Greatness

{faith, hope, love}

Soaring past barriers

She was born the fifth child of ten, in Albany, Georgia, 1923.

As she grew, running fast, jumping high, they were as natural as the rising sun–yet according to some, the color of her skin was not. You see, being black in the segregated south, barred her from organized sports, as well as the use of the training facilities.

Her parents suggested more lady-like pursuits–perhaps something that might offer a chance at success. A teacher preached the opposite, encouraging the pursuit of her dream; and an aunt helped her stand her ground.

And stand her ground, she did. She trained as she could–running barefoot through fields, sprinting down dirt lanes, jumping over ropes or rags pulled tight with sticks. She pushed herself to practice hours upon hours to improve her time, improve her jumps–dedication that led to a scholarship to Tuskegee Preparatory School, at the age of sixteen. While attending Tuskegee, she competed in the Women’s National Championships–breaking both the collegiate and National high jump records. She did it all barefoot.

From Tuskegee to Albany State College, all in all she held 25 national titles, from the 50 yard dash to basketball.

Not even a back injury could keep her from qualifying for the 1948 Olympic Games in London. Like always, she didn’t workout the day before competition, much to the dismay of her coach. You’ll end up just like the others, at the bottom. You’ll never make it . . .

Not only did she make it, but Alice Coachman became the first African American to win a gold medal–the only female American to win a medal of any kind in London 1948.

Though she retired from sports at the age of twenty-five, she continued to help other athletes–teaching and encouraging young athletes, directing and inspiring Olympic veterans. In her lifetime she’s been named to five all-American teams, inducted into eight Halls of Fame, and named one of the 100 greatest ever Olympic athletes.

Not bad for someone deemed as not having a chance.

As Alice Coachman proves, it is possible to soar past barriers, straight to our dreams–but it takes work, dedication, and faith . . . maybe even a lucky lemon or two . . .

 

::::

Martha Ward Plowden, Olympic Black Women (Gretna, La.: Pelican, 1996).

Nellie Gordon Roulhac, Jumping over the Moon: A Biography of Alice Coachman Davis (Philadelphia: privately printed, 1993).

Fall down seven times, get up eight

{Also, leaving your vintage bike unattended for years? Not good.}

Sunday, I chatted briefly with a friend. Both of her boys were born near the holidays, you see, and therefore get to celebrate their half-birthdays in the summer. When we ran into one another, the younger of the two was getting off his brand new bike. After offering appropriate admiration his eyes flew wide and a smile teased his lips. He then proceeded to tell me all about it–but the first words out of his mouth were not as you might imagine. He said nothing of the awesomeness of his ride, the training wheels that allow him to ride by himself, or the places he’s roamed.

I fell down, he said. You fell down? I echoed. Like a knight sensing a great conquest, he puffed out his chest, and continued, I fell down two times . . .

As we discussed the extent of injuries {my first thought when falling down} his brother sidled up. Well, I fell down six times! Six times, if you can even believe; with that, the younger had no recourse but to revise his exploits: I mean, I fell down three times–three times!

As if they are not ridiculously adorable enough, at that moment I could have grabbed them and gobbled them up. Cute, smart, and brave–wee knights, indeed.

I don’t know about you, but I could use a little of their unbridled bravery to rub off. To face life with little concern for the breaking of a leg or the injury to pride. To set my sights; to charge forward even when fear rears its ugly head–even when I could fail miserably, especially when I could fail miserably. For it’s only when we view ‘failure’ as part of of the adventure, that we’ll ever know just how far we can go . . .

The greatest heroes of all

{Grand-mama, to the left, ma-mama, middle (Mary) circa 1957}

It only appropriate the week that begins with National Teacher Day and continues on with superheroes, should end with the greatest heroes of them all: our mothers.

Ma, mom, madre, mor, mere, majka, mae, muter {seriously, I am totally going to start calling my mom muter}–it doesn’t matter what we call her, the heart remains the same. We may be born of her, or chosen–she may be our mother our whole lives through, or just when we need her, but the blessings are the same.

