Every four years, when the Summer Olympics rolls into our consciousness and screens, I put on my swimmer’s cap and Swedish goggles back on, shake my shoulders, arms and hands, jump up and down to release muscle tension, a few sharp inhales and exhales, knees bent, back hunched on the starting block to serve as commentator to my husband.
“I wanted to win that.” I exclaimed and pointed to the shiny medals around beaming swimmers’ necks and the trophies they carried in their arms. That was and continues to be my father’s countless look back that plays like a broken record on my once upon a time ambitious path to the Olympics. [He even messaged my husband that seeing Olympic swimmers reminded him of me.] I was five years old then. What did I know about life? What did I even know about winning? That statement and intention was all it took to get my parents to enroll me in advanced swimming classes then wake up even earlier mornings for training, then forego recess and lunch time horseplay, after school playtime and hanging out with peers for evening trainings at the pool, and weekend gimmick with friends for competitions for over 12 years.
In high school, I was voted as most likely to be in the Olympics. Sorry to have disappointed y’all, but, here I am definitely not in Paris in three-stars-and-a-sun (nor stars and stripes) in the biggest sporting event in the world. [If it was a vote for me to be in it in spirit, then I may have just made it. A shoo-in for a participation trophy then.]
This made me think of the Nine of Cups. A man with a feathers on his cap with a smug smile on his face, arms crossed on his chest, squats on a wooden bench for one. Behind him are nine golden chalices placed atop a concave table, covered in cascading silk, edges kissing the floor, towered above his head.
Theresa Reed and Benebell Wen called this card the “wish card.” After setting up the stage, now all the ducks, or rather cups, are in a neat row. Rachel Pollack wrote that it represents a desire for a simple good time, after going through some of life’s hardships. One indeed does swell with pride from accomplishment. The fist pump and exhale seeing the view from the top after an arduous climb. The Eureka to solving a long standing puzzle. The social media selfie post after getting a fab haircut. The proof of the pudding.
When pulled in a reading, you make a wish. The set is stage for you to take a bow.
My parents set up a shelf that housed every ribbon (the ones the one of the American bases gave out), medal - grouped into gold, silver and bronze - plaques and trophies won by my sister and I. Also, every newspaper clipping that printed my name. A swift, flick of a neon highlighter brought the viewer’s attention to the my name “Didith Paterno” (the spelling of the name is a story for next time) on the yellowing, crinkly clipping, stuck onto the shelf’s backing with brass thumbtacks. First time home visitors were treated to a tour that included this stop, where they marveled at our achievements that made me retreat back into the hole of my room. I was proud, I did work hard (more so, my parents) to get all those, yet perturbed by the attention that involved unwarranted pats on the back and glowing words of praise from strangers that felt smothering.
I grew tired of it, the quest for swimming gold, especially when one day, I woke up not wanting to dive into the pool. One, I wasn’t winning anymore. Two, disenchanted by the dwindling funds as required by compounded expenses for private coaching, equipment, competition and travel expenses (Yep, absolutely minimal to nil government support), I said no more. It all felt pointless as the dream of reaching the Olympic heights, even just Southeast Asian glory, slipped further away. Strike three, I was about to enter my senior year in high-school and wanted to retreat into a “normal life.” I itched for a taste of what my barkada enjoyed - hanging out after school, going to gimmicks on weekends, vegging out in front of the TV watching MTV, Channel V or the latest episodes of Dawson’s Creek, waking up late.
With much grumbling, arms crossed protests, I got my wish. No more competitive swimming. I welcomed a no purpose driven life of being a “regular” teen. The mountain of sparkly medals, trophies and plaques stopped growing, gathered dust in the display shelf. My golden ducks in a row were now behind me, a chapter passed. An old page turned for a fresh chapter written.
The nine is a nine and not a perfect ten, falling one point short of the highest level of the number range. Like the man in the Nine of Cups, yes, he is seated. But on a wooden bench. Do you think he’d last in that seated position for long? You know this, especially if you’re like me, no longer physically adept, spending hours on hours on an office chair with a daily workout and on the downhill with aging. There is comfort, but a momentary one.
And the golden chalices are behind him for a reason. Those are done. “Khallas” as we used to say in Dubai. Finished. In the past. Sure, be proud of your accomplishments. Yet don’t be too smug and rest your laurels there as there is more to life ahead.
Competitive swimming is a closed chapter. But that doesn’t mean it disappears completely. I still know how to swim. Rather fast compared to the average person. I carry with me the discipline of a daily routine. I still strangely wake up early, despite the desire to sleep in. I still can’t veg out in front of the TV on a regular basis. I even occasionally, on the behest of special friends, teach swimming to kids in the summer. And every four years, during the summer Olympics, I work as a personal commentator for my husband.
I just signed up for a free trial of the U.S. Masters Swimming program, a membership that provides training and stages sanctioned competitions for, well, adult swimmers. The ones who’ve graduated out of the age group categories into the 18+ or “open” events. There was a local pool very near me, wherein I woke up at 5A.M. to get to the 5:30 A.M. hour long workout.
The skies were dark. The streets empty, still too early for the school bus crawl. It was reminiscent of the morning, pre-school training, when I reeked of chlorine when I came into school.
I was intimidated as again, I do not swim regularly, if not at all. And I was the only Asian person there. The only tiny person there. [Perhaps there should be a below 5-feet category.] Coach Chris asked about my swimming skill level and explained the program as I fiddled with and adjusted my Swedish goggles to fit and put on my silicone Arena swim cap. “Around 12 years of competitive swimming.” I declared to him and the four other newbies to the program.
