My Guest Blogger is Tony Robles who shares his personal essay, "Agape." This story is part of the book Finding God: True Stories of Spiritual Encounters (Ed. Cecilia Brainard). The book won the 2019 Gintong Aklat Award in the Philippines.
AGAPE
by
Tony Robles
The race was lost before it began. There I stood next to the starting blocks waiting for the fellow in the white cap to say, “Runners, on your mark, get set. . . BANG!” How did I get into this situation—all those white faces in the stands. Who were they? I stood on the track with five or six other boys—all a bit older, all a bit pink in the oppressive Florida sun. I glanced at them and wondered what they were thinking. I looked up at the sea of white faces in the stands and became nauseated. My intestinal discomfort wasn’t primarily due to the sea of white faces surrounding me as it was the fact that I knew I was in a race I wouldn’t— no, couldn’t win. Somehow I wished the fellow in the white cap would just pull the trigger and get it over with. As I stood, I entertained the thought of the fellow in the white cap shooting me—perhaps in the leg or in the ass—then I’d have a legitimate excuse not to run. They would just cart me off and I’d be forgotten quickly.
I attended a small Christian school in Central Florida. When I say small, I mean small. There were maybe forty students in the entire student body ranging from first grade to high school senior. We had a high school graduating class of two. It wasn’t a Christian school of nuns with rulers and bad breath. No, this school had teachers who wore red, white, and blue polyester and had breath that was stench-free. We studied the usual subjects—Math, Science, and English—but with a Christian slant.
For instance, after reading a passage on Darwin, the lesson concluded that while he was a scientific genius for coming up with his celebrated theory—his soul was eternally lost because his teachings were contrary to Biblical scripture. I remember thinking that if Darwin had gotten a look at us, with our red, white, and blue polyester outfits, he’d surely change his theory and declare that we were the true monkeys, spawning discontent among the creatures of the earth. We not only studied the basics but we also recited the pledge of allegiance to the American and Christian flags, memorized Bible passages to be recited before the entire school and sang Christian songs. During those songs, I remember our principal Mr. Collins jumping up and down like some sexually aroused cheerleader. He was a good man.
Of course we all participated in sports. Our coach was Mr. Call, a burly, bald man who was also a teacher. He was always covered in polyester, a killer in the Florida sun. He wore a Cross that dangled from a gold necklace. It rested nicely on his blue polyester tie. He always had huge wet spots in the armpits of his shirt. We had a flag football team, a softball team, and a basketball team. Mr. Call coached them all. Whenever he wanted to make an important point to us, he’d take his forefinger and thrust it toward the heavens and impart, “Young men, I’ve coached many a team in my day.” He thrust his finger a lot.
I was a bit of a novelty to my teammates—to everybody actually. I was the only non-white guy in the school. I was conscious of that, perhaps sometimes more conscious of it than the others. At first the kids didn’t know what to make of me. Was I black? Was I an Indian? I would say “Filipino” and the reply would be, “Oh.” The inquiries never stopped. I remember a cute little girl of about seven or eight asking me, “Are you a nigger?” Was I? There was another kid who greeted me numerous times by saying, “Hey spic!” He always seemed to say it while riding his bike. I wanted to discuss it further but the little shit was too quick. I was receiving quite an education to say the least. I got that kind of attention quite a bit. I’d wait for the bus and passersby would stare at me from their cars. The whites didn’t know what I was; the blacks didn’t either. It was 1977 and I must have been the only Filipino in town. I remember waiting for a bus when a black brother in a car slowed down to examine my face. I looked back and gave him a black power salute. He sped off. I tried hard to fit in. All the guys in school had straight blond or dirty blond hair, which they parted down the middle and combed back, layered and feathered. My hair was different, curly and somewhat coarse. I couldn’t straighten it, especially in the 90-degree weather. It seemed to curl up even more.
Our small school was invited to compete in a state track meet. The schools invited were Christian schools. Our school was tiny but Coach Call decided to gather a few boys and put together a relay team. We were taken to the park to practice. We practiced handing off the baton; however, we didn’t have a baton so one of the boys—Randolph Nash III—broke a piece of wood from an innocent tree and formed it into a baton of sorts. The five of us ran and handed the baton off to each other. What amazed me most of all was how the blond hair of the other boys remained so still while running in the wind. It was always in perfect place while mine resembled Koko the Clown’s. It was always in disarray, like a bird’s nest caught in a violent storm. The Randolph Nashes, the Jimmy Finches, the Steve Colvins all had the pretty hair, the perfect hair I wanted. They were tall and ran like gazelles while I ran like another kind of animal. We ran our sprints, our socks stretched to our knees and slowly dripping toward our ankles. A week prior to the track meet, three of our teammates notified us that they would not be able to compete. That was the end of our relay team. The wooden baton was tossed into the trash.
The sudden defections from the team left David Boozer and I as the sole representatives from our school. David was the opposite of his last name. He was about sixteen and during prayer sessions he would close his eyes and engage in a sort of spiritual mumbling. He was one of the guys but you could tell he listened to God’s voice inside. He was like me—not exceptionally talented but well liked. Coach Call explained to us that we should enter individual events. I would run the 100- and 440-yard dash and David would run the mile. Coach Call couldn’t go to the meet with us so David and I took a bus. We got to the hotel and it was wall-to-wall polyester. White faces were plastered everywhere. We walked to a cafeteria area where the event coordinator addressed the participants. He was chunky, resembling a carnival barker.
“Yes, this year in addition to our track-and-field events we’re gonna have a boys’ preachin’ competition.”
