They Say You Can Run but You Cannot Hide - Part One

They say you can run, but you can’t hide.

I literally started running in the fourth grade. I had a hard year. My teacher that year was Mrs. Jones. She was older than any of the other fourth-grade teachers and it showed. She was shorter than some of the boys in our class and her skin was as wrinkly as her personality. She had red hair piled up in a beehive – but it was wiry and see-through like brunette Easter basket grass.  There were days that you could see the green chalkboard through the spaces in her curls. She had a reputation for being hard on the girls; pointing out flaws in their behavior and abilities in front of the class. She would mock our accents or question our science knowledge by having one of the boys confirm our answer. Her favorite punishment for anything she deemed unacceptable was to have us write out ANTIDISESTABLISMENTARIANISM one hundred times on the chalkboard at the back of the class.

We paid her back, though, and probably gave reason for her furrowed personality. In the cafeteria, the teachers sat together at a long table across the multi-purpose room. It had been a fourth grade rite of passage to carefully balance a single pea in a spork and flip it across the room into Mrs. Jones hair. The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to spot the green sphere on the top of her head or pointing it out at the end of the day to try to embarrass her.

On the night of the first parent-teacher conference, Mrs. Jones hosted punch and cookies in the classroom after the principal's welcome in the multi-purpose room. The students sat in their assigned seats and the parents circled around us with their backs against the outer edge of the wall. Questions were asked and answered about the upcoming year. Just before we were dismissed from the group, my mom raised her hand.

“Is there a science fair this year?” she asked Mrs. Jones. “I really want to be prepared this year.” She wrinkled her nose to show her distaste for what always turned out to be a parental assignment in torture.  There were groans from the parents around her and a general consensus of I’m with you in the room. Only Nelson Kaufmann and his family of orthodontists liked the science fair.

“No, but there’s a spelling bee in December and a math competition in January. Of course, you won’t have to worry about that, though. Beth is a good student, but she’s not great in math.”

I looked at my hands and placed them inside the hollow space under the desktop. I picked at the skin around the nail of my left thumb and avoided the stares of Nelson Kaufmann whose desk abutted and faced mine. The embarrassment crept up from my toes and I wondered if my hair could turn the same color of Mrs. Jones in that instant. 

The next day after school, I took out my anger and embarrassment on Anna. Usually, even though she was two years younger than me, she could take me in any fight we'd ever had. She was stronger and had more desire to win - to get the last lick. But on that day, my reaction to a senseless argument overwhelmed us both. I don't remember the exact infraction but it may have had to do with who got the last scoop of ice cream out of the freezer.  I pushed her through the swinging door that connected our kitchen and the dining room. She fell backwards onto the gold shag carpet and I kicked her in the side. I lifted my foot to kick again as she gulped for a breath of air and stopped mid-move. 

Mama! I cried. I ran to the back of the house to tell on myself. Mama! I kicked Anna and she can't breathe! Come NOW!

A week later, I found myself outside on the street in a new pair of shoes - running with Daddy. He had been a runner for years and for the first time, I was invited to join him after his post-work run. We ran - slowly I'm sure - around our block twice. Nearly a mile. I found out later that a therapist friend had suggested that running would help with the anger and allow me time to connect with Dad.

I began running figuratively when Mama was diagnosed with Leukemia.