Eighteen years later...

I cried this morning. I couldn't help it. I generally tear up every year on this day as memories flood into my mind of September 11, 2001, but this year was different. I cried not just for the memories of those that died that day but also for the realization that my time in high school was bookended by two events that changed both our country and the world, taking much of our innocence with them.

In September of 2001, I was a 17-year-old who had just started her senior year of high school a few weeks before. Three and a half years before that day, on April 20, 1999, two teenagers opened fire in a high school in Littleton, CO wearing black trench coats and ultimately murdering 13 people before killing themselves. I was a freshman in high school at the time. The "Wildcat" drills started not too long after. At the time it was a completely foreign concept to have to practice something like that, but now they are so regularly performed that they have a standardized name. Lockdown. When a lockdown drill is called, the doors are locked, the halls are emptied, the windows are covered, the lights are turned off, and everyone is silent and as far away from the windows and doors as possible. The purpose is to save lives in case of an active shooter on a school premises, and undoubtedly they have done so in the over 20 years since Columbine, but at the time we thought them mostly silly. Were we really ever going to need to do a "Wildcat" drill? Columbine was several states away from California, and it was a horrible tragedy that was a one-off. At least that's what we thought. Now, as I work in a high school and have been through a couple of routine practice drills for a lock-down as required by state law, I can't help but think that the teachers and administration in my school and others clearly knew something that my young mind couldn't comprehend. It could happen again.

Fast forward to the morning I came down the stairs and saw my mom glued to the television. It was not at all abnormal for her to have the news on in her bedroom as background noise as she got ready, but never was the living room TV on. And never was she actually sitting on the couch in front of it at 7:30 in the morning. I started watching then, and this feeling began to wash over me. Multiple feelings, actually. Fear, confusion, grief. But the most prominent sensation that I had, which carried into the rest of the day and even for a few day afterwards, was the sense that the world was ending. I sat in every classroom with my classmates and teachers alike, all silent and watching the news on TV in disbelief. I was in the quad at lunch, sitting in the sun at a round picnic table, playing with the plastic covered grated holes and thinking that this might be the last day on earth for everyone. Cataclysmic thoughts, yes, but looking back 18 years later, I don't think I was as wrong as I may sound.

In the days moving forward, Alan Jackson asked us where we were when the world stopped turning, which none of us old enough will ever forget how to answer. American flags sold out in the stores. People held each other's hands and embraced strangers. The world reached out to us as Americans and mourned with us. It was a beauty in a tragic circumstance, and we bonded as a country in a way that has yet to happen again since.

And then the world slowly started to divide again. But this time the divide was deep. Fear and anger led us to hatred and suspicion. Privacies that we once had slowly began to disappear. No longer could we watch the plane leave the terminal. No ticket, no entrance. Everyone was a potential threat, and to an extent we still treat each other with the same mentality now, 18 years later. Although the world didn't literally stop turning nor explode, I do feel that it died that day. We lost our innocence as a people and we have never been able to get it back. Maybe my 17-year-old self was feeling the burden of loss at that moment, knowing in an instant that something was different. I will never really know, but I will also never forget.

So, this morning as I drove to work realizing that my students and athletes will never experience a time when "wildcat" lockdown drills didn't exist and what the world was like before it was different, I cried. For them, for us, for the innocent victims. But mostly for them. That freedom was taken from them before they were even born. I know they can't miss what they never had, but I can miss it for them, and I do. We lost our innocence 20 and 18 years ago as a country and as a people around the world. I can only hope that somewhere down the line we are able to find it again.

Rio 2016: A Spectacle of Life and Sport

Rio de Janeiro. When said in English, it sounds exciting. When said in Portuguese, it sounds exotic and passionate. After these past two weeks, I can say that all of those words are accurate descriptions of this vibrant city.


