Crossroads

On August 23rd, 2013, I looked up the Women's Track and Field Olympic A qualifying time for the 400 meter dash. I set 51.55 seconds as my goal for the near future.

This indoor season was terrible. It hurt even more to see friends of mine do so well, it was a long time coming for them. Don't get me wrong, I'm overjoyed for them, ecstatic even. But I can't help feeling that I should be up there with them, running beside them. Instead, I'm struggling to crawl when there was a time when I could run so quickly. 

Whenever anyone asks me about my times, I could only think about high school. That's the only part of me I'm not ashamed of. The only part of me I could preach proudly about. I'm not sure where that part of me went. All I know is that this feeling, not making it back to finals in our Ivy League conference and not even being able to smell nationals, cut deep this time around. I just remember sitting in the middle of the infield of Dartmouth's track and feeling the tears pour out uncontrollably. I couldn't stop them. I was embarrassed. I felt like no one believed in me anymore and all I was useful for was a cheerleader. Now, as much as I love supporting my teammates, I did NOT come to this university, to this track team, to cheer from the sidelines. I came to run and make my mark. But I didn't do that. In fact, I failed miserably to do so. The one thing that I looked forward to, my redeeming glory-- the relay, was forfeited from me. Although it makes sense-- my teammates ran faster than me so I wouldn't be a contender-- I couldn't help feeling counted out. They didn't have faith in me anymore, and I understand why. 

So where do I go from here? I spent a lot of time not knowing how to move forward. I feel like it's too late, that if I tried to do anything remarkable, I missed my chance. I'm tired of having to stop, reboot, and begin again from the beginning, losing all previous momentum. One of my friends asked me "Are you even getting better?" No, I haven't gotten better, and that rips me up inside. I've tried to look more at the positives but those are scarce. At the end of my indoor season this year, I ran a whopping 60 seconds in the 400 meters. Sixty. Whole. Seconds. To put this in perspective, my senior year of highschool, I consistently ran between 55-56 seconds. I haven't ran this slow since my first year of running track, my freshman year of highschool. So you all see my frustrations. You all see why I feel ashamed and just plain ole low. You all see how I've blamed myself over and over. You all see me drowning. 

I don't know what's going to happen now. I do know that I NEVER want to feel the way I felt Saturday March 1st, 2014 as I sat in the middle of that oval and cried. I do NOT want to feel what it's like to see every last one of your teammates make it and all you can do is click "Like."

I don't want to sit back and say "I wish that was me." 

I just want to know that there is someone that still believes in me. Track and field is my heart and I feel like I'm dying. I feel like I'm dying. While I do enjoy being a motivator, I've found myself needing and seeking motivation. 

I can't do it all and I'm about to break. I'm praying. Lord knows I've been praying. Simply put, I need help from you guys. I just need help. 

I've been silent about my pain for too long. I just need help.

Exposure and Coping: Day 3 Burmingham, AL

3/12

Visited so many places of worship today. My first time in a synagogue (went to three actually) made me realize that the tensions that we have back in Brooklyn between the blacks and Jews is due to our unwillingness to learn about each other. Before this trip, I had never been in a synagogue and I don't know that I would've ever gone had I not been on this trip. That realization scares me. As much as I'd like to think of myself as an open-minded person, I haven't made much of any effort to learn about a people that I wouldn't care to know much about. Although this was never explicit, my refusal to open up to learning more has kept me and the rest of Brooklyn in thickness of the tension. 

Today was a step in the right direction for me. I learned that there are different denominations in Judaism. I met a female rabbi. I learned that on some level, we are all connected by faith. Faith and love. Those together are powerful vehicles. 

Sixteenth Street Baptist Church was the site where the four little girls were killed during the bombing. They had just finished Sunday school and were getting dressed to go sing in the choir for service. The youngest killed was only 11 years old. It's difficult to understand why God took away the lives of these young, precious children, but He always has a plan. Whenever youth are taken away from us so violently, we are always so quick to gnash our teeth and curse the heavens. These little girls are forever remembered in our hearts and had compelled others to make things right and not let their lives lost go in vain. 

The end of the day at Birmingham bought a lot if uneasiness. Our speakers talked a lot about how Birmingham was so great, although there were certain parts that remain almost completely segregated. Some of our speakers that preached from a Jewish point of view told us only of how isolated they were from the movement hence very removed from the plight of African Americans during the Civil rights movement there. There were so many questions that they simply couldn't answer and it wasn't long before we were all stuck. After the heaviness of Selma, we kept seeking out ways to dispel that heaviness and rationalize everything we felt. At this point and time however, all we can do is let our feelings just sit or float above our heads. I forget that sometimes we're not going to get all of the answers and we must be able to move beyond that. Not to necessarily be content with half of the puzzle, but to make use of the pieces we have and continually pursue the rest. I'm not sure that I'll be okay will never finding all of the pieces, but I'm determined to make the most of, and make a difference with, what I have. 