There was the immigrant desire to prove one’s self that lighted in my belly. Everyone else was white, at least six inches to an entire foot taller than I. I may be small, I may be different, but I am terrible. In the nicest sense of the word. Like great, ferocious, fierce in competition terrible. Like I can keep pace with you even if I don’t look like I could.
Back home, each competitive swimmer would lug their change clothes and toiletries (on school days, it included school uniforms on hangers!) along with a net bag (nothing fancy, but the ones from the palengke) filled with all the standard swim training equipment - kick board, pull buoy, fins, swim paddles with DIY holes drilled into them, and pulleys made from medical tubing, plastic rope and a piece of water pipe. This in the 80s through the 90s in the Philippines, where we made do with what we could, adapting training modules and imitating advanced equipment inspired by imported swimming magazines shared through the kindness of family and friends from the US. So imagine my surprise when I saw that there was swim equipment available for all public pool swimmers’ use (paid for by the city and memberships).
The warm up was scribbled on the white board. For non-swimmers, it would be gobbledygook, not spelled out in plain English. But it all came flooding back to me. I inhaled the chlorine fumes, psyched myself that I could do this (but my now forty-ish self might die from exhaustion) and dove into the water.
I felt great as I scooped, sliced and glided through the water. After a couple of sets (that included a dreaded backstroke, butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke, freestyle sequence, my body sank a little more as I crossed each lap. My heart pa-thumped louder and louder. Heat radiated from my body that I could feel even in the cool waters. I gulped air like a parched four legged animal in the desert.
“I could see you’re tired.” Coach Chris said.
Quick, shallow breaths in between bubbles.
“Yes, it’s been awhile. The butterfly killed me.”
“Feel free to stop after each lap and take three breaths before going. Pace yourself. You’re doing great that’s why I didn’t pay you any mind. We want you to come back to swim.”
I nodded as I took more bubbles to catch my breath, watching the stop clock for it to turn to the :45 interval. I pushed off the wall and swam the remaining sets.
People started trickling into the lap pool, I saw as I pulled my head up to breathe. One, three, five then even more. Eye rubbing, yawns, arm stretching as they sat by the bleachers.
“Our time ends at 6:30 A.M. on the dot. Then the high school team takes their turn in the lanes.”
Crap. I still had the 4 x 50 left then 200m cool down. Was I too slow? Argh! This is zero practice!
“Take the last 50. It’s fine.”
So I sprinted.
The dawn skies were still dark. But the sun started its climb out of its slumber as rays of light peeked from the blanket of indigo. More SUVs and yellow school buses started to crawl onto the suburban streets. It was barely 7 A.M. and there I was, winded, wet with a splash of eau de chlorine. Just like the old days.
Would I do this again? Maybe just take the last free session and I’m done? [I’ll report back to you as these things also do cost money.] Until another four years, when the Olympics come into town (in Los Angeles though) and I get that itch again to prove that I could still do it. Or should I really?
Just like the man on the wooden bench in the Nine of Cups, I feel accomplished enough and the seat has gotten too uncomfortable to my liking. So it is time to dust off my past pride and move on.
What I’ve read:
I finished listening to the audio book of “The Paris Novel” by Ruth Reichl. She’s a former food critic for the New York Times, famous/infamous for her disguises. While I think that food critiquing of yore has fallen to the wayside with the boom of Yelp, Google reviews and social media influencers of all shapes, colors and sizes, I am still very much drawn by the romance of her writing. And the romance of the idea of France, its language, and, more importantly, passion for pleasure. Perhaps because I am romantic at heart? Very much so, even though I might not look like it.
I started Fareed Zakaria’s “Age of Revolutions: Progress and Backlash from 1600s to the Present.” As weekly viewers of his CNN show, “GPS: Global Public Square” (honestly, the most sober CNN show away from the all day talking heads centered around US news and views), I chose the audiobook. So I now have 13-hours of Zakaria reading his own book. 13-hours of GPS episodes. Astrologically, the release of this book actually is just in perfect time as the country is faced with a lot of questions, changes and upheavals. Especially as the November Presidential elections loom over us. All I can say, it will be an election season like no other. *Grabs popcorn bucket*
What I’ve watched/am watching:
“Felicity”
I finally finished all four seasons of “Felicity” on Hulu. Right in the nick of time before my subscription (on sale!) ended. And I have a jumble of feelings about it. Season 4 got dark quick in a stark contrast to the fresh possibilities of Season 1. But that’s what college is like in real life. You’re full of optimism, then live life and get out a little more jaded. To me, it is a romantic show, not just about college love, but of friendship and life too. If you’re in the same rabbit hole, there’s also a podcast, “Dear Felicity” where they guest cast members, writers, producers and directors to talk about the show. A great companion to the re-watch.
My Lady Jane
If you enjoy the likes of “Bridgerton”, then may I recommend watching “My Lady Jane” on Amazon Prime. It is a modern retelling, with loads of liberty on a diverse cast, lots of swearing, contemporary music and magic, of the tale of Lady Jane Grey - the 9-day Queen of England.
Podcast update:
I am still on a short, yet not so sweet Texas scorcher summer break from the podcast. But I do hope that you subscribe and listen to the past two seasons that tackle the planets and the astrological houses respectively. Season 3 will be all about the zodiac signs in the Vedic astrology universe.
On transit news, I do hope you follow me on Instagram as I share news both on earth and in the sky, relating them with each other. It is and will continue to be an endlessly interesting news cycle as mirrored by the planets above. The news is a great way to see vedic astrology in action. I know, if you’re not actually following the news because it causes you anxiety, it’s fine. But somehow, there is comfort in distance. That it might not necessarily be happening to you directly, just the world.