The Race

The gun goes off
The race begins
Two strides
And I am already winded
Nauseous and weak
Where are the cups of Gatorade?
I need a break
I need to sit
I am just too tired
Before I know it
Three hours have passed
And I am only three miles in
Can I simply
Start again
Back to the beginning
Amidst the chaos
Of a new day
A new journey
This time I prepared
This time I am ready
I trained
And stretched
Carbo-loaded
The whole nine yards
So I could run this race
My marathon of growth
The gun goes off
I get to start again
And this time
I'll make it to the end.

Change

“Rachelli, I’d like to speak to you after class.” Cue quickening heartbeat, rapid breathing and sweaty palms. What does she want? What did I do?

“Am I in trouble?”

            “Let’s see how class plays out,” she says with a smile. My mind races as I try to guess what she could possibly want to talk to me about. This teacher and I have always gotten along well. Hurrying to the bathroom, I think about our recent interactions. Maybe she wants to talk to me about the journal entries I handed in… what did I write in those ones about anyhow… Was there plagiarism? Did I say something radical and worrisome?

            Class goes on and I anxiously wonder what she wants from me… The bell rings. A bunch of girls approach her desk. I wasn’t the only one she wanted to talk to. We go out into the hall and she speaks to us one by one. Finally, it’s my turn.

            “Rachelli… I just want to tell you, I see such a difference in you from the beginning of the year. You are so much more caring, and mature and…” She goes on like this and I nod and grin like she just gave me the best present ever, all the while thinking… really? Did I really change so much? I feel like the same me… the same me, stuck in the same rut, going through the same motions… am I different?

            She finishes and I say thank you and walk away.

            I think back to the past year… I know I have changed… or at least, am not the same person. I was more bitter at the beginning of the year… It’s hard to forget all the tears, the anger and frustration I was going through… how I felt used, abused and unappreciated, disregarded and unimportant. How many people told me that I had been a horrible person, snapping at will and being generally obnoxious to be around?

            Yet… how many times did I hear, later in the year, that teachers noticed how I had changed… that I was being spoken about in glowing terms at Shabbos meals between teachers…?

            Maybe I have changed…. Maybe I am different…