let’s say when.  Say when for Gaza.  Say when for Syria, Ukraine, Israel.  Say when for John Crawford, Mike Brown and Ferguson, Missouri.  And then sing a song of lamentation with me.  Let’s mourn for the destruction of our people.  We know the resurrection is coming but it’s not time to talk about that just yet.

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“Articulate”

I saw this spoken word piece about a month ago and it keeps coming to mind.  My mom was an English major in college and she kept us kids in line when it came to proper sentence structure and grammar.   A resounding memory from my childhood is hearing my mom say, “re-phrase.”  I would say something like, “can me and Sarah play outside?” and she’d respond in kind with “re-phrase” until I got it right.

As an adult I greatly appreciate her insistence.  It has served me well as a writer and made essay-writing in high school & college a breeze.  But I’m definitely a bit of a snob now and this piece by Jamila Lyiscott challenges my stereotypes.  Good stuff.  Have a look…

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Old Wineskins

Sometimes I don’t recognize my own faith.  I used to think that in order to be a person of faith I had to believe certain things (no female pastors, 6-day creation, guns=good, liberal=bad, to name a few).  I also needed to do certain things (“quiet times” – preferably in the morning, vote Republican, show up at “See You at the Pole” and so on).

So when I started shedding some of those beliefs, and consequently some of those actions, I wasn’t sure what to make of it.  I wasn’t sure who I was.  The belief that a follower of Christ must be a Republican was etched so deep that I was genuinely unsure if I could still be a Christian if I decided to vote Independent or, heaven forbid, Democrat.  I was 20 at the time and I felt lost.  Unsure.  And I longed to find someone who could speak to my experience, my questions; someone who might have paved the road before me.

Enter Brian McLaren.   I read A New Kind of Christian when it first came out in 2001 and I simultaneously loved it and hated it at the same time.  It scared me.   But it spoke to me, too.  And it set some wheels turning.   Ten years later, after a decade of doubt and deconstructing, when McLaren wrote Naked Spirituality, I felt like I had finally found a way – a way to embrace my faith that made sense to me; in a way that felt meaningful and genuine and relevant.

It’s not to say that there wasn’t value in my faith of old.
As McLaren says in NS,

I have discarded those theological wineskins, but I treasure more than ever the wine of the Spirit that was somehow conveyed to me through them.  That suit of theological clothing doesn’t fit me anymore, but the naked spirituality that sustains me today originally came to me dressed in it.

 

wineskins

I’m re-reading Naked Spirituality now with a friend and I’m appreciating it anew.  15 years down this road and I finally have some mainstays.  New favorites to revisit.   I feel at ease in my faith now in a way that wasn’t possible just a few years ago and I wonder – is this process familiar to any of you?  Have any of you walked a similar road?

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Fast Food, take 2

I don’t know what it is about Highway 2 but apparently it puts my family in the mood for fast food.   Last year we had our inaugural tour of McDonald’s and all its deep-fried french fry glory.   We haven’t been back since that fateful day but as we drove home yesterday from a weekend on the Skykomish River with our community group, we started to reminisce.

You know how it is.  We passed the parking lot where things really started to go bottom-up for us last year but rather than feeling full of bitterness and lament, we found ourselves saying things like, “Awwww, remember how we sprayed ourselves with bear spray?  Remember how Isaiah wanted to poop on the sidewalk?  Remember how we pulled into that McDonald’s and his eyes were spicy?   Yeah.  Good times.”    

Finding ourselves in a much better place this year, we were able to make a more rational lunchtime decision.  We were in a time crunch but we needed to eat.  We scanned our options as we drove and decided that our foray into the world of fast food this time around would be Taco Bell.

We were nervous though.  We didn’t have any other lunch options in the car and the boys didn’t actually eat the food at McDonald’s last year, save the ketchup.  It’s a lot harder to bribe a preschooler with fire sauce and we worried that they wouldn’t like the proffered burritos.  I’ve told you about our dinners lately so Jason and I were both gearing ourselves up for the weeping and gnashing of teeth that was sure to ensue; the but this doesn’t taste like OUR beans and I don’t like this cheeeeese and Can I have something else?

We settled them back into the car, nonetheless, and hoped for the best.  We passed them each a burrito, and then held our breath.   How would the despots respond?   What had we gotten ourselves into?  But you know what we heard?

Nothing.

Not a peep.  They wolfed those burritos and then asked for more. Where we expected moaning and groaning and all manner of complaining, all we heard were declarations of love and adoration.  Instead of “do we have anything else in the car?” we only heard, “when can we go back” and “oh my gosh, mama, that was SO good, I just loved it, it was SO much better than your burritos.”

Jason and I just kept looking at each other out of the corner of our eyes.  Confused.  Awestruck.  Could it be?  We gave them something to eat and… they just ate it?  Just like that?   It was freaking amazing, y’all.  We didn’t think fast food would go over as well without the play structure and the free toys.  Who knew?  It was like nothing we’ve ever before experienced.

