This is not a blog about my Fulbright experience beyond a brief portion at the beginning about what it’s like to watch your country fall apart from afar, so for you one enthusiastic future Fulbrighter who scoured the web to find this blog, you may want to skip ahead. This blog is more of a “Jordan’s unsolicited thoughts” blog. Keeping up with news from the United States is probably less hard than I thought it would be. However, I care about the news and make a big effort to ensure I know at least a little of what’s going on. At the same time, all of my news intake does not tell me how it actually is in the United States. I don’t know how it feels to be there, and I’m always delving into headlines to figure out how serious the story is and what it actually means on the ground. I was actually able to use the notifications from Trump’s tweets (I follow @RealPressSecBot as to not give Trump the satisfaction of another follow) as a signal for when it was an appropriate time to text my parents while they lived in Florida, so at least his tweets were useful for something. Being abroad is tricky right now, feeling disconnected from politics at home, still expected to represent them, and for me at least, a sense of guilt for not being there to offer substantial help. It’s with that that I delve in my topic of today: the school walk out. When I first heard about these walk outs (and the march on the 24th) I’ve never felt more proud of our country, more confident in our future, or more jealous not to be in high school right now. I know I graduated 5 years ago and am no longer relevant on the high school scene, which usually I’m grateful for, but what I would’ve done to be a part of something like this. My heart swelled as I started to see the images of students holding hands, walking out, marching to implore the adults of our country to keep them safe. As soon as I saw images of the walk out, I saw the image – as I’m sure you have – of the “Walk UP not OUT” sign. My initial reaction was confusion, because it was coming from conservative people I know and was obviously against the walk out, but I didn’t see why. The family of a victim of the Columbine massacre have actually spent their lives post-Columbine-massacre encouraging high school students to be more inclusive and kind through their organization, Rachel’s Challenge, and I couldn’t imagine them being against this walk out. Their organization actually came to my very cliquey high school and I loved the idea. The idea that someone is against the walk out because they believe people should just be kinder baffles me. And not just because there are a bunch of issues with the narrative that if you had just said hi to that person, they wouldn’t have done that. It’s victim blaming, it’s simplistic, and it looks at this massive structural and institutional problem like it’s a person-by-person issue. Moreover, you can both walk out and walk up, it’s not mutually exclusive. It honestly feels like a weak conservative talking point meant to sound positive and sturdy while really being flimsy and unnecessary. Some background: as I said, I loved the idea that Rachel’s Challenge had introduced. I wanted implemented widely. As someone who was new a lot, and especially being new in a town where everyone has known each other since diapers, like Santa Barbara, it was really hard. I felt left out a lot. I would’ve loved for someone to reach out and was always so grateful to feel included at all. And I did my best to make other people feel included. I am *so* onboard with walking up to people. However, it’s not to prevent someone from being a school shooter, it’s to be a decent human being. And if, for some reason, you genuinely feel uncomfortable with a situation, it’s not your responsibility. There were two situations for me, remarkably similar but at schools thousands of miles apart, where someone that I often saw alone or with just one other person reached out to me online. At first it was fine – I wanted to be inclusive and to make friends – but in both cases they ended up making me feel uncomfortable, one more explicitly than the other. They were both men and I knew enough about violence against women and other sh*tty things you have to deal with as a girl to know that I did not want to, nor should I have, put myself in a situation that made me uncomfortable and potentially physically unsafe. If one of these boys had ended up shooting up the school, I would have felt horrible (obviously for many reasons) but also because I would’ve felt like it was my fault. In fact, when I found the Isla Vista shooter’s YouTube channel and realized where he liked to walk was where I ran all the time I kid you not, my first thought was “what if I’d passed him walking and not smiled at him. I should’ve smiled at him.” Of course, this is hugely self-centered and I know this goes beyond guns into gender, but it is nonetheless true. And when 98% of mass shooting have been committed by men, gender dynamics are going to be involved. It was not my fault that the Isla Vista shooter did what he did, nor was it the fault of any of the girls who turned him down. It was not the fault of students in Columbine and it was not the fault of the students in Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School or any shooting in between or since. The problem is complicated, but certainly is because of easy access to weapons and a culture where “being a man” means being physically tough, getting women, not showing emotions and more. The problem clearly is NOT just because students didn’t walk up to a lonely student and the problem will not be solved simply by resolving to be nicer. I think we SHOULD be nicer, but that is not the problem. Parts of the problem are intense gender norms and very easy access to weapons. Thus, IT IS NOT MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE TO DO BOTH. To walk out and walk up. I know, I know, it is a WONDER how one could POSSIBLY both walk out of class during a national walkout to ask the government to please do more and do better, and then also go back to school (which they will) and be nicer to everyone and make an effort to get to know more people, some of which might not have many friends. These students have every right to walk out and I am SO proud of them. I assure you this movement is building comradery and solidarity and it would be doing much better if people didn’t try to undermine it by suggesting you can’t make an extra effort to be kind while you stand up for the rights of millions of students. Walk OUT. Walk UP. You can do both, they’re different actions for different reasons. Every time I walk into the schools I teach in here in Spain, I think about the teachers I know in the United States and am simultaneously grateful for them and grateful I’m not them. Still, I think about how I’d possibly hide the kids in our bare classrooms. I think about how these kids have never worried about a shooting in their schools. I think about these kids marching in the streets if they did feel unsafe and how hard that would be to watch, knowing it was a necessity for their lives. Worst of all, I think about empty desks that had students in them the day before. Thankfully, that’s not a reality for the villages I teach in in Spain. It is a reality for every school in the United States. So students who cannot vote yet, who do not have much purchasing power, who can’t legally enlist in the military and potentially volunteer to die for our country, have to make our massive government respond to them through walking out, or risk dying involuntarily. That is completely different from being nicer to people. And it’s really not that hard to do both.
