You´re out on the street at 7am waiting for a bus ride to the gym. A normal woman, carrying a draw string back pack stuffed with a change of clothes for work after the gym. Your hair is pulled back and nothing about you is fancy. No make-up. Old shoes. All skin except hands and face is covered. Your phone is in your front pocket. You are just waiting for the public transport to go workout.
And then the bus comes and you stick your hand out to let them know you want on, and they just throw exhaust in your face.
Or the downpour begins because of monsoon season and the water is covering your ankles and cars pass spraying you in the flooded streets.
Or the bus just doesn´t come, the front end finally splits off somewhere along the road and no cars can get past.
Or three men come up to you with a knife and force your phone and simple backpack from you.
Or you actually get onto the bus, but it is so full that you are hanging halfway out the bus doors and praying the driver takes the numerous speed bumps with caution.
But let’s say you make it to the CrossFit gym today. You take your place with the group to listen to the uncertified coaches who don´t know how to take care of your shoulder injury. Only a few certified coaches in the city of 3 million, but you are just a normal person. The coaches are too…why should they pay a thousand dollars for a level one training when they could only get paid $3 or $4 per hour. That´s two months of working to pay it off as long as they don´t eat or pay rent.
You are at the gym, but you´re a normal person. So you can´t take the pressure of getting a nutritionist or going to a physical therapist. You just train with what you have. You try to ignore the coach who tells you to put more weight onto your over-worked back. You follow the coach blindly as when he doesn´t correct your improper technique.
But you work at it and work at it. And you qualify for the Games, the World Cup of CrossFit.
And you apply for a visa. Three year waiting list to get an appointment. You find and pay a visa lawyer who can get you an emergency appointment. But America isn´t sure about you.
You don´t make enough money.
Your skin tone is just too dark.
You don´t own land.
It all feels too much sometimes.
Every year, individuals go to this competition to compete. Somehow they make it every single year.
But you´re not American. IT IS NOT THE SAME.
Same sport, same physical fitness, same workouts. But different safety, different resources, different obstacles.
******
This year, we are watching a Mexican woman get there. Lucét. Encouraging and strong-willed. A warrior, but gentle and caring. Sporting a smile, but singing the f-word 25 times in a 30 jump exercise.
And blind.
Stumbling around the gym with arms expecting to hit unseen rowers and barbells. She integrates into the class and well meaning people jump to help, but she wishes it could be differently. She takes her space, she lets out her sweat, she cheers others on. She forgets about the assault on the bus this morning. She ignores the three buses that saw her and drove past. She lets go of thoughts of which sidewalks outside have life-threatening holes in them. She forgets about the street dogs that she can´t hear until it’s too late. She brushes off the injustices with which she lives. She overcomes the accessibility financially and physically. She trains.
It´s not just about discipline and ability. It´s overcoming societal injustices. It´s pushing past fears of walking out into the street. It´s fighting foreign borders.
And, it´s finding a community to make her feel safe in the gym and make her feel her effort is worth it.
She is going to the Games. And no, it´s not the same.