We kept it nonchalant, though, Jason and I.  No big thing.  It’s not like we’re about to give up our values and start searching for drive-throughs every chance we get.  No, definitely not.  We would never.  I mean, I might have mapped all the Taco Bells in Seattle last night but that’s just, like, in case of a super-serious food emergency situation…or something.   You know, like if I don’t know what to make for dinner.

——

I didn’t get any shots of our glorious run for the border but my friend, Jon, took some incredible shots of the rest of the weekend.  I’m thinking about printing some of these to frame.

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The backyard of our rental house

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Rustadinho!

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The boys have been pretty pumped about playing soccer since the WC

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Shane was keeper while Gryff worked on his penalty kicks

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Skykomish River

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Jason’s jump sequence

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Some of the gang in the yard on Saturday evening

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The view of our campfire from the deck up above. This is where the adults spent the later part of the evenings after all the kids were tucked in for the night.

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Reverse Racism

We had an incident in our neighborhood this past week that ended with a white woman declaring that she had been the victim of reverse racism.  It was a frustrating conversation for me and I struggled to find the words to express myself.  Then I remembered this and decided to dig it up.  I don’t know how he does it,  but this guy nails it.  Aamer Rahman manages to explain his thoughts on reverse racism in a precise, “funny because it’s true” kind of way.

I think we need a different word for what our neighbor experienced.  A different way to understand what transpired. Certainly it was a difficult exchange between neighbors and hurtful words were spoken.  But it wasn’t reverse racism.  Not by a long shot.  Here’s why…

 

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A Peek inside the Invisible Knapsack 25 Years Later

It’s been 25 years since Peggy McIntosh penned her famous piece on white privilege.  To commemorate I thought I would go over her list of invisible privileges to see if we could take any of them out of the backpack.  You know, since we’re post-racial and all.   To my dismay, though, I discovered that not only could I not  remove any of the privileges in the name of progress and all-hail-to-our-first-black-president but I actually need to ADD some privileges to the pack.

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Here are 15 more privileges I would add to her already thorough and extensive list.

  1. I can expect the “Sponsored Posts” in my Facebook feed to feature my own skin color most, if not all, of the time.
  2. I can browse Netflix, HuluPlus & AmazonPrime and be certain that my “suggestions” will include people of my race.*
  3. When the fellow parents at my son’s preschool are aloof and unfriendly, I don’t wonder if it’s because of my race.
  4. I can be with my mixed-race nephews and everyone will assume I adopted them whereas when my friends of color go out with their mixed-race kids most people, at best, assume they are the nanny.
  5. I can assume that if my race is going to be portrayed on screen or on stage, people of my race will play those parts.
  6. I can visit potential schools for my children and find my own race well-represented among the faculty.
  7. I can go to a yoga class assured of finding other attendees who are white.
  8. I don’t ever worry about whether I’m being white enough.
  9. I don’t ever worry about whether I’m being too white.
  10. I have never had someone question my immigration status.
  11. I am not afraid of being arrested when I get pulled over.
  12.  I can wear a hoodie without being thought a “thug” or a danger to my community.
  13. I can crash my car and walk up to any house I choose to ask for help and not worry that I will be shot in the face.
  14. I can play my music as loud as I want while stopped at a gas station and not worry about being shot by man who doesn’t like my music.
  15. I can be approached by police and not wonder if one of them will end up choking me to death.

McIntosh went on to ask, and it’s a question we need to keep asking,

What will we do with such knowledge?  Will [we] use any of our arbitrarily awarded power to try to reconstruct power systems?

——

*Thanks goes to Dr. Brian Bantum for alerting me to this one last year.  I, of course, had never noticed.

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Weekend Worthy

Worth your time from around the web this week…

Children Playing Around the World
Beautiful images.  Put me in the mood to travel.  And I don’t even like traveling all that much!
uganda


Doctors in China bowing to an 11-year-old Organ Donor
This image gripped me – more so, even, than the story itself.  His mama in the background and the deep respect of the doctors.  Isn’t it breathtaking?
doctorsbowing


Goodbye to Cloth Diapering & Ideal Motherhood
This resonated with me.  So many of the things I thought I would do as a parent, I didn’t do.  And vice versa.  Was painful at times!
pinterest_cloth_diapers


 My Son has been Suspended Five Times.  He’s 3.
At first this didn’t seem all that remarkable to me.  Maybe the school just has a strict suspension policy?  But when compared to her son’s white schoolmates?  Puh-lease.   Read it to the end. JJ2_edit


Why Evangelicals Should Care About the Mikado Controversy
I found myself slipping into stage 4 of Awareness when the Mikado controversy started rolling into my feeds a few weeks ago.  This helped wake me up.
mikado


Iggy Azalea’s Post Racial Mess: America’s Oldest Race Tale, Remixed
Honestly, I barely know who Iggy Azalea is.  But I’ve been reading about her more and more lately and this was an interesting read for me.Iggy Azalea

 

 

 

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i DID it!

Well, folks, it happened.  I swam.  I biked.  I ran.  And I lived to tell the tale.

