It wasn’t really until after my father’s heart attack in 2016 that I
thought of myself as a runner. I was on the cross country and track teams when I was
younger, but I was never fast or competitive. I just liked to run and hang out with my friends. In
college, running was alternately a way to work out stress or an attempt to control
the way my body looked. It was never a high priority for me. Sure, it gave me a sense of peace, but I never truly
felt like I could claim the label of “runner.”
So in 2016, when I moved back to Kansas City, running became
a way to cope with all the instability in my life. I’d just graduated, and I left Boston suddenly and without a lot of goodbyes. I was doing my best to continue my job search away from home, the response was
always rejection. I was far away from a lot of my friends. And, more than
anything, I was trying to wrap my head around what had happened to my father,
what it meant for my family and for me.
The story goes something like this: when my father finally
came home from the hospital after a two-day coma, he was prescribed a steady regimen of physical
therapy. He wasn’t yet cleared to drive, so I became his chauffeur. Several days a week, we’d get up early and I’d drive him to his
appointment. While he was at PT, I’d park the pickup and go running somewhere
nearby. We joked that we were “workout buddies,” which was terribly hokey attempt
to laugh at an unfamiliar new dynamic. Once I was done running, I’d pick him up
and we’d eat bagels and drink coffee and talk.
I had a lot of reasons for running that summer. It was a way to pass
that ninety-minute window of my father’s appointments. It was a way to explore my surroundings, to feel
connected to my hometown again. It was a way to work through the grief and
anger and frustration and helplessness I was feeling. It was a way, I’d hoped,
to avoid eventually ending up in the hospital like he had. It was a way to invest in
myself, to feel empowered to set and reach goals. It was a way to meditate, and
it was a way to sit with my thoughts and feelings without going bananas. Even
when my father was eventually cleared to drive, I continued to drive him to
those appointments, as much to be able to spend time with him as to be able to run.
When I think about my father, I hope I will always think of
those mornings. When I was a kid, he worked weird hours and was often out of
the house or asleep when we were at home. I don’t think I ever spent as much time
with him as I did immediately before and after college, two summers when he was
sick. During those periods, I tried to take comfort in the fact that we could at least be around one
another, that I could finally get to know him better. I wanted that a lot.
In many ways, I've given up on that hope. This last year has been hard. The same father who we tried
so hard to be there for…he left. He divorced my incredible, selfless mom after forty years together. And he cut off contact with us. No calls, no messages. He's just gone. I’m not sure what else
to say, at this point. Even writing this feels like a betrayal, though I’m not
sure of whom.
Furious, devastated, and disgusted, I’ve felt just
about every uncomfortable feeling possible in the last nine months. I have so
damn much to say, and despite trying my best to find the right words, I still
have no idea how to talk about this. I don’t have the language to describe what’s
going on in my head—it feels a bit like those ViewMaster slides where you close
one eye and suddenly the entire image shifts. A lot of my past life experiences have
taken on new meaning. I feel like I’m grieving a living ghost, and that’s an
unsettling and complicated feeling.
(And, to be perfectly clear: I speak only for myself as I
write this.)
As you might assume, I’ve been looking for ways to cope with these
changes. Some of them haven’t been healthy or productive, and a few of them
have. More than anything, running has kept me sane. It’s still helping me sit
with my emotions. It’s helping me avoid bad decisions and take better
care of my body. It’s helping me maintain a sense of wonder and curiosity as I
explore new parts of Valencia. It’s helping me remember that I’m strong, and determined, and an all-around bad bitch.
This morning, as I was running through the huertas on the
other side of the city, I hit my goal of seventy miles this month. Compared to a lot
of serious runners, this is small beans, but it’s a big deal for me. I felt proud
of myself for every early morning I got out, every blister, every warped toenail, every ache and every pain. I endured. When I got home, I lovingly made
myself breakfast and showered. Then, finally, when I was fed and stretched and clean,
I cried my first and brief tears in a while. I was grateful. As hard as
it is to keep on living sometimes, we’ve got nothing else. And I want to cling
to the small joys as much as possible, because a lot of days that’s all there
is. That’s it. We live in an ugly, fucked-up world, but it’s beautiful and strange
and surprising and delightful, too. No matter what happens, I can’t forget that.
I refuse to become cynical or hardened. I’m not defined by my pain and sadness,
but I can find meaning in the humble and quotidian ways I fight them.
To all the folks who've reached out (including the ones I haven't responded to), thanks for loving and caring about me. I see you and love you too. And as always, thank you, reader, for your time and attention.
While you’re
here: donate what you can to your local community bail fund, or to other black-led organizations like Black Trans Femmes In The Arts. Take your action offline and into your daily life. Talk to your family and friends about race, even if it's uncomfortable. (Spoiler: it probably will be!) Especially if you're white—and I struggle with this one a lot—take your ego out of it and learn from your mistakes. Everyone makes them.
Finally: If you have something you'd like to ask or share with me, slide me an email. I'd love to hear from you.
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| Girasoles de la Huerta |
