Two races

I looked up the definitions of “spectator, participant and admirer.” In the upshot of two races I had witnessed here in New York, I’m trying to make sense of how I stand and feel about these recent events.

The annual New York Marathon and US presidential elections almost intersected, with only a day in between them. I wasn’t a participant in either, neither a runner nor a voter. But the weeks leading to these occasions propelled me beyond being a spectator. A Filipino friend intimated she’s running her first NY marathon, a feat her husband achieved last year.

Friends and relatives opined about their candidates. Two suggested that if the former president wins, they could again greet friends and acquaintances with “Merry Christmas” instead of “happy holidays.” Another friend prayed for her candidate to win, dreaming of how America would be like if its first female president is elected. Are we ready? She pondered.

It is perhaps with the same optimism and boldness when my Fil-Am siblings declared their post elections sentiments – one jubilant, the other devastated. Our family chat, which at pre-election night was wailing like the ambulances of New York, froze like the Hudson River in winter the next day. We non-voters who nevertheless leaned on our choices suddenly became bystanders. But then, for someone living in America, albeit fleetingly, I know I should not remain a spectator. The question of how I could become a participant in the affairs of our present adoptive land hovers in my head.

Like a confused tourist traversing downtown Manhattan, I recollected my thoughts and recognized, I could focus on being a curious enthusiast, a keen admirer and occasional critique of things that make life in our temporary home out of the ordinary. From these experiences I know for sure I could fill my suitcase of memories with lifelong lessons, such as the ones I gleaned from the two recent races.

In most if not all contests, we focus on the winner. In sprints and marathons, it’s on who crosses the finish line first, sets a new world record; on how the professionals would fare or how much prize money is at stake. But the essence of the NY Marathon rises above who’s fastest or who would become $100,000 richer. In one of the articles I read, a nine-time marathoner wrote about running her tenth with a friend, who’s doing a maiden run. Her goal is to help her friend “get to the finish line feeling as happy and strong as possible without our lifelong friendship dissolving in the process.” In my friend’s case, it’s for a higher purpose, one of which is for her father’s healing.

On that chilly Sunday morning (the NY Marathon by tradition always takes place on the first Sunday of November), we cheered with spectators along the stretch of First Avenue and 63rd Street. We delighted in the mélange of images dashing past us. We blended with the jovial crowd and applauded at mentions of names acknowledged by family and friends. I was awed at how they spotted them from over 50,000 marathoners representing 150 countries. It was one day in our time here when I momentarily suspended my perception about the city’s individualistic culture.

You can’t miss the unique ones. A very tall man in white long sleeved shirt and suspenders, a red dotted bow tie and black shorts; runners bearing their countries flags, more prominently, countries currently in a state of war; breast cancer advocates and a myriad of eye popping get-ups.

At first glance they look like mere costumes, but my guess is they represent convictions, philosophies, ideologies and even voices of love, sadness, maybe anger or acceptance. And the way to profoundly express them is by conquering a 42.195-kilometer run. In my friend’s case I imagined streams of tears blurring her vision as she pressed on to successfully finish her first NY marathon. I messaged how she was after the race. She replied her father passed away an hour before her run.

From a plethora of emotions to an overload of reasons: this is how it felt like the day after the elections. The hubby who stayed up until 3 a.m. to monitor developments already knew the results. I sought answers by reading the headlines and opinion section of The New York Times, reviewing pages from first lady Hillary Clinton’s “What Happened” and perusing the brief chapter of “My Beautiful Election,” from Peggy Noonan’s book, “The Time of Our Lives.” Ms. Noonan is a Wall Street Journal columnist and erstwhile speechwriter of president Ronald Reagan. I thought how their ideas could help me better understand America’s colorful political landscape.

The NY Times piece, “America makes a perilous choice,” offers a cautionary view of how the country’s democratic principles could be shattered under the new administration. It also reminds how “Benjamin Franklin famously admonished the American people that the nation was a republic, if you can keep it.” The op-ed prompts Americans that the outcome of one of their founding fathers’ reproach is in their hands.

“What Happened” is an intimate account of Mrs. Clinton’s presidential campaign and its aftermath. Moving from frustration to resilience, she wrote about “taking long walks in the woods,” remembering a line from a sermon how “Grace strikes us when we are in great pain and restlessness.” Having embraced “radical empathy,” she accentuated how this could be achieved by reaching beyond racial, political and cultural divides. Rereading Mrs. Clinton was like peering through the soul of a once wounded woman warrior.

In the toss up between then presidential candidates senators John McCain and Barack Obama, Ms. Noonan wrote: “America is always looking forward, not back, it is always in search of the fresh and leaving the tried. That’s how we started…”

America must have been tired then. Now, I wonder if it is still “in search of the fresh.”