Chaunté Lowe - Boundless (Scholastic Focus)

A S FAR AS I could tell, it was going to be another hot summer afternoon spent hanging upside down, feet perched against the back of our brown corduroy couch and my head dangling inches from the floor. Typically, as a child with untreated ADHD, I had enough energy to play for every hour that the sun danced across the blue sky. However, today was grocery day. Grocery day was the worst day of the week because our family didnt own a car, which meant we had to walk everywhere.

Chaunt, put on your shoes, my mother called from the small, dimly lit kitchen. Unpleasant memories of our long, exhausting caravans immediately flooded my mind.

Do I have to? I pouted. I could practically taste the dry, hot air that only intensified with each car that whooshed past us as we trekked along the slightly raised concrete path, the pink soles of my shoes ripping away from their white, glittered bodies.

My mother walked into my room, stooped down, and tied my tattered high-tops. Trying to make the best of this crummy situation, she said, Well, how about this? Ill get you some new shoes when I can, but for now, lets pretend these old sneakers are new sandals.

I marveled at her ability to artfully play my emotions like a fine-tuned instrument. She knew I loved to imagine, and she exploited this fact to get me peacefully out the door. Feeling empowered by my newfound ability to choose my perspective, I stopped to admire my new sandals and skipped happily outside.

My mother, my two older sisters, and I would walk the three and a half miles to the store, shop for about an hour, and then walk the three and a half miles back. From the oldest to the youngest, we were all expected to do our part and carry two bags of groceries on the trip back. These walks were painful. My little arms shook as I continuously repositioned my fingertips inside the handle loops of the plastic bags. Every few yards, the sweat of my palms would force me to set my bags down, dry my hands on my pants, and reset my grip. Powering through the pain with my head down, I read the paved trail beneath me, Rock, crack, dried piece of gum. Wed walked this path so many times that Id memorized the scars of the sidewalk like the lines of my favorite Dr. Seuss book.

The whole adventure took several hours, and by the end of it, I was exhausted. Unenthused by the blistering California sun, I opted to spend the rest of my day inside, watching the spectacle of my sisters fighting over which TV channel we should watch. Being the youngest of three sisters, I offered no opinion and sat safely outside the lines of this battlefield. Leaving them to squabble, I let my mind wander and imagined what it would be like if I could travel beyond the borders of this sleepy town. Paso Robles, California, was nineteen point five square miles of mostly oak trees, vineyards, and farmland. With our feet being our only mode of transportation, Id walked what seemed to be every square inch of it. Desperate to see more, I often badgered my relatives with questions about faraway places without ever getting a satisfying answer. Limited by finances and fear, no one in my family had ever been outside the state of California. These barriers were so crippling that we rarely ventured more than thirty miles away from our secluded hometown.

The fight between my sisters must have escalated rapidly, because my mother swooped in, settling the argument by choosing the channel herself. If Id had a choice, I would have chosen the news. Channel 6 was my passport around the world, giving me glimpses into lands that I was sure I would never set foot on.

When I watched our wooden-boxed television, it was like the glass screen that I gazed into held the power to open a vast world full of endless possibilities and wonder. Each show had its own ability to take my glazed eyeballs beyond the confinement of whatever four walls I was stuck inside, into a limitless oasis of hope and promise. Its incredible how many hours I spent watching my television until I found It. It being the substance of what my curiosity was continually searching for. Its the thing that would eventually prove to be the element that anchored me to this earth. The one thing that jumped off the screen to spark something in my heart and firmly plant my feet on a path that took me toward my destiny. That moment came in the summer of 1988.

I was four years old, and I was watching the Olympics for the very first time. With a slim and pointy frame, I was lying on my stomach on the living room floor, my elbows planted deep in dark shag carpet, my chin resting in the palms of my hands as my feet swung up and down in utter delight.

For weeks I had heard everyone talking about the Games, but nothing could have prepared me for what was about to take place. The glowing light of our two-dial television jumped off the screen, and thats when I saw her. FloJo, whose real name was Florence Griffith Joyner, emerged from the depths of a long dark hallway, heroically taking her place on the South Korean coliseum track.

The warmth of Seouls summer sun prompted sweat beads to gather just above her focused brows. Her piercing eyes glared down the steaming red track, laser-focused on the prize before her. Unbothered by the throngs of wildly cheering fans who flailed and bellowed behind her, Ms. Joyner took her place behind her starting blocks. Not realizing this moment was the calm before the storm, I took the opportunity to study her. Her hair was a lengthy mane, thick and wafting in the wind. Her nails, perfectly manicured, were long and painted patriotically to match her Team USA uniform. Everything about her screamed femininity, but her strength was undeniable. With the number 569 displayed on the bib pinned to her red top, the intensity in her posture let me know she was waiting for something to happen. Then, the starter, who stood on top of a short ladder off to the side of the track, raised a gun into the air. Gripping a mic with the other hand, he yelled, Runners, to your mark.

The once thunderous crowd now hushed in anticipation and hung on his every word. Instinctively, the Olympian moved forward and placed her feet into the starting blocks.

Get SET.

Her flawless nails digging into the track, the human bullet readied herself in the runners position

POW! The gun sounded.

FloJo shifted the weight through her hands, majestically converting that strength into power as her feet thrust hard against the stationary blocks. The resistance of this action forcefully jolted her body from the starting line, propelling her into the race of her life.

When the gun sounded, each of the eight runners seemed to be evenly matched across the expanse of the track. Open hands, high knees, and tipped toes pressed into the red-lined rubber. Each of their steps powerfully struck the ground repeatedly, accompanied perfectly by the look of determination in each womans eyes. Without knowing the context of what was going on, one could still understand that the stakes were high. For some reason, my eyes kept returning to FloJo.