No Blanc Here

For entertainment, I sat on a stoop by the main road, drinking Prestige (the local beer), while watching people drive in and out of town with some volunteers and a Haitian worker of the organization we were volunteering at.  Every time we saw a fellow Blanc drive by, we would wave and raise our beers. 

The term Blanc in Kreyol means foreigner.  In French, the literal translation is White.  I think the French translation is more applicable however; as an Asian Woman, I’ve never heard the word “Blanc” being chased after me like it does my Caucasian counterparts in Haiti.  The Blancs tend to draw more attention.  I just get a lot of curiosity about my origination. 

It’s a daily debate that I get into – often more than once a day:

Haitian: "Where you from?"

Me: "The U.S."

Haitian: "You look Japanese or Chinese."

Me: "My family is from Thailand."

Haitian: "Yes, that's what I thought. So, what is your language?"

Me: "English."

Haitian: "No, I don't think so."

I have come to realize that in a country that is predominantly of one race (everyone else is a Blanc), the idea of America the Mixing Bowl is quite foreign.  I have had people accept that I’m Italian (“Thailand” apparently sounds like “Italian”), tell me that I must speak Spanish (something non-English), and flat out tell me that I’m lying before they can accept that I am from the US and English is my primary language.

As a result, on a daily basis, I have learned to change my response from claiming that I am from China to finally explaining that I was born in the US.  Luckily, two for two, the latter finally seems to stick and I am getting fewer looks of confusion now.

Regardless, when someone says Chinwa, I know they are talking about me.

Yon Retou Pou Ayiti (A Return to Haiti)

I marched up the stairs of Wings of Hope and found the children on the patio during their Friday prayer service.  A lull of silence came over the children as they turned to observe yet another new strange volunteer in their midst. 

“Eske ou sonje mwen?”  I asked.  David looks at me and a huge grin comes across his face as the recognition sets in.  He squeals in laughter and begins to touch my hair which has grown in the past six months. 

As an adult, when you haven’t seen a friend in a few years, you commonly say, “You haven’t changed a bit!”  However, in the life of children, 6 months can bring significant changes.  They grow taller, fatter, can become more talkative, and just overall grow up.

Frank Ely and Steve have gotten taller.  Otherwise, they are the same mischievous boys who like to dance around the room and make a bit of commotion.

Little Belinda looks thinner.  Though she doesn’t look it, Belinda is four.  She was never a good eater, but a loss of a pound or two when you don’t even weigh 20 lbs can be significant. 

Lazar has a little girlfriend, named Alison.  I have yet to meet Alison, but he blushes when you mention her name. 

My autistic buddies, Kelly and John, seem to have flourished.  They were pretty emotionless when I met them last Fall.  This Spring, I have seen more smiles on John in one day than I saw on his face during my entire last trip.  Kelly is also a lot more interactive than he used to be.  You can talk to him and engage him for a bit before he re-enters his own world.

David is more comfortable being mobile in his wheelchair.  On my last visit, he preferred to hop around on the floor, but now he’s speedy enough in the wheelchair to prefer its use. 

Vivian is still in love with Walnes.  She still brings his pictures out and writes his name in her notebooks.

This band of societal castoffs that have been bound together to form their own family unit impresses me.  BJ makes the other boys laugh by using one of his few controlled muscles, his mouth, to oddly bit a wheelchair handle of another child.  Sadraque and Raoul have long conversations about the beach through slurred speech, nodding, and grunting.  Lazar grunts for me to give his unfinished lunch to Gesner to finish.  It is the compassion that these special-needs children show for one another that truly makes them special to all those who are lucky enough to meet them.

Open Water

Remember that 2003 movie “Open Water” about two scuba divers accidentally stranded in shark infested waters after their tour boat left?  I thought those fools were idiots for straying so far away from the tour group.