Pigment of Our Imagination: Day 2, Selma AL

3/11 

I've able to connect three quotes I've encountered previously into my experiences today:

1) Trauma is the wound that cries out

2) If we are silent about our pain, they will think we enjoyed it

3) The worst thing you could ever be is a silent witness

All of these these things have one thing in common: the importance of the voice. When trauma cries out, it's always in a manner that we recognize. In being able to identify, we are humanizing this person. In being able to talk through her trauma, Ms. Joanne Bland is able to begin working her way through her wounds. She told us about Selma, the march across Edumund-Pettus, and Bloody Sunday. What surprised me the most was that most marchers were killed back in Selma, not on the acutal bridge. They followed them back, and terrorized them for the rest of the night. Ms. Bland recalls a woman being pushed down steps, breaking both of her arms, and not being able to stop to help her unless they wanted to end up like her. At the age of eleven years old, Ms. Bland had been arrested over 20 times. Eleven. Years. Old. Selma is so deeply marked by violence. Most of the houses look dilapidated and worn. There is a statue of Martin Luther King Jr that reads "I Had A Dream." There was a dismal cloud that hung over our heads as we felt that the dream of Selma had be lost, never to be recovered. A particular moment on the tour around Selma that marked me was when we stopped in front of a house. It was this beautiful house with four gigantic columns in the front. It was the slave master's house. It hurt my heart to hear Ms. Joanne's unfortunate encounter with the tour guide in which she assumed that she knew this house was built, the marvelous wooden staircase was carved, by the hands of slaves. Ms. Joanne then took us to the last piece of land that could be saved from where they organized for the march. We each picked up rocks and were told that this is sacred. That no matter how low we may feel, look at this rock and always remember that there is hope. I tried to feel it. To feel the hope. To walk away triumphant. But teardrops from the sky plopped unto my head and there was a gray haze. I couldn't feel the hope. 

So we learned a lot about the Voting Rights and there was more and more blood shed. Their cries and screams etched on my skin. I feel haunted. I walked across the Edmund-Pettus bridge. I saw the memorial and there was this picture of Jesus on the cross. Above him it said "The Lynching of Jesus Christ." That had a way of coloring Jesus, likening him to the black people. I still don't know how I feel about that. 

Julian Bond spoke to us today. Prolific. 

Everything just feels like a scrambled mass in my head. Reminds me of what Bond said today "America scrambled is 'I am race'" I'm overloading myself with information and race relations and the like. All I can do is talk through it. So as I leave Selma, Selma has left me feeling weary. 

"The struggle continues..." 

Remembering the Forgotten, the Lost, and the Criminalized: Day 1, Montgomery AL

3/10

Perplexed. That's the only word I could think of when asked to describe my first day in Montgomery. I really wanted to say something like "overwhelmed" or "bombarded", but every site we went to just kept me thinking more and more about the country I live in. 

We started at the Southern Poverty Law Center. As soon as we walked in, we were bombarded by the images of faces, of people, some of which, I didn't know. Their stories, a daunting reminder of why I'm here and how I got here. We were taken through a timeline-- scanning through every individual's story, their martyrdom, humanizing them. Giving a face to a name to a life. To freedom. We moved to another room. One of the striking images I saw was this one:

The message is so powerful to me. Too long, I've idly sat on the fence of neutrality, careful to offend, quick to silence  myself. I never liked confrontation. I didn't want to get into anyone's way with my opinion. Now, thankfully, I've been able to see that standing for something is much more powerful than complacently accepting both sides. It's a way of using my voice as agency.

While in the museum, our guide Donovan shared a testimony with us that was very moving. He said that when here arrived at Alabama state, he realized that he hated black people. It was hard to hear him say that because, to some extent, I've felt that way too. I'm not sure if there are some connections to self-hate, but there was a period of time where I hated how us, my people, strove to keep the division within us and between other races. They kept up with the perpetuation of the stereotypes. Their overt "blackness" made us seem tainted. I loathed them. So even as I squirmed in my seat a little as he expressed his sentiments, I couldn't help to subconciously nod along with him. 

The most important part is that the hate doesn't stay. It doesn't cultivate. We welcome love into our hearts and stop the scrubbing away of our skin. We aren't tainted. We are human. We are moving and there is progress.

We then moved to the Civil Rights Memorial. I loved the motivation behind using water as a part of the memorial. As a Christian, the sacredness of water is deeply rooted in my psyche. It makes me think of renewal (as in baptism), the many many passages that have been traveled through water to salvation, and also purification. I watched as the water cascaded down the words engraved on the walls, washing over the names of the martyrs, but never washing them away. It's a fresh start and preservation all at the same time.

Dexter ave. King Church, the church that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr pastored in, was our next stop. Inside the small foyer, there was a mural in which reflected all of the figures of the Civil rights movement. We made our way through King's office, then into the church itself. The residing pastor spoke to us and once again, there was the message of love. Love breathes life into us and fills our veins with hope. Love protects and preserves us. We should always embrace love. Whenever we hear about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr during the Civil Rights Movement, we always think about him as a leader, motivator, advocate, preacher.. some prominent figure that was almost supernatural and divine. However, after visiting his church and the parsonage, I realized that he was a regular man. He was a father. He was a chain smoker. A lot of things troubled him and he was so moved that he decided to do something about it. It was in making those conscious decisions, to be a part of a movement in civil rights and justice, that propelled him into the superhuman we know him as. The epitome of ordinary people doing extraordinary things. 