Four years ago, after watching people whom I can now legitimately call friends compete in the Paralympics in London, I said that I would be going to Rio in 2016 to do the same there. It wasn't a possibility; it was a definitive. I started putting away money from every paycheck the week that I returned and four years later, I made good on that promise. London drove home my love for adaptive sports while Rio fortified my love for the athletes.

Those two weeks were a whirlwind in so many ways. I "did" Rio to as much of an extent as possible while also making sure that I was supporting the most important people, my friends old and new, in their feats of amazingness. To describe everything would be impossible and lengthy, but I am going to try my best, so sit tight, grab a coffee, and enjoy the ride....

I am no stranger to travel at this point in my life, but I will admit that my international travel has been primarily limited to Mexico (which I hardly count due to how young I was last time I was there) and western Europe, with only a brief visit to Africa. While that is still much more than the large majority of US Americans, I feel as though my explorations are grouped into one primary view point. Rio, in all its eclectic glory, helped broaden that vantage.


Although I am not fluent in any language except English, I speak enough Spanish and German to get by in the most prominent countries I travel to and live in. Those where I don't know much more than "hello" and "thank you" are usually of minimal consequence because much of the European Union speaks at least a bit of broken English, if not are more fluent in English than I am in their language. So, to find that most Brazilians speak zero English was quite a new experience for me. I am unsure how much of the lack of English is due to an absence of English education in schools or a larger consensus that it is unnecessary to learn. This is based on a conversation that I listened to where a Brazilian girl, maybe about 21 or 22 years old, adamantly expressed her unwillingness to learn English, stating that she shouldn't have to learn English when the country that she lived in speaks Portuguese and the continent she lives on speaks either that or Spanish. In either case, I will not fault the Brazilians for primarily only speaking one language, whatever the reason, but the fact did make everyday activities a bit more challenging and intimidating. Simultaneously, such experiences give me insight. I will never be fluent in all languages of the world where I travel, but it targeted my appreciation of those who travel (and especially move) to a country where they cannot communicate. Hand gestures are a wonderful addition to any conversation, and eventually the most important things get across.


Upon coordination of travel to the sports venues to watch the events, I quickly realized that Rio is huge. To get from one side of the city to the other, it is necessary to drive over an hour. It can essentially be compared to driving across multiple city lines within a county, as there are different districts scattered throughout Rio. I have found in previous travels that the most cost efficient way of travel is generally public transport (trains, metro, buses) or good old fashioned walking. Rio was no exception to this rule. By public transit, I was just under 2 hours away from most of the venues that I was spectating at, but my time spent navigating my way through the city allowed me to have  much more vibrant and "real" experience.




Much to most people's surprise, I never felt wholly unsafe while in Rio. I constantly remained aware of my surroundings but, having walked late at night by myself most every night to return home from the Olympic Park, at no time did I feel I was in any sort of extreme danger. What I did see though, was every walk of life. I stayed in an area of Rio called Lapa. Known for a few tourist attractions and it's nightlife, it is also one of the grittier parts of the city. Walking to and from the metro, about a 10 min walk, enlightened me to many smells and sights. My favorite was the homeless woman by the bank down the street whom I often saw reading the paper in the morning and sleeping close to (I assume) her husband/significant other at night. It also made me smile to see the men who hung around the rickshaw- like cart, which doubled as their bed, smiling while playing with their group puppy. Then on the metro, I would watch children coming back from the beach, a woman indiscriminately crying,  parents hugging their babies, and younger people giving their seat up for the elderly. I saw this on the bus as well, but often with a bit more crowded of a viewpoint. Although there is obvious poverty, there is also typical everyday life. Brazil is not a war-torn country; regular people still live there and raise families and lead regular lives just as you and I do.




           

As any typical tourist would do while in Rio, I went to several of the beaches, sat in awe from view points at Christ the Redeemer and Sugar Loaf, and explored the hippie market that happens on Sundays in Ipanema. I reveled in some of the delicious food that Rio has to offer, although I feel I should have indulged in that aspect more fully. I learned that Samba is a way of life and of hips. In short, I was able to see the beauty that is Rio. Although I would like to visit again later in life, hopefully to engage myself more in the natural side of the area through hiking, I was able to leave feeling that I did not miss out on much of anything. In fact, I was lucky enough to have the additional experience of attending the Paralympics. I cannot say I am dissatisfied.



