What's in a name

In French it’s agnelet—its Latin root is where you get the name Agnes from. It was one of the first livestock animals to be domesticated, and it has been integral to civilization ever since. The origins are thought to be the mouflon from Europe and Asia. Though its husbandry has been present the world over, today it is most closely associated with Australia, New Zealand, the British Isles, and South America. In Spanish they say “el cordero.” The ruminant not only provides meat, but fleece as well. The significance of fleece, of course, goes back to ancient times, as in “Jason and the Golden Fleece.” In Greek, the word is arni. Additionally, the arni, or probabato as the adult is called, has been used to forward science, most notably as a cloned specimen. The scientific name is Ovis Aries.

In the United States the raising of this livestock isn’t terribly common, and its existence is largely detached from secular society. In the church, the animal has special significance, since the son of God is given the title of Agnus Dei. This goes back to the Hebrew tradition of sacrificing the young animal to atone for sins. In Hebrew it’s called Rachel.

Painting of the Silver Fox

“Wooweee, aren’t you a tall one?” my grandpa surely must have said when the 6’7” Indian walked through the door. He showed up at the Silver Fox to play some pool with his Yakama friends.
My grandpa owned the place. Most of his customers came from the bowling alley next door. When the alley closed up shop, so did my grandpa, and he moved on to other things. But this is still during the good years, somewhere in the seventies.
The Silver Fox had the works: bar, taps, pool tables, stools. Neon lights welcomed visitors and frequenters alike. The place wasn’t big, it wasn’t fancy. It’s just the stop the working man would make before getting home to his Lazy Boy. Not like there was anything else to do in Yakima, nor would anyone in Yakima want to do anything else.
The Indian picked up a pool cue, to which my grandpa must have said, “Don’t you go breaking that. I have a wife and two kids to feed.”
The Indian laughed. Everybody laughed at my grandpa’s jokes, his teasing, and his jolliness. When we went out in public with him –no joke –he knew everyone. And if he didn’t, he soon would.
So it really doesn’t come as any surprise that not only did he get to know this particular Indian, but that the Indian came to like him and his place enough to decorate it.
“You know what, Ernie,” the Indian must have said. “Taverns like this…they could use a touch of art, don’t you think?” Maybe he went on to share what significance the fox had in Native American mythology. He surely told my grandpa how he was an artist. It was how he made ends meet.
“Well, if you’re offering, I sure won’t say ‘no’.” My grandpa probably eyed the wall opposite the bar. “Yeah, right there. We could use a silver fox right there.”
The Indian would have followed his gaze. “Hmm, a big space, but I’ll fill it.”
“What? No, you don’t have to fill that whole thing. Just sketch me something out and I’ll frame it.”
The Indian would have set down his glass, his palm flat on the bar. “Not a sketch. A full, big painting. A gift for you, my friend. Next time I’m in town, I’ll bring it by.”
“I’ll finally be able to set my stools back up! Where’re you headin’ off to?”
The Indian took a drink, savoring it. “There was a casting call for a big, ugly Indian. Needless to say, I got the part.”
Then he must have slapped the table and started toward the door. “I don’t remember the exact title…something about a cuckoo’s nest. See you, Ernie.”

A Day

Rachael tends to wake up at 7am on weekdays. Some days it’s for Young Adult Literature, and on others it’s for a fiction writing class. One class asks her to read books geared toward the enigmatic “young adult”, while the other asks her to read stories written by college students who stumble their way through trying to sound “adult” so that they’re no longer confined by the “young” modifier. Occasionally Rachael raises an eyebrow at the inclusion of certain four letter words in otherwise G rated stories. She half-suspects, however, that maybe she’s the one who has it all wrong between the “young” and “adult” and “young adult.” She would think back to her time as an adolescent, but she’s not entirely sure that that time ever ended.

Understanding her as an adolescent could explain a lot of things—her moments of arrogance, pride, carelessness, and lapse of punctuality—if only she hadn’t found out that adults, too, fall victim to such vices and perhaps far more often than with teenagers. Her professors and classmates habitually show up late to class, angry men on the television speak with conviction but refuse to listen even politely, her apartment’s on-site manager can’t refund her dollar from when the washer broke because she lost the key to its cashbox, it goes on. Maybe Rachael really needed those four quarters to run the load of laundry she dearly wanted to do, maybe she takes deep breaths to ensure that she is respectful of others while they share their opposing views, and maybe Rachael ran in her jeans and Converse to make it to class on time.

But the day goes on. After the early morning class, Rachael bikes home, eats lunch, wastes time on the internet, and then, if she has pulled together a behemoth-like strength of will, she will do some homework. Twice a week, she has a 2PM class where she’s constantly faced with the question of what “nonfiction” is. She’s still not sure, but every day she has a different idea, and every day she thinks about something new. She goes to practice at 3PM.

