A personal essay by JC Eastwood
Transforming my self-loathing into something more.
Transforming my self-loathing into something more.
Nineteen. Nineteen minutes to run a mile and a half.
Exhausted and wheezing, I paused to rest near a tree as even the girls passed me by. A poor attempt to pretend re-tying my shoes fooled no one. Embarrassed, my little grey plastic inhaler remained in my pocket and when I returned home, I remained in my room. That day, I was not only embarrassed; I was embarrassing.
My parents couldn’t know about my pitiful track time. My father was the famous local basketball coach and my mother, a former swim instructor. Being an athlete wasn’t forced upon me, but it was expected. It was in my blood. It was in my DNA. But, it was not me. I was me. Criminally undersized, fitfully clumsy, and physically handicapped. Even as a fifth grader, I understood that I was just…me.
My parents couldn’t know about my pitiful track time. My father was the famous local basketball coach and my mother, a former swim instructor. Being an athlete wasn’t forced upon me, but it was expected. It was in my blood. It was in my DNA. But, it was not me. I was me. Criminally undersized, fitfully clumsy, and physically handicapped. Even as a fifth grader, I understood that I was just…me.