               

The excitement of the Paralympic Games is a separate adventure of its own. The location of the Paralympics has little to do with the Games themselves and more so to do with what one does outside of watching the  showcasing of incredible talent from phenomenal athletes. For those who do not know what the Paralympic Games are, they are the Olympics for para athletes, athletes with physical disabilities. These disabilities range from those who are paralytic to missing limbs, dwarfism to giantism, and everything in between. They are not the Special Olympics, which are held all over the US at various times for developmentally disabled individuals. The Paralympics are held every four years, two weeks after the regular Olympics in the same venues. The first Paralympics were held in 1960 in Rome and have grown immensely since. These Games showcase talent which rivals that seen in the Olympics, with many of the same events, just with adaptations.

 I first learned of adaptive sports a few years ago while working with an Army unit that focused on injured Soldiers. My job was to get them to be physical within their limitations through adaptive sports such as wheelchair basketball and sitting volleyball. My knowledge, love, and respect for these sports grew the longer I was in the job. I had the fortunate opportunity to meet the men of Team USA in wheelchair basketball a few months before they headed to London for the 2012 Games, and on a whim I decided to go to London, too. As I said, those Games led me to Rio, a showcasing that did not disappoint.

There were two sports that I focused on attending during these Games: men's wheelchair basketball and the sprint canoe (paddling), which had its debut this year.

Wheelchair basketball is one of my favorite sports in general, adaptive or not. To watch how fast the athletes are and see how much strength they have boggles the mind. They play on the same court with the same dimensions, the same net height, and the same markings as regular basketball. This year's competition was fantastic, to say the least. The men (and women, for that matter) were undefeated throughout the whole tournament. I had the opportunity to cheer them on from the relatively simple games at the beginning of the tournament all the way to watching them win gold against Spain, something that had not been done by the US men since 1988. Bronze was close in London, but it wasn't gold.

I didn't know I was going to be so emotional, but when that buzzer sounded, tears of joy were pouring from my eyes. I looked around to the families of the rest of the players and coaches, whom had adopted me into their "family" during the Games, and I saw not a dry eye in our group. The pride that we all felt for them was overwhelming. I know that for the families it was much deeper than even what I experienced. They have watched their sons and husbands for years, day in and day out, pushing to be better, faster, stronger. These men inspire me but not because they are disabled; that is irrelevant. I am inspired by the amount of dedication that they have given to their craft. Literally their whole lives revolve around the sport, and very often they do it more for love than money (not because they wouldn't like to be paid more fairly, but para athletes are not equally represented in the sports world - yet).

In fact, all of the athletes that I watched inspire me for the same reason. The women that I know who competed in sprint canoe have overcome just as many difficulties and obstacles. Neither were born with their disability, but both have pushed through to become good enough at their sport to make it to such a level. Also, both are pushing forward in the world of adaptive surfing (one living in San Diego and one in Hawaii) to grow that branch of sport and possibility for others to get out and get moving. Neither of them went home with a medal, but they both started and finished within the top 15 competitors in their sport in the world. Regardless of their final standing, that is mind boggling amazing when you think about it.


None of the athletes that I know or that I saw have let themselves become mentally paralyzed by their struggles. Just like anyone else, they have some days that are harder and easier than others, but rather than feeling sorry for themselves, they figure it out, put their head down, and drive forward. That is inspirational, regardless of limitations.

In short (ok, in long), I returned from this trip to Rio a better person. I was able to face fears and change some preconceived notions and perspectives as well as intake the reminder of how blessed I am. There is so much that I have the propensity to take for granted, so sometimes the raw reality of that is a beneficial reminder. Rio was beautiful as were all of the people that I encountered, athletes and non-athletes alike. It is a trip that I will not soon forget and an experience that I am immensely grateful for. I do not know if I will have the opportunity to attend the Paralympics in Tokyo 2020 but if able, I will be there. To all those that were a part of my trip and allowed me to be a part of your experience, thank you. You are amazing.