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Of all the new experiences I figured I'd have when I agreed to do a Fulbright year in Spain, running a half marathon wasn't one of them. And yet, here I am, first official half-marathon under my belt as of yesterday. Let me start by laying out the race. The race went from one town, Nájera, to another, Santo Domingo de la Calzada. It was on El Camino Santiago, or The Way of Sant James, which is a mecca for hikers and worshippers alike. The pilgrimage goes from France to the part of Spain above Portugal. It runs through Logroño and La Rioja and is deeply rooted in the identity of this place. Not only does the Camino go through Nájera and Santo Domingo, it's in the same area as the villages I teach in and I knew the Camino goes through one of my villages, so I was excited to run by places I work everyday. Though the race started in Nájera, I had to go to Santo Domingo first to pick up my race packet prior to 10am. Then, at 10am, the runners who needed a ride were bused to Nájera for the 11am start of the race. I have to say, between the complications of getting where I needed to be and trying to figure out where to leave the stuff I needed, I have an extra appreciation for access to a personal vehicle. There's the layout. Now, my story in four parts. Part 1, The Tale of Two Sunday Mornings: The only bus that got me to Santo Domingo in time left at 7:30. I wasn’t thrilled about that, but it was the only thing I could do. When I reached my bus, I was confused because there was someone sitting in essentially the jump seat, blocking my entrance. I approached and he clumsily tried to let me pass telling me not to worry, he was the co-bus driver. I was super confused and he kept calling me María, which made me think of Tristan on Gilmore Girls calling Rory "Mary" in Season 1. It took me far too long to realize that this guy was drunk and that the two people laughing a few seats back were his slightly less drunk friends. And thus, the quiet bus ride listening to music I had imagined turned quickly into an absurd bus ride with three guys my age, who I soon found out had not gone to sleep yet and were still drunk because they'd been out all night, as is typical in Spain. (Today I found out the 7am bus is the drunk bus, which is still wild to me). No matter how many times they asked my name or how many times I pronounced "Jordan", none of them could repeat it in any semblance of my name. They couldn't believe I was running a half marathon, so I had to explain that about 50 times, at which point the drunkest told me he was a runner too and could run with me (his friends quickly told me he hadn't run since high school). He then proceeded to ask me if I'd get a drink with him after my race. I told him I would if he could keep up with me in the half. The entire hour bus ride was spent in conversations like this, the drunkest stumbling around the bus telling the bus driver that he could drive us, trying to say phrases in English he presumably learned in elementary school, and finding different ways to try to hit on me. One of his more sober friends was very apologetic, which allowed me to laugh off the whole situation and enjoy the absurdity that was the 7am bus in Spain. Still, I couldn't quite get over the differences in our two days. In mine, I'd gone to bed at 10:30 the night before and woken up at 6:30 to race 13.1 miles at 11am. In theirs, they probably hadn't gone out until midnight and had been at discos and clubs until they caught the 7am bus to get home. Both have their merits, for sure, but I'm not sure that those worlds are meant to collide so directly. Part 2, The race: In Santo Domingo, I had orange juice in a café, got my race packet, asked the officials if there was a bag drop, was told it was in Nájera and that they’d bring all the stuff to the finish line. I was silently grateful that I hadn’t packed anything important that I couldn’t carry, because sometimes the no pasa nada attitude of Spain drips into institutions that, in my American view, should really be organized better. (I ended up being wrong about this, the bag pickup operation was flawless). Regardless, my superhero of a friend, Ali, was coming to watch the end of the race, so I’d given her food, slippers, clean socks, and other warm clothes should my other stuff not make it to the end. And with that, I got on the bus. As soon as I got off the bus there was a truck where people were setting their bags (numbered with our race numbers). I briefly wondered why we’d bothered carrying our stuff all the way here on the bus, but alas. I followed everyone into a café where there was a working bathroom and space for people to get situated. I assumed the race was starting outside of the café because everyone was there. That was until about 10 minutes before the race started, when everyone seemed to get up and leave at once. Had I known how big the race actually was, I would have been a little more skeptical, but for all I knew, this crowd of people could have been it. I followed everyone out and luckily was roped into taking a group’s picture. There were some older gentlemen in the group who thought it was unbelievable