While being a part of this team, I've noticed a trend with some coaches in wanting to preserve an athlete's confidence.
While that's all good and well, I've realized how damaging this could be. The only reason I was able to perform at the level I ran at in high school is because I was exposed to it despite whether or not losing would hurt my confidence.
I've been walked down at the line, lost by fractions of a second, placed last, ran on teams with dropped batons, lost races I was projected to win, ran terribly at championship meets and other athletic atrocities.
But guess what?
I still became an amazing athlete.
My confidence can't have a perfect track record (no pun intended), it has its dents and cracks. But that's all apart of the game. Part of a bigger race.
Eliminate the negative self-talk, put yourself out there with the greatest, run your race, win/lose, and come back the next time ready to be better.
Stop punking out and playing small. We're here to compete. If we don't hold ourselves worthy to compete with the best, then we're wasting our time.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Stop the Madness
One day I'll be able to shop in American Apparel
Without hearing the quiet weeping of my wallet.
Or the whimpering of my credit card after each swipe
But as for now, being "college broke" thrusts me into a true reality
And I'm trying to get outta that "hood nigga" mentality
You know, that person who's
Chasing that paperr,
out of their mother's wallet
Or
They got a $700 sneakers but can't even afford rent
Or
They got a $100 belt but can't even pronounce the brand it comes from
When
Shorty is all decked out in her $200 Tru Religion jeans, Burberry shirt, Red Bottom heels, 24 inch Remy weave, Louis Vuitton bag, iPhone clutched to her well $50 French manicured hand... But she's taking the train
Where's yo fly ass car at ma?
Musing over the common cents while not commonly sensing that the words "sense" and "common" ain't been so common since.. I'm not sure when sense became uncommon
I guess it was when
She spent $70 on makeup that lasted two weeks. "But it's from Sephora" so I guess it's worth it
Powder blush your pain away
As you become a slave to insecurities that thrust you into debt
But you still look good though...
Hood nigga mentality
When we're concerned about expressing our styles through expensive name tags and threads
And webs of designer lines
But we don't even know what a mutual fund is.
There must be a material God somewhere in heaven based on all the money we shell out for the sake of them
Yet asking for ten percent is outrageous
We reject those who approach us with "Ugg"- less boots or Polo-less shirts.
"He ain't got no swag"
"She's a lame"
Then complain about artificiality and materialism and getting treated poorly because the people who idolize these things, are superficial.
Hood nigga mentality
We all like nice things. Human nature
But when it begins to consume us and we remain utterly ignorant or in denial about it, we're trapped.
And the people from the outside looking in will laugh at us. And have no reason to help us.
And we laugh at each other. And turn a blind eye.
Hood nigga mentality
An epidemic at it's height
Will you bother to stop it? Will you for once be unblinded by the glitters of plastic and fragrance of cheap perfume and see that wealth isn't attained through the ownership of insignificant things that yield only temporary value and not permanent investments?
Hood nigga mentality
It needs to stop
Without hearing the quiet weeping of my wallet.
Or the whimpering of my credit card after each swipe
But as for now, being "college broke" thrusts me into a true reality
And I'm trying to get outta that "hood nigga" mentality
You know, that person who's
Chasing that paperr,
out of their mother's wallet
Or
They got a $700 sneakers but can't even afford rent
Or
They got a $100 belt but can't even pronounce the brand it comes from
When
Shorty is all decked out in her $200 Tru Religion jeans, Burberry shirt, Red Bottom heels, 24 inch Remy weave, Louis Vuitton bag, iPhone clutched to her well $50 French manicured hand... But she's taking the train
Where's yo fly ass car at ma?
Musing over the common cents while not commonly sensing that the words "sense" and "common" ain't been so common since.. I'm not sure when sense became uncommon
I guess it was when
She spent $70 on makeup that lasted two weeks. "But it's from Sephora" so I guess it's worth it
Powder blush your pain away
As you become a slave to insecurities that thrust you into debt
But you still look good though...
Hood nigga mentality
When we're concerned about expressing our styles through expensive name tags and threads
And webs of designer lines
But we don't even know what a mutual fund is.