Well, there’s nothing accidental about me being in open water as I train for my first triathlon.  My immediate reaction in the lake was – Why did you think this was a good idea, you idiot?

Four buoys outlined a 500 meter course in Lake Anna.  The stage was set for me to swim around each one before coming back to shore.  On my way to the first buoy, I began to panic when I realized that I could not touch the ground anymore.  After several choice words came from my lips, the first rational word that popped in my head was actually “duathlon.”
 

I had a back up plan in case I freaked out during an open water swim -- I would float on my back until I calmed down before swimming further.  Of all of my swim lessons, that was the only information that seemed to stick because all of the techniques and drills my swim coach taught me practically went out the door during this anxiety attack.  I created my own rhythmic pattern:  6 freestyle strokes, 4 backstrokes, 2 doggie paddles, 2 breast strokes, repeat.  It wasn’t getting me to the next buoy efficiently or quickly; however, it was getting me to the next buoy.

Those 20 minutes in water felt like 2 hours.  However, I knew that I had to keep going or I would never be able to finish a triathlon.  So pick -- duathlon or triathlon?  I chose triathlons and decided to keep going. 

Race Fit

After the age of thirty, a woman is supposed to give up on skin tight outfits like she gives up on fast food, perky boobs, and cheap house liquor.  These things are no longer age appropriate.

Runners wear loose comfortable clothing.  Sleeveless blousy tanks with large arm holes.  It's like pretending you are running through the streets naked -- which can either make you run faster or more sprightly, depending on how you feel about streaking.  The only thing we do want to show off is our legs.  It's why our shorts are so short.  But other than that, running clothes do a pretty good job of hiding our weak areas well.   

Triathletes wear skin tight outfits.  To minimize drag and be able to fit the outfit into an even tighter wetsuit, our outfits have lots of spandex.  It is actually more efficient to go smaller rather than larger when you are in between sizes.  The term is “race fit” -- it is NOT forgiving.


Alas, no push-up sports bras to accentuate "the girls" -- the padding will just sop up the water and it's time to go uni-boob so nothing bounces.  No peasant tops to hide the muffin top.  No A-line skirts to hide the thighs.

In my tri-outfit, it's just honestly me -- tucked into a little spandex, sweat-wicking, performance enhancing outfit.  Guess there is another good reason to get all of my workouts in.

Skin-Glowing Green Juice

My lucky stars -- a co-worker handed down the mother of all juicers...a Breville to me.  For the past week, I have been juicing every vegetable I could get my hands on (Whole Paycheck needs to put me on a frequent shopper program).  And today, my skin is definitely glowing!  It's better than any $100 jar of face cream I could have purchased.

My go-to concoction of the week:

1 large cucumber
1 fistful of kale
2 fistfuls of spinach
1 head of romaine lettuce
3 celery stalks
3 carrots
half an apple

Makes 24-32oz.  Store in airtight containers for up to 24 hours.

Sexy in Her Sneakers

For the last two months, I have been busy dating several men – 48 to be exact.  This may seem above and beyond the call of duty for a single woman with an already hectic schedule, but I’m an overachiever and Costco was having a sale.  We go for swims at Washington & Lee’s Aquatic Center, bike in loops at Hains Point, and run around the DC monuments.  I didn’t meet them on Match, E-Harmony, or Craigslist’s Casual Encounters.  I met them in the DC Triathlon Club’s Newbie Triathlete Program. 

I bought a couple of cute one piece swimsuits to match my latex swim cap and goggles for my pool dates.  My high coverage Speedo brings all of the boys to the yard.  And the tiger print swim cap...grrrrr.  Now, if only Jimmy Choo made flippers, I would be downright bootylicious.

Though even I can have my bitchy moments, doggie-paddling is not the most efficient way to swim in open water.  In addition to my regular dates with the boys, I decided to take private swim lessons to improve my freestyle form.  A lot like my favorite running bra, my coach is very supportive.  In between smiles and claps, she threatens to throw kickboards at me when I start swimming in a vertical position again.  Back and forth is swimming; up and down is drowning.   