At practice, Rachael runs around. With as much “practice” as she’s done, you’d think she’d be really good, but it doesn’t quite work that way. She knows she can go so far and so fast, but the truth is that any running without injury is good. In reality, she’s only better than every injured person out there. She and her teammates, more often than not, don’t even think about running while they’re on the trails, because when something is good, we don’t usually think about it.

Then there’s dinner, which should come as quickly after practice as possible. Then homework, because she probably didn’t do it while she was researching the upcoming superhero movies. To finish her day, Rachael might drink some sleepy-time tea, though she doesn’t need it, and she’ll nestle into her bed sheets printed with sleeping cows. After she checks to see that her alarm is correct, but before sleep has come to reset her day, she’ll cling to her stuffed dog and whisper to it “goodnight.”

Phoenix

A stream of expletives make up your sub-conscious, but you try to quell it. You don't swear. Not swearing has always been your small form of rebellion, an action that keeps you in solidarity with your younger self, but your younger self never went through this, so the four letter words continue to provide accompaniment to your scared shootless thoughts.

Your shoes are properly tied, double knotted and form fitting like a corset. Your racing singlet might be a corset also, for how well you're able to breathe. The involuntary act of inhaling gets stopped somewhere in the traffic jam of your nerves. You have to force it to happen, and if you don't, the reduced oxygen blood will be pumped all throughout your body, making your muscles twitchy and you stomach nauseous, like it is now. You're terrified that you'll hurl at the starting line. Careful! That was a gag. You better not swallow. You better not open your mouth.

So you don't-- you instead breathe through your nose as they lead you to the starting line. You feel your heartbeat in your throat, which is both dry and on the verge of being flooded with bile. You look around. The others look around. None seem too happy, but you know the expressions on their faces can't be as sour as your own, not with your mouth shut in such a tight grimace.

This is your "scary" face, you know, but you couldn't care less because you are more afraid of what brings it on than others are of you. You could wonder what the runner sharing your lane is thinking, whether or not they'll try to edge you out of the inside within the first turn. But you don't. You have to focus on breathing forcefully through your nose so you don't vomit. You have to keep your emotions in line so you don't just break down crying.

If someone held a gun to your head, would you cry then? You don't know, and you don't care, because the only thing that matters is getting through this. You believe in that because your life depends on it. The gun is raised, not at your head, of course, but in the air. But the shot punches through your chest. You don't fall forward in your death. Your body, quite apart from you and your expletives, springs forth into life.

End u ran

Slap slap go the Saltwaters on my eight year old feet against the pavement. The trees shed their leaves, their branches caught in autumn's breath. Two laps around the man made lake is two laps more than my dad thought I would run. My brother only cared because his run was interrupted in order to look for me.
How far did you go, Rachael?
Two laps. I went two whole laps.
That's over a mile. If I had known you would get so far ahead of me, I wouldn't have let you run after your brother. I thought you would get tired sooner.
It was that day, I think, that the idea was planted. Not during Spring, when kids normally run around blissfully barefoot after the months of chill and snow, but during the Fall, when the big kids trained for cross-country, when my brother was training. The idea that I could run longer than others, this endurance, did not take long to sprout, though its vine would first scale around basketball before bursting forth on its own.
Clap clap go the converse against the cement. My bike has a flat and so I must catch the bus everyday to work. 7:00AM. If I miss it, I'm late, so I run to maintain that balance of sleeping as much as I can and getting to work on time. My legs roll downhill. It should be effortless, but I huff and puff and perspire slightly. I certainly got a bang for my buck.
Tap tap goes the metal rod against my fibula. Does that hurt? the trainer asks me. My face contorts. Yes, I answer.
So that's the spot. 2cm. In likelihood you have a stress reaction.
A stress reaction means no running. It means hours of elliptical or biking. Hours of keeping one's heart rate for that singular end. It is not fun. There are no endorphins. There is no banter between comrades. I sit out a race. I run to race, without competition it's a silly pastime indeed.
Pad pad go the Nike Zoom Miler against the red, flat 200m track. It's my third race in two days. I'm just happy that I have the opportunity to keep racing, though the first of my races ended in vomiting and left me stumbling. It's a new day, a new race, same distance. First lap, I'm in last. Second lap, I'm in last. Third lap, some girls are starting to falter, those first two laps were killer. My grandpa's dead? Fourth lap, smooth...relax the face...grandpa...breathe...toe plant below my center of gravity...and push off. A blast off in my mind, but I know it appears to be a typical, dying throw of a stride across the finish line. Seventh. People ask me about my race, I tell them seventh with pride and joy. They're awkward for a second. In the nation, I remind them. In the country. They nod their head, oh, that's good, then. Nice job. Way to go.
Pat pat go the hands on my back.