She’s the one throwing together costumes at the last moment {because we failed to tell her ahead of time}; the one standing in the wings at programs. She’s the one volunteering for school outings, running taxi service for myriad extracurricular activities, and cheering until she’s hoarse at games. She’s the one hosting birthday parties and sleep overs . . . baking mounds of cakes and cookies . . . giving hugs at the door and sticking notes in lunch bags. She’s the one taking photos ad nauseam at prom and telling us to “drive careful” as we go on our way . . . the one teaching us to brush our teeth, look both ways before crossing the street, and always, always wear clean underwear. She’s the one protecting us while in her care, giving us wings when it’s our turn to fly, and covering our days with prayer.

Yet we never truly outgrow her.

No matter where we may roam, there’s always something about a mother’s touch, the sound of her voice, that’s like coming home.

So to all you mothers–be you new to the job, or old pros–a happy weekend, to you!

To you who boast the best of moms–be she blood, adopted, or borrowed–let us not forget the gratitude.

To you whose mamas are but a memory, may your memories be sweet.

. . . and a happy Mother’s Day weekend, to you all!

Those who teach us

{Brains print on vintage algebra book page by Crow Biz}

Of all things, he taught 7th grade Algebra. Not for the faint of heart, such an endeavor requires stalwart nerves. He appeared to possess nothing of the sort. He owned but one suit, which he wore everyday (or so it seems): baby blue polyester, white dress shirt, brown striped tie, hanging slightly askew. A roly poly fellow, he carried an uncanny semblance to Wallace Shawn. He’d be up in front, writing equation after equation on the blackboard, standing on his tippy-toes to reach the top. His audience an unruly lot, there were times he could take no more. That’s when he’d stop, whip out the calculator from the inside pocket of his jacket, hold it to his mouth, and ever-so-seriously say, “Beam me up Scotty!” And we would laugh and laugh.

We laughed a lot in that class.

When we worked our own equations, he sat in the corner, at his big wooden desk, working on paperwork of some sort or another. Occasionally, my friends and I would get a bit out of hand. Glaring over the top of his spectacles he’d say, “Girls . . . ” followed by a ‘threat’ that struck us hilarious. He’d simply shake his head and continue on his way; once we managed composure, we’d follow suit.

But the funniest thing of all: I loved math in his class–me, the person who now, at the very mention of the word, gets light-headed and needs to lie down. Loved it. I even signed up to take Algebra 3-4 in Summer School. Summer School, people! (who does that?)

Unfortunately, in summer school, the powers that be decided a history teacher would make a mighty fine math teacher. And so began my rapid decline in mathematical skills–a descent that rivals the The Crash of ’29.

But I suppose, if we never experienced a bad teacher, we’d never appreciate the good . . .

So to all the good ones out there, thank you.

Be you seemingly normal or weirder than a three-dollar bill, you’re the every day heroes of our lives. You teach, encourage, and stretch us. You make learning fun.

You change the world; you just rarely get the credit.

Earth and those who call it home

{source?}

Did you have a glorious Earth Day? Any festivities to honor the occasion?

Most of Saturday consisted of playing in the dirt–pulling weeds and digging out grass. Fun. Recyclables were thrown in the blue bin. Also fun. That’s about the height of my Earth Day Celebration.

Staying cool was the name of the game on Sunday; and while I may have faltered, I was brave in the attempt. Okay fine. That’s not at all true. I whined my way through the heat of the day and bawled like a baby in church.

That last bit could not be helped, I might add–it was a total setup.

The service was a bit different, you see. Rather than a traditional sermon, our friend got up and spoke about their adoptions. He and his wife have added four children to their family, through adoption–one little boy from Vietnam, and one boy and two girls from China. And they started when their biological kids were grown–it took that long for God to convince Ken adoption was the thing to do. 

Being we’ve been friends roughly forever, I was smug in my ability to keep it together. You know the drill: pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. The tears started falling with the first video of a little abandoned boy who lost his leg to gangrene; it was a regular waterfall by the video of my friends and their newest kids. Luckily, by the time we got to the music video of  Third Day’s “Children of God” there were more smiles than tears. 

Don’t you just love the way God brings families together? In God’s eyes, the world is one big canvas. He sees mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters–the wide expanse between them is nothing. 

Come to think of it, that just might be the best way to celebrate Earth Day. After all, we don’t take care of the planet for the planet’s sake–we take care of it, for those who call it home.