But, it does feel good to be home ❤

The Brave Traveler

It's not uncommon that I have people tell me how brave I am for traveling by myself. I always find that interesting to hear because I don't really consider myself to be brave but instead unwilling to let life go by without embracing it. Travel is how I do that, and without a travel partner in most instances, I refuse to let it hold me back.

I wasn't always like this. Believe it or not, I still consider myself to be shy in many ways. And I guarantee that I do not always feel brave when traveling. In fact, I generally lose weight when traveling for multiple reasons. One is that I never stop moving, and it is not uncommon for me to walk (or sometimes ride a bike) between 10-15 miles per day. Another, especially in countries where I don't know the customs and/or don't speak the language, is that I am often too intimidated to stop somewhere to eat. I generally eat relatively few full meals, opting more for small shops and street vendors in many cases. This is not done solely for convenience and cost; it is ingrained in me, and I work very hard, to not stand out in other countries. In turn, I have an internal reminder that to expose myself as a nonlocal should be done with as little frequency as possible. To reveal that I do not know the language or to make a mistake ordering unmasks me, and so it has become a fear-avoidance tactic. I often become brave primarily when my stomach starts reminding me to be so.

When I moved to Germany five years ago, I didn't realize just how afraid I was and how unprepared I felt until I got here. People told me then how brave I was for picking up and moving to another country, and again, I was just taking advantage of a blessed opportunity (and was ready to get out of the states). Bravery had nothing to do with it. If I had actually done more thinking, who knows if I would have taken the leap. When I got to Germany, however, I realized just how "brave" I had to be. All of a sudden, I was living in another country where I didn't know the language, customs, or even how to drive. There were many times where I remember crying and feeling physically ill from the amount of social anxiety I experienced while trying to adapt. But at that point, as is often the case in my travels, it was "head down, drive forward".

I think that is how we all get along in life, though. I look at the way some people live and think they are braver or stronger than I could ever be. The person growing up without a formal roof over their head or running water to drink but still managing to smile, the person who jumps out of an airplane for a living, the person who is raising a large family, the person who is chasing their dream with no guaranteed payoff, the blind woman on the metro in Rio by herself - those are all brave actions but in such different ways. Yet one is no less admirable than the other.

The more I travel, the more I am embraced with the reality that we are all the same. No matter what country I go to, I see parents love their children unconditionally, people shed tears in hurt or frustration, families embrace, people smile, couples kiss, and love shared - even by the homeless on the street. I hear swear words in multiple languages and laughter from the gut. I watch people watch me and I watch them, out of curiosity and of boredom. The majority of people are just trying to get through this thing called life in one piece, however they know how. Some are inherently bad, but that crosses cultural and continental boundaries - not a reason to stay home and hide. For the most part, people are beautiful. This understanding allows me to be less afraid to adventure.

I believe that I was genetically programmed to be the way that I am, to enjoy life from a multifaceted perspective. But I couldn't have told you that 16 years ago when I first traveled to Europe and came home saying that I would live there one day. I couldn't even have told you that five years ago when that goal was reached. But, the more that I see of the world and watch people embrace life with vigor in a rainbow of ways, all of which are beautiful, the "braver" I have to become to see more. I will probably never have a trip to a new country (or  familiar one, for that matter) that I won't have to be "brave" at some point during it. But how can I grow if I don't challenge myself and face my fears? That's part of the fun of life!

With that, I leave you with the challenge to figure out what you are afraid of, put your head down, and drive forward. Maybe you'll fail at times. Maybe you'll cry (I have definitely cried). But, maybe those failures will bring about strength you don't know you have or those tears will actually turn out to be of joy. Don't just admire the people that you wish you could be like, be one.