Moving along to have lunch in downtown Alabama, I had no idea who was about to grace me with their presence. They walked in, gracefully and deliberately. They clung to each other lovingly. The Graetz's took their seats next to me and Mrs. Jean Graetz looked at me and smiled warmly. After acquainting ourselves with them, Robert Graetz began to speak about his life. I was in awe. Scarcely had I thought about the prominent white figures during the Civil Rights movement. This man literally walked side-by-side with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, in his faith, prepared to die for what's right. What was amazing is their sturdy faith in God. This faith was in them as they marched, as they received threats, as their children's lives hung in the balance, and they trusted God all along the way. Sixty-three years. They have been married for 63 years. I still can't wrap my mind around it but I could see it in the way she whispered words into his ear as a thought escaped him or how they were always color-coordinated. A power couple, withstanding the trials of time and history.

They still continue their activism. One particular story they shared was the death of their son to AIDS and how they contiue to deal with the issues of today by accepting modernity while still keeping their faith. As I presented them with their Thank You card, Mrs. Graetz hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. What she said earlier resounded in my head at that moment: "You all look like my children." We are all connected. I've been thinking so much about history and memory as a duo. How one without the other leaves the story unfinished. It only took meeting a stranger for the first time to know that we have a commonality, a link shared between us. With this link, we complete each other's histories, and continue to share memories. 

The final place we visited for the day was the Equal Justice Initative. The presentation they had before us was sobering. I had no clue that there are children, ages 13-14, who have been sentenced to life in jail without parole. Yes, CHILDREN have be sentenced to die in prison. This exists, and it was a really harsh reality to come to terms with. There was a  picture shown with the inmates working in a field and a warden keeping watch over them. It looked like slaves on a plantation with the overseer keeping watch. At that moment I thought "forget about The New Jim Crow, this is The New Slavery." The individuals in the firm took the time to talk about the work that they do with the prisoners and we saw several testimonies from those whom were able to receive parole and eventually be released from jail because of the kind of work EJI does. I recognized the importance of creating a narrative for a prisoner that rehumanizes them. Creating one in a way that makes them worthy of redemption. One of the speakers stated that it's been hard for America to admit it's wrong, and we continually see this catastrophic cylce through history as many lives have perished because of this denial. There were more comments surrounding mass incarceration, systemic oppression, minorities being the disproportionate majority in the jail system, and it just became overwhelming.

The above image is one of the result of intimidation tactics used keep black people systematically oppressed through the courts. When Black people are rejected from being chosen for a jury due to ridiculous circumstances such as "looking too menacing" or being separated from their spouse, we end up in a court room in which most of the people in the audience are black, most of the jury is white, the judge and prosecution are white, the defendant is black. Those who are there in the largest numbers don't hold the most power. In this dynamic, how could we expect our system to bring any kind of justice to our people of color? 

So after a long day of visitng, talking, listening and learning, it's been a little difficult to process it all. I'm very grateful for the end-of-day discussions (although we are always dog tired at that point) because it helps me to weave through my thoughts and reactions. Why did I feel a certain way? What angered me the most? What gave me the most hope? What am I going to do when this is all over? There are so many questions. It feels like I've been here for a week and it's been just one day. Everything is jam-packed and there is threat of explosion. Is explosion a bad thing? We've spent so much time condensing history, cutting out stories and conveniently forgetting faces of people just so we could cover up the atrocities that is American history. So maybe, just maybe, explosion is not all that bad. Someone has to tell the story, someone has to listen, someone has to pass it on.

Opportunities

Been a little while. With the madness that is spring semester of junior year, I'm delighted to say that I've finally found a reprieve. This week (SPRING BREAK WOOOOHOOO), I'll be going down south to explore the history of the civil rights movement. 

I feel so immensely blessed to be apart of this trip.

Alliance and Understanding (AU) has functioned as a cultural dialogue between the historical relationships between minority groups, specifically Blacks and Jews. After a series of lectures ranging from discussions on the non-violence preparations and demonstrations to the role of Jewish women during the Civil rights movement, the program culminates in a spring break trip to Atlanta, Selma, Burmingham, and Montgomery. Once there, we plan to travel through the history of the civil rights movements, visit the various notable sights, and potentienally meet individuals who have experienced the events surrounding the movement. 

I anticipate the trip to be exciting, but also very heavy. We're planning to visit the church that was bombed and the four little girls who perished. Heavy. 

I'm not too sure what to expect but my mind and heart are forever open to whatever may happen. I hope to walk away with a deeper sense of self through learning about others who sacrificed for me. I hope to gain a deeper respect, a deeper understanding. I hope to learn how to engage more actively with history and to always ask questions. I hope to become a leader in discussions about race relations and tensions-- from then and now. 

Lastly, I just hope to make the most of this experience. Besides the fact that I actually have somewhere to go this year, it's actually something meaningful. I'm ready to engage everything fully, holding nothing back. I'm ready to truly feel, and to be unafraid of doing so. 

So with that, let the chronicling begin.