There must be a material God somewhere in heaven based on all the money we shell out for the sake of them
Yet asking for ten percent is outrageous
We reject those who approach us with "Ugg"- less boots or Polo-less shirts.
"He ain't got no swag"
"She's a lame"
Then complain about artificiality and materialism and getting treated poorly because the people who idolize these things, are superficial.
Hood nigga mentality
We all like nice things. Human nature
But when it begins to consume us and we remain utterly ignorant or in denial about it, we're trapped.
And the people from the outside looking in will laugh at us. And have no reason to help us.
And we laugh at each other. And turn a blind eye.
Hood nigga mentality
An epidemic at it's height
Will you bother to stop it? Will you for once be unblinded by the glitters of plastic and fragrance of cheap perfume and see that wealth isn't attained through the ownership of insignificant things that yield only temporary value and not permanent investments?
Hood nigga mentality
It needs to stop
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Being approached by a frat boy because he has to fuck a black girl for initiation
**DISCLAIMER** This did NOT happen to me BUT it did happen to a student here on this campus. When I heard of her story, it moved me to write about it. Enjoy
Maybe it's the hue of my skin,
Or the slant in her eye
Or the curl of her hair
That the most utterly offensive yet deeply "affectionate" thing they could call us is
exotic
Like we're some wild plants growing between the cracks of pavement
That's been so smothered by the cemented ignorance that crush us to the earth
But they're somehow surprised we exist
Impressed that we can take the womanly shape of a flower
That the roots of my veins bleed into and soften the soil
And I grow and thrive, and breathe, and glow
Even when the world around us is barren and cold
I am a tree
That can bear something other than strange fruit
So they call us exotic
Like we're on some foreign display
Eyes peeling off the hairs on our skin
Glaring at us like we're in humane
But they're so captivated that they can't look away
Fascinated by the way my heart beats
Alas, she breathes!
Alas, she feels!
Alas, she thinks!
But wait, I am!
I am human
But Because of the ebony hue of my melanin, the slant of her dark brown iris, the Spanish in her curl, tight tongues that unfurl, the drums in her hips, the plump in her lips, the depth of her womb, the warmth of her blood, the screech of her cry, the roll of her thighs
They reduce us to that little word
exotic
Like the dancer
The ones you'd probably assume my mother to be
Because slipping and sliding up and down that pole
No longer has to be to make the ends meet
But just to be featured on another line of
Some song or video that glorifies the culture of
Defiling a woman's body rather than praising it
Like her pussy is some peregrine dreamland open and waiting to greet her clients with bliss and ecstasy
You'd rather a vixen than a reigning queen
To take you to Magic city and fulfill your
every dream
In the seams
Of your jeans
So they call us exotic
Like some sort of twisted serendipity
Like we were put here by mistake
But somehow still living
And what a marvel it has to be!
A black girl who's still breathing
Where's her baby (daddy)?
I am not a mistake.
So they call me exotic
Not Precious like a gem you'd guard with your life
Not Delicate like the suppleness of velvet
Not Beloved because the ghost of her beauty haunts you everyday
Not Worthy because she is much more than you.
Shit, not even Pulchritudinous because beautiful is too basic of a word and I am no "basic bitch"
I am much too complex of a being to be reduced to such a basic idiom
To be reduced to the color my skin reflects or the gleam it projects to protect the ivory sun from my ashes that, when risen, are a threat to cover the whole world with this "exotic" shade of which I am made out of.
I am not exotic
I am a Woman
Neither simple nor plain as that
I am a Woman
Maybe it's the hue of my skin,
Or the slant in her eye
Or the curl of her hair
That the most utterly offensive yet deeply "affectionate" thing they could call us is
exotic
Like we're some wild plants growing between the cracks of pavement
That's been so smothered by the cemented ignorance that crush us to the earth
But they're somehow surprised we exist
Impressed that we can take the womanly shape of a flower
That the roots of my veins bleed into and soften the soil
And I grow and thrive, and breathe, and glow
Even when the world around us is barren and cold
I am a tree
That can bear something other than strange fruit
So they call us exotic
Like we're on some foreign display
Eyes peeling off the hairs on our skin
Glaring at us like we're in humane
But they're so captivated that they can't look away
Fascinated by the way my heart beats
Alas, she breathes!
