The Hill
Like many great stories, this one begins with a series of bad decisions. Number one: I decided to watch a three hour movie at 10:50 pm, on a Tuesday night. This movie was The Big Short, the blood boiling story of the 2008 housing market crash and how bankers cheated many middle class families and got away with it. Number two: I got angry at the movie and the results of the election that were announced a few hours before. Wide awake and pissed off at 1:46am, an idea dawned on me. In my Psych class we learned that acting on angry thoughts through violent methods like boxing doesn’t help relieve anger but actually makes the anger worse. A more suitable solution is running.
Bad decision number three: I decided to go on a run at 2 am, on a Wednesday morning. I look out my window:, it’ pitch black. I look at my phone, 23% battery left. I look at my outfit, long sleeve shirt and running shorts. Good enough, I think to myself. I open up my Spotify and start my “Oldies but Goodies” playlist while I descend four flights of stairs. Ignoring the part of my brain that was telling to me not to go outside at this hour, I opened the Hague building door and stepped out into the freezing night. With a Robert Frost poem in mind, I decided that my run will take the path less traveled with no predetermined destination.
After a series of twists and turns in familiar places, the first unknown path lead me to Porter. After a quick snapchat story update and a Kelly Clarkson dance break, I continue my run down to Rachel Carson College. All this time, I think about nothing, bumping to the tunes flowing through my earbuds.
After a long while I find myself at the West Entrance. I look down at my phone, only 15% remaining. Good decision number one: I didn’t go down the dark, twisty road leading to an unknown place. Instead, I decided to head back to my room. Unfortunately, I was all the way down at the base of campus at almost 3 am. The loops and the metro were definitely not running at this time. Like Gob from Arrested Development, I’ve made a huge mistake.
I hadn’t run as far as 100 meters since my last P.E. class. Through the cold and exhaustion, I push my body to the limit and finally climb all the way up to the traffic lights. At this point, I think that I’m already at Cowell and therefore almost back home. Unfortunately, I forgot about the huge hill near the East Remote Parking lot. Even in the pitch black night, I can see it’ steepness. My legs are burning from the cold and the physical exhaustion, my phone is down to 3%, and I am about to collapse.
As I stare at this hill in disbelief and pain, my mind wanders to math class. I had learned to label every variable that is unknown. This hill looked as if it represented every fear I never had the guts to face during the daylight. First thing that comes to mind is my relationship with my Mom. She moved to the United States when I was three months old and I barely saw her until I moved here when I was 7. I think back to my core class discussion about migration and remittances that help struggling families in developing countries and how they severely affect familial relationships and personal development.
I understand that I owe my father and family in Ethiopia for shaping me into the person I am today. The family I haven’t seen since my trip four years ago. The trip that made me feel like a stranger in my own country. After seven years of slowly losing my language, my name, and my culture to Americanization, how could I pretend I fit in with my old friends, family, or neighbors? I think about the trip I was supposed to go on this summer. The trip that would have kept the promise I made to my aunt when I said I would come back after I finished high school. I remember calling my grandmother to tell her we barely have the funds to cover the first quarter’ tuition, let alone a trip back home.
Before I start to ascend the hill, I think of the perfect song. A musical tribute to an Ethiopian distance runner, Kenenisa Bekele, who won many gold medals in his first Olympics after the Ethiopian legend Haile Gebrselassie was severely hurt and couldn’t finish the race. With my phone at 2%, I fire up YouTube, blast my song, and start ascending the hill. I felt as if I was going to die but I kept pushing myself up the hill. Through the darkness, I see the dim light from the East Remote Parking bus stop and I push myself harder than ever, my legs barely stumbling at this point. I drag myself to the bus stop, pretending it’ the finishing line of the marathon and sit on the bench, breathing like it’ the first breath I’ve ever took.
Deep breathing suddenly turns into weeping. Weeping for myself, for my family, for the world, for what I can’t change, for what is unknown. Although I’ve made it up this metaphorical hill, I know my problems are far from over. Going to college poses new challenges. How do I grow as a person without sacrificing my past and the memories that shape my identity? How do I ease my parent’ ease while being worried for my future myself? How do I find a way to reconnect with my family in Ethiopia without losing sight of what I came to America for? As I sat there crying at 3:15 am, a police car pulls up to the bus stop. An officer asks me “Do you need a ride?” Bad Decision number four: “No thank you, officer, I think I’m going to finish what I started.” As he drives off, my phone dies, leaving me alone with my questions in the pitch black night.