that an American (two, actually, but they didn’t know that) were running in their race. I had to explain that I actually did live in Logroño, but they kept saying how brave I was to do this alone. Why is it so brave? I wondered, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. These guys were able to explain that the race started further inside the town, so, with 8 minutes to the start, I jogged at least half a mile to the square. I met up with Coco, the fulbrighter who had told me about the race, and realized that the start was into a tiny, narrow, cobble-stoned street so common in these parts of Spain. I was warned by a teacher Coco works with that it was a hilly course, and then the gun went off! Which for us, meant nothing, we could barely move sideways, let alone forward. Finally, we were moving a little bit and crossed the start line aaaand immediately started going uphill. I was laughing at myself, in disbelief that this was starting a) uphill and b) with nowhere to move. After about two kilometers – and yes racing a half marathon measured in kilometers seems infinitely worse when you’re used to miles – the crowd thinned enough that I could move into my own space. After another kilometer, the blisters I’d so carefully taped began to burn. This was going to be fun. The Camino is mainly packed dirt. Some of the trail is rocky, some muddy because of recent rain, and a little bit is on pavement, but most was granulated, packed dirt between vineyards. And by gosh the views were stunning. Vineyard after vineyard, starting to turn green and in the background, stark white mountains, completely and perfectly covered in snow. It was a beautiful feeling, to be on the Camino for my first half marathon. It was also special, because as I mentioned before, I was passing by villages I teach in and knew we should actually pass through one of them. However, as we got closer, I realized we weren't going to go through it. I was disappointed, but mostly confused. How could we be doing the Camino and not go through this village? Today I was teaching in that village and asked the teacher I work with about it. She told me that when the Camino became popularized 50 years ago, they asked the towns it went through to pay a fee for the infrastructure and accommodations. Azofra, the town the Camino (and our race) actually went through, did not want to pay. Alesanco, the town I teach in, on the other hand, was more than willing to pay and was only a mile away. Thus, the original Camino, and our race, took the original path, whereas the Camino people do now, goes through the path carved by towns who were willing to pay. But back to the race. In the couple villages we went through, people cheered for us. There were also a few people who had found spots throughout the isolated parts to cheer too, so that was always helpful. It was so fun for me to hear what it's like to be cheered on in Spain, as that's an experience I've only had in the US, in English. I'm going to come back to this in part 3, but the main cheers are "ánimo" "venga" "corre" and "campeón". Although special shout out to the person who told me, at kilometer 10 (not halfway through) that we were almost there... Good thing I knew better. Despite the beautiful scenery and encouraging onlookers, it was insanely windy. It was so windy that I’d pick up my foot and the wind would blow it behind my other foot – nearly tripping me up. It was also very hilly. At the half way point, the worst time in the race, there was a hill that went for a mile and every time you thought you could see the top, it would just keep going up. Many of my dad’s sayings popped into my head like “what goes up must come down” and “a hill is just a flat surface on an incline” to which my head argued back “well it doesn’t necessarily come back down when the start and finish are different towns” and “that’s a ridiculous saying”. Still, my dad ran a 2:19:00 marathon, so I wasn’t one to argue with his sayings. During the race, I'd go from trying not to smile and feeling like I was gliding while mentally preparing myself for my next half marathon to realizing how much my glutes and legs hurt and generally not being sure if I'd make it. I realize now this probably went with whether I was going up or down hill. But alas. Just as I was realizing there was a normal distance left (3.1 miles to be exact) and feeling good, I looked ahead to see another massive hill. By the top of the hill we were just over the 17 kilometer point (remember, this is 21 kilometers) so we weren’t close enough to be done, but we'd run enough of it that it felt like we were basically done. Plus at the top of that hill, you could see the spire of the church that marked the ending. I tried to kick into another gear while reminding myself I still had a couple miles left. And I did! For about a mile, until I arrived to the town where the race ended and was not sure if I could complete the last mile. Still, I did. I came around the corner, saw the finish line, and heard them announcing the arrival of "Yordan Yenkins". Despite the conditions and travel weirdness and blisters and lack of preparation and on and on, I did it. And I loved it. I’m eager to