Personal Statement : The Unlucky Runner

Today is the day, the day I would get the paper I worked so hard on back. It is a chilly fall morning as I walked to my AP Literature classroom. The classroom was full of vibrant colors that match my teacher’s fiery red hair, various pug pictures, and a shelf jam-packed with Mr. Potato heads. Mrs. Grimes, my teacher, is loud, impolite, and to say this nicely, she is an overweight older woman. I hate going to her class every day, nothing I ever do is good enough for her, she hates me all because I am quiet. So, I am very apprehensive about what grade I had received on this paper.

The five-minute warning bell goes off. I rush to my first class of my junior year, eager to see my classmates, who I was going to spend the rest of the 9 months with. I find myself stumbling into a classroom plastered with decorations of Denzel Washington with a Dr. Seuss book in his hand, a t and college flags galore. My AP English 11 class suddenly seemed so appealing to me. As a beautiful, curly haired short lady stood in front of me and said “Welcome to AP English 11,” I knew that I had found a treasure so much greater than just a pretty classroom. Little did I know, that short lady was going to inspire me throughout my challenge filled second-to-last year of high school.

As a track runner, it is a necessity to be relaxed yet focused and determined. When I participate in track meets or even at practices, I receive a comforting warmth just by stepping onto the track. I feel as though burdens and worries temporarily lift from my shoulders. One may wonder how this can make someone content with their surroundings instead of nervous and uneasy based upon their environment and luckily for me this is an uncomplicated notion to explain. Unlike particular people, the track calms me and gives me a place to clear my head. I work relentlessly to achieve my goals, nevertheless it also gives me the clearance and space I need to effectively work my hardest whether it be a physical goal I am working to achieve

All throughout history people have been made to feel less than because the color of their skin. I encountered this all throughout high school running track. Track consists mainly of African Americans while a small portion consists of Caucasians for sprinting and field events. My high school coach was named Coach Lucas and he was African American. He constantly told me I wouldn’t be able to do well or that I should find a different sport because track is not a white woman’s sport. He also degraded me when I would do well at track meets by always saying I won because I got lucky and the other kids just had a bad day running.

I was almost two seconds behind Josh before I closed the lead he had. My car was much faster than his as I could put my car anywhere on the track at will. When I caught Josh, he was running in the middle of the track so I made several attempts to go both high and low to try and maneuver a pass. However, with him running in the middle groove, none of my attempts would make it possible for me to get a solid run to complete the pass. I even slammed my brakes, and went to the high groove to try and keep from hitting him. I tried every line possible to get around Josh cleanly with no

When I was 5 years old I had a surgery to treat my scoliosis. My legs were affected by the surgery and I was forced to learn how to walk again. After being released from the hospital I still had little mobility of my legs. I sometimes looked outside my living room window and watch all the children in my neighborhood running freely, I told myself one day I would be running freely too.

People ask me why would I do this to myself and I’d simply respond because it’s fun. Running is exhilarating; the process of depriving myself of oxygen excites me. It’s something in the fact that your brain is saying slow down, but your heart wants to keep on going.

It was a cool autumn afternoon and the Northside track team was getting ready to start practice. It was the first practice of the season. Coach came out of the gym and recommended that everyone needs to stretch before every practice. Everyone started to stretch except for the team captain which wasn’t there at the time. Arriving late the rest of the team was already done stretching so he didn’t get to stretch.

The cool morning but apparent good October weather made it feel as if it’d be a good day. The large black man stood smiling and welcomed us with open arms as we walked into the building much before school that day was set to start, and as he motioned us into a conference room he said, “Welcome to St. Xavier High School, please be seated and we’ll start soon once just about everyone gets here.” And after sitting down anywhere we liked, because the Rumpke’s seemed to arrive early at places, waited for the other kids to roll in. Once they had all arrived, Pete and I sat talking

It was freezing cold out, and the coach had made the call that there was still going to be running today. Some of the runners on the cross-country team were relieved to hear this news, but I was frustrated with this weather. “Is there any way I can just run farther tomorrow? We’ve already had to run three to five miles each day for the past week,” I commented. “I know it’s tough running in this heat Michael, but it builds endurance and stamina,” coach replied. “You need to push through the heat in order to perform well.” Coach had been making us do mile repeats to prepare us for the next meet, but I was already feeling discouraged about the upcoming meet from my last performance. My goal was to make varsity before the end of the season, which

Inari and I share one thing in common and that's setting things on fire by accident. I once had an easy bake oven and I wanted to make a cake, but I didn't want to wait that long for it to heat up. Instead, I used this little container from the same brand that made the tiny cakes in the microwave. Once my batter was ready to cook, I placed it in the oven for ten minutes just like the directions had specified. When I came back, smoke was escaping the microwave and a bright light was being emitted. The good thing was that it was next to the sink, so I managed to splash the microwave with water before the fire engulfed my home. All Inari wanted was a pop tart, but just like me, she put too much time. The toaster got a bit too toasty and it sprung into flames. She thankfully didn't throw water at it, but instead disconnected it which made the flames

The track is full of anxious runners and frazzled coaches. My team and I run laps and stop near the bleachers to hear the names of competitors and their schools. With sweaty faces and eyes full of anticipation, we sit on the bleachers and wait for the race to start. I see several athletes roll onto the track. The entire outdoor stadium goes silent. Their coaches were adjusting the wheels of their slim, athletic wheelchairs. The official rose his gun up and shot. The amount of determination and pain on their faces was incalculable. The focus was on the athlete in lane two, now finishing in first place. Her coach ran, swept up her wheelchair, and placed her on the winner’s pedestal. Her smile proved defeating struggles was worth the pain. Seeing

It was 2:17 in the afternoon, and Mrs. Cartwright’s bust just kept bouncing. Mrs. Cartwright was our new teacher for our Health class, due to some complications with our old teacher. No one really knows why Mr. Smith was fired, but rumors say he was some kind of Russian spy and the CIA came to find out what he was. Others say he was selling drugs secretly to other students, but in reality no one really knows the true story as to why Mr. Smith was fired. As Mrs. Cartwright continued to lecture us on the worst topic of the year, I felt a light tap on my shoulder.

My mother set the pot on the stove and turned to me. “You’re not varsity. You haven’t achieved anything big. Why do you run?”

It was the first day of sixth grade. I was walking with my friend Mikey at the time. Because we had all of our classes together, we became close fast. We were walking to our fifth period class, A.T, knowing we had the ominous “Mr Livingston”. We were discussing in nervous whispers the rumors we had heard. “Oh, I heard that he’s very intimidating” Mikey stated. “”Yeah, I heard that too, but I heard by the end of this quarter, we will like him” I added on. For the most part, we were right. But I so much more than like him. For the past three years, I went through Mr Livingston, Mrs Benson, Mrs Barrington, Mrs Nealon and Mr Albano. The other teachers taught us knowledge about marine biology, the civil war, logic, factorials, and much more. But Mr Livingston was different. All of his units were leading up to this huge unit, and one colossal question. Who am I and what do I want to become. From teaching us about civil disobedience in sixth grade, to teaching us all about empathy in seventh grade, to teaching us