Alas, she feels!
Alas, she thinks!
But wait, I am!
I am human
But Because of the ebony hue of my melanin, the slant of her dark brown iris, the Spanish in her curl, tight tongues that unfurl, the drums in her hips, the plump in her lips, the depth of her womb, the warmth of her blood, the screech of her cry, the roll of her thighs
They reduce us to that little word
exotic
Like the dancer
The ones you'd probably assume my mother to be
Because slipping and sliding up and down that pole
No longer has to be to make the ends meet
But just to be featured on another line of
Some song or video that glorifies the culture of
Defiling a woman's body rather than praising it
Like her pussy is some peregrine dreamland open and waiting to greet her clients with bliss and ecstasy
You'd rather a vixen than a reigning queen
To take you to Magic city and fulfill your
every dream
In the seams
Of your jeans
So they call us exotic
Like some sort of twisted serendipity
Like we were put here by mistake
But somehow still living
And what a marvel it has to be!
A black girl who's still breathing
Where's her baby (daddy)?
I am not a mistake.
So they call me exotic
Not Precious like a gem you'd guard with your life
Not Delicate like the suppleness of velvet
Not Beloved because the ghost of her beauty haunts you everyday
Not Worthy because she is much more than you.
Shit, not even Pulchritudinous because beautiful is too basic of a word and I am no "basic bitch"
I am much too complex of a being to be reduced to such a basic idiom
To be reduced to the color my skin reflects or the gleam it projects to protect the ivory sun from my ashes that, when risen, are a threat to cover the whole world with this "exotic" shade of which I am made out of.
I am not exotic
I am a Woman
Neither simple nor plain as that
I am a Woman
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Victim
I wanted to write a love poem
You know, for Valentine's Day
Then I thought about you
I wanted to write a poem where you drowned within the stream of my tears.
Where the streaks of ink from my pen scorched your flesh and you'd have to come
Thrashing, gasping, begging me to stop.
I wanted to write a poem that left you dangling by every letter.
The thin string of words stinging you in your fingertips so nothing
Could numb the pain.
I wanted to write a poem that stole your breaths in chaotic cries and moans.
That twisted your arms and bounded your legs.
I wanted to write a poem that made your body spasm and wrench uncontrollably.
That tickled your forehead into that wrinkle you made when you were confused.
I wanted to write a poem that would drunken your heart so that maybe, just maybe,
I'd believe something that came out of your tainted mouth.
I wanted to write a poem that would blind you in a way that would make up for my dull presence.
To strike you in a way my kisses never did.
I wanted to write a poem that made you confuse the light of dawn with the warmth of my skin so that sleepless nights left you in a dreadful yearning. Desperate for the sun to rise.
So that even if your eyes did close,
Every morning you'd wake up with cold sweat- filled nightmares of me.
And your toes were cold, cold, cold.
I wanted to write a poem that would melt glass into your veins then harden.
So that every step you took,
You'd crack, slowly.
Until finally,
You'd shatter.
I wanted to write a poem that ran over you and ran through you.
Again
And again
And again.
I wanted to write a poem that fucked you so violently that you were forced to like it.
So that you would whimper away, tail tucked in between your legs.
Feeling the same way I felt.
The day you left.
So that you could choke on your twisted goodbye.
So that the blood from your bitten tongue could seal away my despair.
As it will be you limping away.
Scrambling for your insides
Missing your pieces.
You know, for Valentine's Day
Then I thought about you
I wanted to write a poem where you drowned within the stream of my tears.
Where the streaks of ink from my pen scorched your flesh and you'd have to come
Thrashing, gasping, begging me to stop.
I wanted to write a poem that left you dangling by every letter.
The thin string of words stinging you in your fingertips so nothing
Could numb the pain.
