Coming back to the States was a bit of a culture shock. Just a bit. Not like the neon-infused mind trip of seeing Tokyo for the first time, or the butt-burning curry bombardment of New Delhi. Everything in Utah was just as I remembered, but now I was coming back with a different perspective. Down and to the left. Up and to the right. In the middle, centered, focusing on those little things that I guess I always knew were there. I just hadn't realized that they were anything of which to make note.
After my first year or so in Japan, I had identified a possible concern about moving back to the US. Japan had made me...soft. A bit naive, idealistic. Happier, more content with the simple pleasures of life. Unburdened by the struggles of a "normal" American life. I had completely de-stressed. And I became afraid of how things might be when I was plunged back into a world with actual adult responsibilities, duties, roles and expectations.
About two months into my return, I had thought I was doing well enough. That was, until a chance confrontation on a neighborhood run one afternoon in October. I was running a route through the residential streets of Bountiful. Nothing too spectacular about this neighborhood. A lot of hills, which can make things difficult at time; but a good kind of difficult that just takes some getting used to.
As I was running, I saw a couple of kids, maybe 10 years old, playing in a yard across the street about 50 yards ahead of me. I must have caught their eye, because they began staring. As I approached, the taller of the two yelled out, "Hey jogger! Come over here! We're gonna beat you up!" And with that, he and his little friend promptly ran away to hide behind a garbage can in the carport.
With a forced smile, I waved as I passed the kids, who I imagine remained hiding behind the family trash can until I was out of sight. As I mounted the next hill, I came to a stop to catch my breath and gain my bearings. The hill itself hadn't been too demanding, but I felt as if I were running with a newly donned weight in my chest. I wiped the sweat from my brow and cupped my hands around ears, which had grown a bit chilly. Squatting down, I ran my hands through my hair, to the back of my neck and simply sighed.
This encounter was the one thing that got to me upon my return to the States, more than anything else. I think it was because it so went against that which I had come to cherish and whole-heartedly appreciate on my neighborhood runs in Japan - little Japanese kids, sometimes still in their school uniforms, playfully chasing me and cheering me on to "Fight-o!" There was never the jeering, taunting or threats runners here can sometimes receive.
It didn't matter that the threat came from a little kid who would've been easily dispatched and kept at bay at arm's length (his flailing fists catching nothing but air, try as he might). But the fact that children are learning this behavior from somewhere...just bugged me. Learning that it's okay to accost strangers on the street or other avenues of life. Learning that there are no consequences for such extreme social interactions. Learning that people should be singled-out and mocked, just as they are singled-out and praised. These are inherent traits of our modern American culture.
One thing I've always loved about road races is the sense of community. Everyone has his or her own personal goals, but there remains a covenant between runners to band together for a common purpose. Runners are gracious as they are graceful, lucid and aware, ever-mindful of the needs of others. We may run with different paces, strides, and pronating soles. We wear different shoes and might tie our laces a little differently, or some of us may not even wear kicks. But we are all runners, just the same. And I wish there were a way to get that through that little 10-year old kid's head.
