For the convenience of our rural mail carrier the mailboxes for the houses on my street were grouped all together in one clump. Our mailbox clump was down a dirt road about 100 meters from the end of my driveway. I liked checking the mail. I'm not sure why, but I really did. Our mail carrier usually came in the late afternoon, which meant that during the summer months the road was hot by the time she came. I knew if I waited until evening, when the road was cooler, someone else would have checked the mail, and I'd lose my opportunity. I had to go while it was hot. A sensible child would have put on shoes, but I made other choices. I found that if I ran fast enough from the tip of the shade of a mulberry tree in the driveway to the shade of the mailbox post I could check the mail and run back before actually burning my feet. I had to be really fast. Anything more than a half-dozen breaths and my big toes would blister. I liked running barefoot. Somehow barefoot just felt faster.
When school started in the fall our elementary school had a mini Olympics: The Jesse Owens ARCO Games. I chose to compete in the 100 meter dash and the long jump. I was the fastest kid in my class, and as such I got to compete against other students in my grade, then with kids in other grades. I was the fastest kid in grades 4-6 in my tiny town. I got a blue ribbon in the 100 meter dash, a red ribbon in the long jump, and the right to compete in both events with other kids my age at an event in Reno. When it was my turn to run I got ready by taking off my shoes. The grown up in charge said I couldn't run if I didn't wear shoes, it wasn't safe. I was sure it was safer to run without shoes in my case. I was wearing a pair of Keds so worn I could slide down the hall at school like I was in socks. But rules were rules. I could run with shoes or couldn't run at all. I wore shoes. I didn't win my 100 meter dash. Some girl in running shorts and track cleats from Tahoe won. She was a full two seconds ahead of me. Her dad met her at the finish line with a hug and high-fives. He was wearing running shorts and legit running shoes. It was clear that they knew what they were doing. I wondered what it would be like to have a coach, and tried to feel happy for the girl, but mostly I was just disappointed. Afterward my mom took me to a department store and told me I could choose something off the clearance rack as a prize. I found a hot pink and orange tie-dyed t-shirt, and a card of hot pink, green, orange and yellow earrings. Half of the earrings were missing, so I wore them in mismatched pairs, one green and one pink, one orange and one yellow. I liked them better that way anyway. The next year at school we had races in the grass during recess. I was still fast. One day, while racing against other kids, I heard a group of kids squawking and making funny noises. Every time I ran they made the noises. I asked them what they were doing. Kevin Anderson, the pretty, popular boy, told me I looked ridiculous when I ran. Like some sort of chicken. Everyone laughed and agreed. I quit running.
In high school my best friend was a dancer, a good one. Her whole family danced. They spoke dance, watched dance, dreamt dance, lived dance. She convinced me to take a ballet class. Her scheme was that I would take dance lessons from her dad at their local studio and she would take piano lessons from my mom-- for free. I didn't want to; I was embarrassed. I didn't want to wear pink tights. I didn't want to wear pink shoes. I didn't want to prance about in a leotard. I didn't want to stand in front of a wall-sized mirror and see myself move awkwardly through space. And I certainly didn't want to stand next to all the other girls who were tall, thin, and privileged (their parents actually paid for the lessons they were getting). But I loved my friend and I knew it was her only shot at piano lessons, so I danced. My friend's dad pushed us hard. We did miles of push-ups, sit-ups, leg lifts and jumps. I didn't always have a ride to ballet class, so I often rode my bike into town. Pretty quickly I developed some serious muscles. I didn't have long, limber, balletic arms and legs, I had tree trunks. Short, solid tree trunks. Still, I learned quickly and began to dance deliberately and with control. After about two years I started pointe. I began to be proud of my body, of the work it had done and was doing. Shortly after starting pointe my mom, my brother, and I moved out of state. There wasn't anyone to barter ballet lessons with, so I hung my pointe shoes on the wall and packed my tights and leotard into a cardboard box in the closet. I quit dancing.
Recently I started indoor climbing. I've only been at it for three months and in that time I've gone from a painstaking 5.9 to a respectable 5.11a. Yesterday I beat myself against a 5.11b; it won in the end. I could have had it if I was two inches taller. Maybe just one. But I'm not, so I just have to be stronger. So I pull and push and hang. I sweat buckets and swear.
I put on a blouse for work today and had to unbutton the 3/4 sleeves because they were too tight around my growing forearms. As my back muscles develop I find myself in need of a new bra-- larger band, smaller cup: the polar opposite of defined femininity. The other day at work while I was on hold I used a nail file to file down some callouses on my fingers so they don't tear while climbing. One of my coworkers asked what I was doing and I explained. She took my hand, felt my palms and fingers and said, "Never gonna be able to touch a man with those hands!" I pulled my hand away and said, "I don't care." I was lying.
There's a woman who I see at the rock gym now and then, a remarkable climber. She can pretty much send whatever she wants, and it looks like ballet or yoga as she does it. She's amazing. And ripped. As I look at her and other female climbers I hear my grandpa talking about how ugly strong women are. I hear my grandma telling me how she pretends not to know things so Grandpa can feel smart as he corrects her. I hear all the David Seguras and Kevin Andersons telling me I look funny and that I'm somehow not feminine enough. I see my tree-trunk ballet legs (which are now cyclist's thighs) and my developing climber's hands, arms, and shoulders and I feel both pride and fear.
In the last month or so I started an Instagram account. I use it primarily for artistic expression and consumption. I'm following a bunch of guys photographing their way across Iceland, another guy who's raising a naked surfer baby in Bali, a group of men and women who are living in Yosemite, and some random photographers in Japan, Norway, New Zealand, and Kenya. People are so different and so beautiful. I'm also following a bunch of female athletes: rock climbers, spear fisherwomen, divers, surfers and runners. And they're amazing.
I'm not quitting. I don't know what will become of my body, but this time I'm not quitting. As I've said before: This girl is gonna climb. And run. And dive.
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| RUN!! |
