Now's the Chance

Sitting in a freshly made up bed, sheets washed after fighting a cold brought on by pink eye (yippee) and sipping on my very cold and very delicious chocolate zico, I thought to myself:


Hey, you haven't written. Not in a long time. The Walking Dead can wait for another hour or so.


Which brings me here, exhausted from a 4.7 mile run and exhilarated that I - Mariel Eleni Valerio - have become a runner. It's true! Fancy pants and all. I actually ran a total of 41 miles in the month of May (slightly more, but I was between iPhone apps and some got lost in translation). Me, the girl who was mortified to run in gym because my boobs always got in the way - well that actually hasn't changed much, but oh how sports bras have changed! Me, the girl who always convinced herself that her asthma was just enough out of control to never attempt such a thing. Me, the girl who thought her ankle couldn't handle it after the accident.  


What a crock of shit, the the stuff we tell ourselves sometimes right? 


And it wasn't just running that I became accomplished in this month. May marked the end of our literacy program at Longwood Elementary in Hayward and thus the end of my first year of teaching. A feat quite possibly more exhausting than those 41 miles, and yet just as rewarding. Add to my repertoire:

• Master worksheet maker
• Boo-boo fixer upper
• "Hey, get down from there!" yeller
• Sight Word Ring-stress 
• Lead Pencil Sharpener 
• Closing circle appreciations sharer 
• Change the Date-r 
• Home made Yearbook publisher 
• Queen of all things laminated 
• Gardner 
• Sanitize the living shit out of everything-er 
• Monkey-bar conflict resolution personnel 
• Black Top Hawk 
• Nap Time enforcer (dammit they'll thank me one day)
• High Five/Hip Bump/Side Hug/Fist Explosion-er 
• "Less talky, more worky" coin phraser 
• Bomb ass mother fucking after school teacher 

So maybe the last bullet point was slightly gratuitous, but you know what? I DON'T CARE. The last 10 months were hard, really really hard. And damn if there were days I thought it didn't matter, that so many people have given up on these kids so who was one more 20 something to throw in the towel? 


Wrong. 


I came in to a school where we weren't welcomed. Where the staff didn't want us eating lunch with them for fear we might start to believe we could make a difference. Where our students referred to us as anything but teachers. Where our classrooms were for many at the beginning a free babysitting service. 


But now, packing up and labeling the last of our supplies today at site, a steady stream of students and staff alike trickled in to room 13 to ask what comes next. If we'd be back to teach again, what would become of our hard work, our garden. To be honest I don't know that. I know the three of us won't be back, the pay isn't enough. What we're moving on to, that I can't say. Whether the next teachers will work as hard, I'm not sure about that either. 


I hope they can continue on. Press forward through the bureaucratic maze that our education system is comprised of to find their carrot, their prize: that it will always be about the kids. Because nothing - not an award, or gift card, or staff appreciation lunch - is worth to me than the thank you from a student. 


You see, running and teaching aren't so different. They can both be tedious, strenuous, time-consuming with slow results. Lonely at times, frustrating, painful. A winding path with no foreseeable end in sight. 


But when the finish is upon you, the sun at your back, suddenly you are strong enough, capable enough, without doubt that this moment, regardless of whatever suffering or inhibitions you held before, will be your most victorious to date. A feeling you can relive again and again for as long as you chose to continue to move forward. 

Attack of the Runner's Knee!

It's 7:05 am. Your alarm chirps in your ear and you reluctantly throw the blankets toward the window, swinging your legs off the edge of your bed waiting here for a moment of internal debate:

To run or not to run? How sweet an hour more of sleep would be, but you know you'll feel like shit for cheating yourself in this way. To run wins. You pad to the bathroom and change quickly while still half asleep so your mind can't find some other way to turn on itself and create a better excuse. One worth not running for. 

You tie your laces haphazardly and head downstairs while shoving headphones into each ear. 50 jumping jacks. 1 minute wall sit. 15 push ups. 1 minute wall sit. Stretch your calves. Stretch your hamstrings. Stretch your back. Stretch your arms. Stretch until you can no longer postpone it. The time is upon you. Program Pandora. Grab keys, lock door, take the stairs two at a time down the street, sweep your hair into a low ponytail. You refuse to be that perky bitch whose hair just sways two and fro with ease. 

With the first step, your knees scream. If there's a reason to turn back now, this is it. You grit your teeth and bare down for the first three blocks, hoping that with warmth the pain will subside. It does, enough to keep going. 

Wait for the light to change. Wait for the light to change. Start jogging. The screaming is back, louder now than before. You squeeze your eyes shut, pushing into the cold wind hoping no one will notice the pain including yourself. 

You're half a mile in. Your eyes trained carefully on the familiar cracks and lines spider webbed along the cement before you. You can't think about your knees, if you do you'll stop. If you stop, this will have been a waste. You pass the dog park that already wreaks of urine. You pass the 24 entrance. You pass the turn off for Trader Joes and bank right. 

Push, Push, Push. Make it to the end of the street and you can rest. Your phone announces you've reached your 1 mile. You slow to a brisk walk, gathering the spit seeping in your mouth to spray the street. Rest time is up. You begin again and not without protest. Your ribs have joined in this time. 

You can't look forward for fear the distance may seem too unbearable. You think: feet straight, back straight, arms up, fingers loose, soft landing, breath.

You make it to the top of college and bank right again, sprinting to make the cross walk sign. You stop, bending at the waist this time, fighting the urge to vomit. That might be worth taking a picture of.

It passes. 

Push, Push, Push. Mile two down, your phone announces. 

One more. Make it a 5k. 

You head down 51st and turn left into some unfamiliar neighborhood, zigzagging through street-swept ticketed cars and uniformed children on their way to school who stop to gawk at your red face. You watch for any uneven surface that might give your weakness away. You pause at each intersection, making eye contact with every driver. Push, push, push. Your attention has been directed now from your knees to the lack of oxygen making it through to your brain. You want to stop, you want to keep going. 

You bite the inside of your lip. A tear swells quickly in response and slips down a cheek. 

Push, push, push.

3 miles completed, your phone says. You throw your hands up like rocky at the top of the stairs, giving a one-two punch for good measure. 

You walk the rest of the way back to 48th, open the door to your apartment and throw yourself onto the couch. Your sweat seeping into every surface.

You did it, you survived. Your knees thank you. 

Tomorrow, the pain begins again.