do another one, hopefully with at least a little training and a little less wind, but either way, that's probably my favorite distance I've ever done. Part 3, media-maratón is a feminine word: Now, to the title of my post. As most of you know, Spanish has feminine and masculine words, and "media-maratón" (half marathon) is a feminine word. I want to acknowledge here that there are a lot of problems with masculine/feminine vocabulary and what it does for people who are gender non-conforming or transgender as well as for gender stereotypes, even when the words have nothing to do with whatever it means to be masculine or feminine. However, my day felt very gendered from the very beginning. The boys on the bus were funny, but they were also annoying and wouldn't have done what they did if I were a guy. They wouldn't have asked me repeatedly to stand up so they could see if I had a runner's body, they wouldn't have asked for my number, they wouldn't have said they could keep up with me, they wouldn't have told me they loved me. Media-maratón is a feminine word, and yet I have to convince men that I was really going to run one. And then even before the race, I noticed how few women there were. I know competitive running for women is less popular here, but I see women running when I run in Logroño and I was not prepared for the disparity between men and women. Of the 600 half-marathon runners, 84 were women. That's 14%. Media-maratón is a feminine word, and yet only 14% of people running it were women. While I was running, I saw about 5 women. And while a lot of the men were chill and normal about the race, I saw a few too many guys let men pass them without any problem, then would see me coming to pass them and speed up so that I wouldn't. For me, it was whatever, I'd either pass them now or pass them later because I was clearly going faster, but it was stupid nonetheless. Media-maratón is a feminine word, and yet men more than double my age didn't want a girl to pass them. And then there was the cheering. This was the best part of there not being many women, but it was also sad. People in the villages we passed or those who'd hiked up to parts of the Camino to watch us run would cheer the normal things: "¡ánimo!" "¡venga!" But often when they saw me coming, people would get extra excited. "¡CAMPEONA!" (female version of champion) or "MIRA, ESA CHICA!" "look! That girl" even "puta chica!!" Which, as it was said by a woman, I'm hoping it's nicer than it would be in Ecuador. People were excited, and surprised, to see a woman up where I was in the race, or maybe in the race at all. It was such a complicated feeling, to be in the middle of something I was doing just because I loved it and to feel like I was representing a HUGE thing. Media-maratón is a feminine word, and yet it was surprising to see a woman running it. But then, there is always hope. Remember, as this was about the distance and not the speed, I was not exactly whipping by those viewing and thus could hear their conversations. Towards the outskirts of one village, there was a small crowd of people cheering who got excited to see me, a woman, coming along. I was both appreciating the support and still feeling the disbelief of how shocking my presence was, when I saw a mom lean down to her probably four-year-old daughter and say "See? Women can do this too!" Which, naturally, just about made me cry, except that I still had a job to finish and there was no time for tears. Instead, I let it motivate me. How many girls are out there who feel like they can't do something men dominate in? Media-maratón is a feminine word, and here's to the next generation of female half (and full) marathon runners. And finally, Part 4, Post race: Naturally, after a half-marathon in La Rioja, they give you free wine. To be precise, they give you one delicious sandwich that was just some of the best bread ever with amazing chorizo inside, and then they give you a wine glass with two vouchers for you to pick which wines you wanted to try. Wine was about the last thing I wanted, but it was also free, and, when in Rioja... I tried to eat and drink some other stuff before hopping on the bus with Ali to head back to Logroño. Once home I told myself I'd nap real quick then go get a pizza (I would've killed for a burrito or a hamburger, but it was Sunday and everything was closed – not that I could've found a good burrito or burger anyway). However, after a nearly two-hour nap I couldn't imagine getting out of bed let alone out of my house. Thankfully, I have the best friends in the world, and Ali came over and made pasta for me. It took me two hours to have a couple pieces of popcorn, an apple, and maybe half a cup of spaghetti, but once I had that down, I was feeling better and ready for real sleep. Today I feel totally better, minus my entire body, which is oh-so sore and only getting worse. Still, I wouldn't change it for the world. I hope to sign up for another one when I can. And hopefully one day, I'll make it a full marathon, because, hey, that can be a feminine word too. |
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November 2018
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