Of the new men in my life, Dennis may be my favorite.  He is the handsome store manager at my local bike shop.  He wooed me with a new pair of cycling shoes and pedals.  Yes, pedals with a “d” not a “t.”  (I don't want a Trinket.  Bring a girl a Diamond!)  On my first date with Dennis, I left with the equivalent of a BMW amongst bikes and a couple of thousand dollars poorer.  Now every time I see Dennis, I leave with a new saddle bag or tire repair kit, but only a hundred dollars poorer.  As our relationship grows, our love becomes more economical.  I really hope he’s not in it just for the money.

I am slowly building my cycling endurance from 16 miles to 40 miles in a training session.  My largest frustration is that cars need to learn to share the road with us cyclists.  The parked ones hurt when I’m flying down a hill out of control.  The cars in motion are much better at avoiding me.  I haven’t mastered exiting out of Dennis’ clipless pedals at sudden stops yet.  Flipping off as a human projectile is another example where vertical is bad.

Of the three sports, running is the easiest to me.  We have a history.  Yesterday, I ditched out on my scheduled cycling date with the boys at Hains Point to go back to an old love, a Half Marathon race.  It was worth it!  After six years of running, I finally placed third in an age-group category.  Unfortunately, the race officials are a surly bunch.  They would not let me take a stand on the podium with the eighty-year olds because I am only 35.  What an unfair technicality.  The rulebook didn’t say which age-group I had to belong to.

I expect it to be an 18-month courtship before I get to the man of my dreams.  But, finish an Ironman and brag for the rest of your life.

The National Half Marathon

The groundhog lied!  Here it is the beginning of Spring and I was surrounded by a bunch of runners dressed homeless chic.  Outside the privacy of your own home on laundry day, a race is the only time that it appears to be okay to wear a trash bag, bleach-stained sweatshirts, and tattered sweatpants – all for the sake of staying warm.  But when we cross that start line, clothes go flinging in all directions faster than a stripper can say “Would you like to go to the Champagne Room?”

 

So, how do you get 15,000 people to go into Southeast DC on a Saturday morning?  That’s right – you organize a race.  The National Marathon and Half Marathon start and finish at the DC Armory by RFK Stadium.  To relieve local traffic sooner, the race actually started at 7am.  Unfortunately, our friends at WMATA wouldn't open the Metro's station doors until 6am.  This gave our runners two options:  Drive or Be Late.  Fortunately, getting to the parking lot was not a big deal.  However, I definitely saw some late runners coming off of the Metro.  As if running a race 13.1 or 26.2 miles was not bad enough, these poor guys first had to race to the the start line while the rest of us were running away.  *Ouch*

  

Though I’m a DC-native, starting from this side of town almost felt like being able to run through a completely different city.  I saw parts of DC I typically never saw -  Southeast…H Street…Adams Morgan sober by daylight.  The course was also a bit hillier than I realized DC could be.  Now, I understand why we call it Columbia HEIGHTS. 

Since the course ran through areas of DC that weren’t convenient to the Metro stations, there were not as many spectators to support the runners as I have experienced in other area races.  Either that or everyone else decided it was just too cold to come out to cheer on some crazy runners who think this is the best way to spend a Saturday morning.  Lucky for me, this was my first race as a High Cloud athlete.  While proudly running in my new team gear, I was very energized by the fellow supporters of DC Tri Club and Team Z who cheered me on as I ran by. 

Well, for me and my sick running fetish, it turned out to be a GREAT way to spend a Saturday morning.  The awesome timing of year gave this grizzly bear some motivation to come out of winter hibernation.  I got to run 13.1 miles through my neighborhood city, get some Vitamin D, and shake my fist at the windy, cold winter we had.

 

With another new medal in hand, I say to you – let’s get another race season started.