At this moment, many people knew me as a member of the women's track and field team here at Penn. There were only a few people who knew about the rich Caribbean heritage in my mother's veins and how our home was the belly of warm spices and coconut. That Crown Heights is the hub of African, Afro-Caribbean, and Black American culture, our histories bleeding into the air and staining our walls. No one knew how sharp our tongues were or how heated conversations sounded like a mixture of softness and war. No one knew of the glow in our skin, tinged with sweetness. No one could possibly know who I was in Brooklyn. At Penn, I shuffled through campus in my grey "Penn Athletics" sweats and plopped myself into lecture halls seats of classes advised for us to take. For the majority of my college career, I let this lifestyle consume me. School schedules, projects, homework, other activities (if there was time and energy for those) were all planned around track practice. The extension of that, evening study hall, was a daunting reminder that, although we are students first, track "is life".
As time went on and I realized my lack of progress as I struggled to adjust, it came to be that track, once a reprieve, had become a prison. It drained my energies and left me no psychic space to focus on school work. There were teammates, coaches, and friends who reassured me that it would get better. Holding steadfast to that promise made it harder for me to walk away from the team. My mother always ingrained in me the ideology of never quitting: always finish what you start. Little did I know that it sometimes hurts much more to hold on than it does to let go. I could not bear the underhanded ridicule and side glances I would receive if family and friends from home found out I had quit. I had always heard stories while in high-school about athletes who met their demise as they went on to college. High-school track made me realize my first real dreams –that I could be great, in any capacity. I was determined to be successful, if not scared into wanting to be successful.
As I got to Penn, I feel as though a part of me withered away. It was scary to feel like this, and to have everyone point the finger at you saying "it is your fault." It destroys you for a while –eats you alive. I was keeping up with this charade as a shell of a person. Hollowed out, as if someone had scratched out my insides. So much of my identity had been wound up in being an athlete, but it was literally sucking the life out of me. I felt guilty because I thought I owed it to myself and to the University to be a great athlete, seeing how far it had gotten me at that point. It opened the door to college and my grades carried me through. This guilt soon manifested into anxiety, then into depression. I felt ashamed in my situation and it was hard trusting people enough to open up. When I found that I had no choice but to be open, many people shut me out or just could not offer me the kind of support I needed. My peers were also depressed and plagued by different ails, so my worries felt unnecessary to add to their burdens, already piled high. So, I understand why students often speak of feeling alone.
But, this is not to be a story of defeat. I spent a long time feeling like I had given up or was a failure because I did not finish what I had started. It was not until very recently that I realized it takes maturity to walk away from something that has served its purpose and, in my case, had begun to cause so much pain. I spent a long time thinking of how much of a hypocrite people might think me to be if I were an advocate for Black athletes while not being an athlete myself. I was also overcome by a personal dissonance of preaching to others that they should do what makes them happy, while I continued on in something that no longer brought me joy. So, for the sake of being authentic to myself, I let go. I thought it would have been more dramatic: backlash, outburst, opposition. I thought the moon would have fallen out of the sky and the world would end. None of that happened. Life continued on and nothing disrupted the continuum. Instead of feeling an eruption of grief within me, I felt relieved. At first, it felt wrong. How could I feel relieved after giving up something I loved so much? After the initial panic subsided, it all came down to one question: what makes me happy? Track and field, at that moment in time, no longer fulfilled me, and that is okay.
Once I let the rush of relief fill me, I was also overcome with something else: hope. It sounds a little strange. A now second-semester senior, after riding on track and field throughout her whole college experience, quits, and now feels hope? I am hopeful in the sense that now, I feel like I could finally be great. So much of my time here was spent on barely making it, getting JUST enough to pass. My undergraduate career had become a summation of bare minimums. I did not want it to be that way, but that is just how it happened. I was even told that it was supposed to be this way for me. I had begun to feel like that was all I was worth at one point. The day I realized that it does not have to be that way, was the day I truly felt hope. There was a counselor that told me I did not have to count myself out because of grades. That I am worthy to chase every opportunity and open any door. That I am allowed to let my passions lead me to opportunity. I learned in a bible study that hope is carried by faith. So, it is hope that led me into the Inspiration's audition room and faith that helped me make it through as a member. It was hope that I would be able to share my writings with others, and faith that led me to create a blog and become an English major. It was hope that helped me believe that my dreams are valid and that it is never too late, and faith that will eventually lead me to a job, and soon after, into law school. I am not afraid anymore. Even if I am, I refuse to let it hinder me any longer. I used to think that I was supposed to have arrived here knowing exactly what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go. One can only imagine how panicked I was these last three and a half years when I had nothing concrete nor worthy of mention. Plans are often thwarted, nothing is set in stone, and no one has their life together in their 20's. Although making it to college was expected of me, it does not have to be the driving force of the rest of my life.
An important lesson I learned was to never ever let anything consume me. I never realized that even the things I love can bring me to a very dark place. I learned that there is a lesson in everything we experience, no matter how painful or trivial. It takes strength to see past the pain. I learned to be kind to myself. College is a place that forces adulthood responsibilities on individuals a couple months removed from their high-school years. Personally, it always came natural to take the fault for certain situation or blame/beat myself up for a lot of things. This is emotionally debilitating and creates a vicious routine of self-loathing, chastisement, and doubt. Forgive yourself for your mistakes, you owe it to yourself and it informs your relationships with other and how you forgive them. Finally, I learned how to believe in something bigger than myself. Knowing that I do not have to take on all of my burdens alone, it is comforting to know the strength of God's (or any other higher being/force) unconditional love and comfort.
Although I was hesitant to start here, to frame my life as though track and field was the pinnacle of it, I realize the importance of doing so. Track is not life. The trials based around trying to keep track as a major part of my life blessed me with a chance to learn and grow. Penn has changed me. It equipped me with the tools to, not only survive, but to grow comfortably and uncomfortably into myself. I will not call the transformation complete. I still have a lot of mistakes to make and experiences to have. However, I am grateful to be someone completely different from the Shakele of four years ago. I am grateful to know that in my life, I have the choice to put happiness first.