I came in 387th place.  Try not to be jealous.

We got back from Denver around 7pm the night before the race.  When we left Seattle 5 days earlier, the city had been in the middle of a heatwave.  Sun-maggedon.    Seattle-ites going crazy.   Pulling out every fan in the house, grownups flopping around in kiddie pools, crazy.   So I was shocked when I woke up before dawn last Sunday to find it raining.  What the what?!

It was a just a light sprinkle, though.  No biggie to us racing-type folks. We can roll with it.

My friends and fellow racers, Shane and Hannah met me at Jack’s house near Seward Park and we all walked over together.

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My wave started at 7:35am.  I, of course, had been ready to roll for a solid 45 minutes before my start-time.  I like to be prepared.  Which meant, though, that I had to peel off my wetsuit AND my super-official triathlon leotard thingy inside of the porta-potty twice during that 45 minute wait.  Nerves, people.  It couldn’t be helped.

My friend, La Verne, was at the starting line for the swimmers, snapping pictures. Jack had taken off 30 minutes earlier so she had seen him off and then waited for me.  I had no idea she would be there and I was so happy to see her.   One of my people!   Thank goodness I wasn’t completely alone with all these ridiculous triathletes, acting like we’re all excited and happy to be standing in Lake Washington at 7 in the morning.

The water was still pretty warm from the aforementioned heat wave so things were off to a good start.  I noticed, though, as I swam along that people don’t have a CLUE where they are in the water, myself included.  So not only do you have to look up regularly to make sure that you are staying on course, but folks be bumping into you right and left!   When a woman ran into me, or I her, we’d pop our heads out and say a quick “sorry” before getting back to business.  The guys, though?  They just plow ahead like you aren’t even there.

This one guy near me swam the whole way (1/2 mile) doing a modified breast stroke.  Basically he was dog-paddling.  He was actually annoyingly surprisingly fast.  But for whatever reason, we just kept knocking into each other.  And twice, I literally ended up on his back.  It was… awkward.  But he didn’t even look at me.  He just powered on, intense and completely determined, while he dog-paddled along.  Maybe I should have stayed on his back?

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Coming out of the water. I had no idea they would have photographers everywhere. Makes a gal feel LEGIT.

On the flight home from Denver, I drew myself a diagram of my “transition” towel.  I envisioned this nice big towel spread out with my helmet, shoes, socks, water bottle, etc, all laid out just so.  But yeah, there are about a bajillion other bikes in the same area so you’ve basically got enough space for a small backpack and that’s it.  So much for my lovely diagram.   I just piled all of my things on top of each other and hoped for the best.  And my towel?  I used it to cover up my pile to protect it from the rain.

The 12 mile ride went well.  The only problem for me was the temperature.  I was FREEZING in that stupid leotard.  I was told that as soon as I started riding, the “tri suit” would dry and would actually keep me from getting too hot.   I hadn’t even considered that it might be raining on race day.   It had stopped drizzling by the time I started riding but it was windy and I was pretty miserable.   The best part was riding through the I-90 tunnel.  So warm in there!  Who knew?

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Jason and the boys were waiting for me right around this bend.  It was so fun to see them!    The boys looked like they had both been bawling their eyes out just moments before but… whatever!   I couldn’t speak so I just waved heartily as I rode by and they cheered me through the second transition.

I grabbed my jacket (thank the stars) and Gryffin’s good luck hat and I was off.   My goal for the race was to finish without stopping.  I wasn’t trying to clock a PR (that’s sports-talk for “personal record”) or make it on the podium (obviously) so I just focused on being present and enjoying the race.   It worked for the most part.  I enjoyed riding on that guy’s back the swim and besides being cold, the ride felt like I was just out cruising Seattle on a Sunday morning (albeit in a leotard) but the run was hard for me.   Oi.  I knew it would be.  It’s my weakest of the three.  But I tried to enjoy the view and keep my legs moving.

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I look happy, don’t I?   That was my “oh thank the sweet Lord that’s the finish line” look.

All in all, I didn’t feel too shabby.  Even while I was doing it, though, I felt sort of… out of body.  I couldn’t really wrap my mind around the fact that was doing a triathlon.  It seemed surreal.  The feeling of accomplishment was pretty great, though.  And I’ve been back in the gym twice this week already.  I’m hoping to keep up the habit of working out and I certainly don’t want to start back at square one.

When we got home after the race, all I could think about was EATING, a HOT SHOWER and MY BED.   In that order.  My victory lap, if you will.   The sweet, lovely rest of a true athlete.  As I sat at the kitchen table, though, eating my celebratory croissants and sipping my latte, Jason said, “welp, I’m off to my frisbee game!  See y’all in a few hours.”

WHAT!?!?!??

So the hardest part of the day was actually watching our over-tired, travel-weary, they had been bawling all morning boys AFTER running a race.  Next to that, the triathlon was a piece of cake!

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Other triathlon-related posts…
Siren Song of the Slothful
Triathlon Update
Panic Mode


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