Dave and I grabbed our trays and made our way to the steam table. It was there that I saw something that nearly made me drop my tray. It was a Filipino! He was a short guy with a flat nose. He was behind the steam trays wearing a white uniform topped with a big white hat. He was in charge of doling out perfect cornbread squares. He lifted each piece with a pair of tongs. The rising steam covered a large part of his face. He looked at me and smiled.
I stood there looking at the cornbread square, then at him.
I don’t know where the mabuti came from. I didn’t speak any Filipino. It came from somewhere. But the way I pronounced it sounded like, my booty. He laughed.
He spoke with an accent. I spoke like a white guy ready to run a race. He gave me the thumbs-up and gently placed a piece of warm cornbread on my tray. I looked down at my tray and looked back up at the Filipino guy. He was waiting for me to move forward so he could plop cornbread on Dave’s tray. I looked at him thinking he was going to plop an extra piece of cornbread on my tray. He didn’t—our connection, our solidarity seemed to last until he plopped the cornbread on my tray. It was like a punch press—one after the other after the other. There would be no extra cornbread for me. I felt a bit awkward so I moved onward to the meat while my Filipino brethren schmoozed with the non Filipinos. I took my tray and sat with Dave. I saw a girl; she looked Indian. She avoided eye contact with me. She too was trying to fit in.
Morning came, breakfast, and prayers. Dave was calm but I was nervous. “I’ve been praying about the race,” he said.
Dave seemed to have a certain peace while I was riddled with anxiety. We put on our shorts and running shoes and made our way to the track. I felt intimidated. The other schools had track uniforms with fancy emblems. I had on a pair of shorts and a blue T-shirt with our school’s logo—a warrior. It was plain as if drawn by hand. My race was first— the 440. I hadn’t trained for that event. I was to run in place of Randolph Nash III with his perfect blond hair that never moved. One time around the track didn’t seem too hard. I took my mark and waited for the gun to sound. BOOM! I took off from lane 1. I went into the turn with the sound of feet raining behind me. I pushed my legs as fast as they could go. Suddenly, something took a hold of me, first by my legs, making its way to my lungs and into my mouth. Fatigue decided to introduce itself to me at the midpoint of the race. My strides became slower, my breathing quick, heavy then shallow. It felt like a panic attack in front of the large crowd. One by one the pink bodies in the other lanes flew by. Their strides were deliberate as if rehearsed thousands of times. They looked a bit comical to me as I slowed to a muddy trot. They looked like they needed to go to the bathroom. It was as though they were all holding in their shit and were desperately racing toward some kind of golden shit pot. As the other boys flew by I slowed down and began to walk. I waved them off in defiance, panting like a dog. The others made it to the finish line but I continued walking. I thought they’d just let me walk the rest of the way but the racing announcer kept urging me onward.
“Come on now! Don’t quit! Keep going!”
I could hear the laughter of the crowd as I came down the stretch.
“Let’s hear it for our last place competitor!”
I felt ashamed after the race. I was a fill-in and hadn’t trained for that particular race. I was the only non-white guy on the track and I unceremoniously petered-out. I began to think that I had shamed my race. I mean, all brothers are supposed to be good runners, right? And what about the Filipino cornbread guy from the cafeteria? Was he watching? Did I shame him? Did I shame all non-white people that day by quitting, by saying simply, “That’s it, I’m not running in your race”? The ramifications of the race began to weigh heavily upon me. Later that evening in the dining room, I didn’t see the Filipino guy but I had cornbread anyway. As David and I walked about the hotel, I heard cat calls in the distance.
“Hey, you sag when you run!”
The trees surrounding our hotel had much more wind than I did.
“Don’t listen to them,” David said. “Just pray.”
Those other teams had teams of 10-20. Dave and I were from the smallest school in the area. David was to run the mile and he stayed quiet until morning.
I watched as Dave warmed up on the track. He stretched on the ground literally doing the splits. The runners took their positions and waited for the gun to sound. Perhaps he had a chance to win it. I began to pray. All the other schools had gotten a medal except ours. Dave was our last hope. The gun sounded and Dave was in the middle of the pack.
“Come on, Dave!” I thought to myself.
Dave began to pick up the pace with two laps to go. Unlike my performance, he seemed to get stronger in his stride. He looked as though he was running not merely a race but running for God, as an offering of his best. As I watched, it seemed that Dave was running for all the little schools, running for all the folks not blessed with outstanding athletic ability. With one lap to go, Dave was in fourth place.
He came down the stretch in a cluster of adolescent bodies, his legs burning. But it wasn’t enough—a boy from one of the big schools edged him out of third. The crowd cheered as the competitors walked and caught their breath. The following morning Dave and I took the bus home. We were a team of two from a tiny school. Dave was soft-spoken, never bragged. We didn’t discuss the race or the meet during the ride home. Dave looked out the bus window, taken by another bout of spiritual mumbling as the trees sagged in the passing wind. He seemed to know that God had another day for him, that there were more important races for him to run. And as for me, running was never really my forte. But we both represented Agapé School in Orlando, Florida—and in case you don’t know it, Agapé means God’s love. And running across these pages, this story is written with a little of it.
BIO: Tony Robles was born in San Francisco, California. He is an author and a poet. He attends a Samoan Church where the Pastor says, “It don’t [sic] matter if you’re Samoan, Filipino, or Spanish, we’re all a part of God’s family.” He can’t forget what a Filipino pastor said, fifteen years ago, about “God (being) an equal-opportunity lover.” He always remembers what his Uncle Anthony said about Jesus: “I don’t want a black Jesus, a brown one, a white one, a red, yellow, blue, or purple one. . . I want a real one.” Tony has a Web site at www.tony-robles.com.
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Tags: #Christianity #Catholic #religion #track #boys #FindingGod
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