I wanted to write a poem that stole your breaths in chaotic cries and moans.
That twisted your arms and bounded your legs.
I wanted to write a poem that made your body spasm and wrench uncontrollably.
That tickled your forehead into that wrinkle you made when you were confused.
I wanted to write a poem that would drunken your heart so that maybe, just maybe,
I'd believe something that came out of your tainted mouth.
I wanted to write a poem that would blind you in a way that would make up for my dull presence.
To strike you in a way my kisses never did.
I wanted to write a poem that made you confuse the light of dawn with the warmth of my skin so that sleepless nights left you in a dreadful yearning. Desperate for the sun to rise.
So that even if your eyes did close,
Every morning you'd wake up with cold sweat- filled nightmares of me.
And your toes were cold, cold, cold.
I wanted to write a poem that would melt glass into your veins then harden.
So that every step you took,
You'd crack, slowly.
Until finally,
You'd shatter.
I wanted to write a poem that ran over you and ran through you.
Again
And again
And again.
I wanted to write a poem that fucked you so violently that you were forced to like it.
So that you would whimper away, tail tucked in between your legs.
Feeling the same way I felt.
The day you left.
So that you could choke on your twisted goodbye.
So that the blood from your bitten tongue could seal away my despair.
As it will be you limping away.
Scrambling for your insides
Missing your pieces.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Middle Distance Chronicles Pt. II
After a grueling meet with sub-par performances, coach decided to have a meeting with us.
Oh the dreaded post-race talk.
Within his rant, he mentioned something worthwhile. "As you get older, it becomes less about how you feel and more about what you have to do."
It was a little confounding and a bit disheartening. So our feelings don't matter? If my leg is about to fall off and I tell you I feel terrible, it doesn't matter? I must numb all of what I feel and toss it away? You don't care?
I was being dramatic.
It was only today I realized what he meant. Knowing how Tuesdays normally are, I didn't quite brace myself emotionally to deal with today's strenuous workout. I dragged myself through the day, dreading the events to come. Tried warming up but never really getting to top speed. Slight ailments rearing their ugly heads and the little aches and pains creeping up on me. I felt terrible. It was to be one of those "today, you're going to find out something about yourself" kind of workouts. Today, I did.
However, it didn't have to take me being sprawled out on the track yelping in pain or my lunch paying me an untimely visit. It was reflected in how I ran.
I decided from the jump "Well, I'm not feeling well so I'm just going to drag my body around the track and act like I've done my best." When I finished, I was close to tears. Not from pain. But from utter disappointment. When did I start losing my heart? When did I decide that bullshitting is okay? I got too caught up playing victim. Telling myself that this whole middle distance thing was new and hard and that I can't get over it. I was too used to being at a disadvantage, struggling from the back. The underdog. That felt like my place, until I'd shift a gear and miraculously win from behind. Or in my head I did. But now I was letting the race run away from me.
Attitude check. I had one today. Every practice is a game of meters, another opportunity to get an upperhand. Not being fully engaged in practice is a loss of meters, precious seconds that tell the difference between first and second place.
"If I only had five more meters."
I may have been the fifty-four second quarter miler before, but that's nothing now. Memories won't get me to where I need to be. My high-school medals and rings are just shining dimly in a corner back home. Those won't get me anywhere. Hard work will. I could apologize all I want for giving crap but it'd better be to myself because that's who I'm hurting. I could cry all the tears but that alone won't turn me into runner I want to be.
So, while it's still hard dealing with the still-relatively new life of mid-D, it is (and has been) time to get over it. Get over it. Leave it on the track. Anger, hurt, frustration. Leave it on the track. We have our goals, now go get them. Let what you feel be the fuel for what you want to achieve.
Oh the dreaded post-race talk.
Within his rant, he mentioned something worthwhile. "As you get older, it becomes less about how you feel and more about what you have to do."
It was a little confounding and a bit disheartening. So our feelings don't matter? If my leg is about to fall off and I tell you I feel terrible, it doesn't matter? I must numb all of what I feel and toss it away? You don't care?
I was being dramatic.
It was only today I realized what he meant. Knowing how Tuesdays normally are, I didn't quite brace myself emotionally to deal with today's strenuous workout. I dragged myself through the day, dreading the events to come. Tried warming up but never really getting to top speed. Slight ailments rearing their ugly heads and the little aches and pains creeping up on me. I felt terrible. It was to be one of those "today, you're going to find out something about yourself" kind of workouts. Today, I did.
However, it didn't have to take me being sprawled out on the track yelping in pain or my lunch paying me an untimely visit. It was reflected in how I ran.
I decided from the jump "Well, I'm not feeling well so I'm just going to drag my body around the track and act like I've done my best." When I finished, I was close to tears. Not from pain. But from utter disappointment. When did I start losing my heart? When did I decide that bullshitting is okay? I got too caught up playing victim. Telling myself that this whole middle distance thing was new and hard and that I can't get over it. I was too used to being at a disadvantage, struggling from the back. The underdog. That felt like my place, until I'd shift a gear and miraculously win from behind. Or in my head I did. But now I was letting the race run away from me.
Attitude check. I had one today. Every practice is a game of meters, another opportunity to get an upperhand. Not being fully engaged in practice is a loss of meters, precious seconds that tell the difference between first and second place.
"If I only had five more meters."
I may have been the fifty-four second quarter miler before, but that's nothing now. Memories won't get me to where I need to be. My high-school medals and rings are just shining dimly in a corner back home. Those won't get me anywhere. Hard work will. I could apologize all I want for giving crap but it'd better be to myself because that's who I'm hurting. I could cry all the tears but that alone won't turn me into runner I want to be.
So, while it's still hard dealing with the still-relatively new life of mid-D, it is (and has been) time to get over it. Get over it. Leave it on the track. Anger, hurt, frustration. Leave it on the track. We have our goals, now go get them. Let what you feel be the fuel for what you want to achieve.
Morning Poem
Starbuks will never get my name right
Nor will my professors
Or my new classmates
Or the chefs at Houston hall
Even some of my friends screw up from time to time
My Christmas cards will always have an extra "L"
My birthday cards will always have a missing "e"
Some others may have a "qu"
And somehow I'm transformed into a boy
What's in a name
That makes mine so damn difficult to pronounce
Nor will my professors
Or my new classmates
Or the chefs at Houston hall
Even some of my friends screw up from time to time
My Christmas cards will always have an extra "L"
My birthday cards will always have a missing "e"
Some others may have a "qu"
And somehow I'm transformed into a boy
What's in a name
That makes mine so damn difficult to pronounce
Monday, January 21, 2013
Paradoxy
Eskimo Kiss me in the middle of summer
Sipping champagne from teacups
Picnics on snowfields
Easter Eggs on Halloween
Sun-dancing at dusk
Moonshining at noon
Why isn't the New Year in May?
I'd love to be greeted by darling rosebuds
And soft lilies
Rays of warmth, permeating the air
Sweet, moist air
Powdering my face
Its abundance, drunkening my stance
I'm uplifted
Sway with me
High off the pollen seeds
And velvet wind
Take flight
With you, I am all things and nothing at all
I am a ball of sentiments, unraveling
All-feeling yet numb
All encompassing yet one special being
How bewildering! How enchanting!
That we exist in madness
And thrive in the confusion
We survive
I couldn't be happier.
Sipping champagne from teacups
Picnics on snowfields
Easter Eggs on Halloween
Sun-dancing at dusk
Moonshining at noon
Why isn't the New Year in May?
I'd love to be greeted by darling rosebuds
And soft lilies
Rays of warmth, permeating the air
Sweet, moist air
Powdering my face
Its abundance, drunkening my stance
I'm uplifted
Sway with me
High off the pollen seeds
And velvet wind
Take flight
With you, I am all things and nothing at all
I am a ball of sentiments, unraveling
All-feeling yet numb
All encompassing yet one special being
How bewildering! How enchanting!
That we exist in madness
And thrive in the confusion
We survive
I couldn't be happier.
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