A Kind of Grace

by Jackie Joyner-Kersee

  I tried to put it out of my mind. It was another intrusion, a distraction from my appointed purpose at Seoul. I reminded myself that getting upset about it and wasting energy being angry the way Al and my father were would be a victory for the intruders. But I was upset.

  I didn't have breakfast the next morning. I just wanted to get away from it all. I went to the track early to find some peace. I also felt I'd be better protected from reporters on the warmup field.

  The Inter-Continental Hotel provided bodyguards to all the athletes who were guests. Those men were the greatest. Every morning at 6:00 A.M. there was a knock on the door and a voice said, “Bodyguards are here.” The two men, dressed in khaki pants and white shirts, waited for me to come out of the room into the hall. They weren't the beefy kind of guys I envisioned. They looked more like Secret Service agents—quiet, serious and conscientious. It was a wonderful luxury and it made me feel very secure. They escorted me to my destination and, as a precaution, hung close by as I walked around.

  Since the Munich Games in 1972, where Palestinian terrorists killed several Israeli athletes, there was an ever-present fear of attacks at the Games. Those fears were heightened in Seoul because of the hostilities between North and South Korea. The bodyguards drove me around the city in a little van: I didn't have to bother with the regular athletes' transportation. I was dropped off right on the warmup track. Later, when I went shopping for dolls after my events were over, they shadowed me in and out of the shops.

  So that morning, I sat peacefully on the grassy infield, beneath one of the tents on the warmup track with my two Korean bodyguards. There were only a handful of people out. Most of them were other long jumpers. I felt completely safe and sheltered from the chaos swirling around the Games. That time alone out there relaxed me and got me back into the right frame of mind after the unsettling events of the night before.

  Heike Drechsler showed up after an hour or so. We couldn't really talk because of the constraints imposed by her government. But she congratulated me for winning the heptathlon and smiled. Then we both started our warmup routine. Gradually the track became crowded as other athletes and coaches began filing in. Florence and the other runners in the 200-meter sprints, also scheduled for that day, showed up. The smell of Icy Hot, Ben-Gay and other ointments filled the air as the physical therapists began their morning massages, loosening the tight, sore muscles of their athletes.

  After a light jog around the track, I stretched out my legs. My front thigh muscles, the quadriceps, were tight. At about forty minutes before the competition, the officials summoned all the long jumpers to the call room, where our shoes and other equipment was checked to make sure they were legal. After that, we sat around for fifteen minutes until they were time for the ride to the track.

  Throughout the competition, I was having trouble hitting the board. Though Heike had jumped 23′ 8¼″, the best I could do on my fourth jump was foul. Between jumps, Bob Forster massaged my legs. I kept whispering to myself, “You're not tired. You're not tired.” I was starting to feel fatigued and I didn't want those thoughts getting too close to my consciousness.

  Bobby, dressed in a blue cap, blue warmup pants and T-shirt, hollered to me, “Accelerate through and hold the extension. Let Sir Isaac Newton drop you out of the air.”

  At the line before my second-to-last jump, I said out loud, “Think indefatigable.” Then I took off. It was a good leap. I sat down in the hole dug by my heels, a sign that I had grabbed every inch that I could out of the jump. The measuring tape extended to 24′ 3¼″. It was an Olympic record. Bobby let out a blood-curdling scream and lay out on his back on the stadium floor. I ran back to the waiting area with my face in my hands. I was overjoyed. Heike had one jump left. She gave it a good go, but only managed 23′ 6¼″. The gold medal was mine. Heike came over and hugged me.

  Bobby was so excited—more than I was, I think. When I saw him down on the track, my first thought was that he might not have clearance to be there. “Are you supposed to be down here?” I asked worriedly. “I don't want them to take away my gold medal.”

  He wanted me to take a victory lap, but I resisted at first, feeling it was cocky. I hadn't taken one since an embarrassing incident at a high school track meet.

  At that meet, the scores were announced after the last race and the speaker said Lincoln had finished first. All of us Tigerettes chanted, danced and bragged during our victory lap. We carried on for almost a half-hour. Then, the loudspeaker came on again and the announcer said there'd been a mistake. The officials had miscalculated and we weren't the winners. They took back our trophy and awarded it to—of all schools—our crosstown rival, East St. Louis High. We were devastated. The obvious lesson: We never should have behaved so ungraciously. I vowed then that I would never take another victory lap.

  Besides, I'd never seen a jumper take one. But Bobby was adamant, “As much hell as I've been through, you'd better get out there and enjoy it.” And so, I trotted around the track, waving to the crowd, wearing a big grin, overcome with joy about my second gold medal.

  There wasn't much joy at the press conference afterward. It was crowded and chaotic. Reporters and photographers and television cameras jockeyed for vantage points and seats. Others sat or stood in any empty space they could find. They all wanted to know what I thought of the comment made the night before. “I'm not using drugs and I'm not on steroids,” I said emphatically.

  Then I added something I'd been wanting to say for a long time but had kept to myself. Because of Cruz's comment about my looks, I thought it was the perfect time. I told them that I had read and heard all the disparaging remarks about my appearance. “I never thought I was the prettiest person in the world,” I said. “But I know that, inside, I'm beautiful.”

  As pleased as I was with my performance, I was disheartened about the reception I received. At the press conference and interviews immediately afterward, I felt like the journalists were searching for something that wasn't there and giving short shrift to my achievement. They wanted to talk about Cruz, about Florence, about steroids. Anything except my heptathlon world record, my long-jump Olympic record and my two gold medals.

  The final straw was the zillionth question about whether I'd taken steroids during a press conference in New York, a month after the Games. The Women's Sports Foundation had named me Amateur Athlete of the Year and the steroid question was one of the first ones asked. “No, I've never used drugs,” I said as convincingly as I could. “I will put my hand on a Bible.”

  I was so tired of the whispering and veiled accusations and never-ending queries, I broke down in tears. How many times did I have to deny it before they believed me?

  “I do not take steroids,” I said again. “I never have. It's sad to me that people want to point fingers. I don't do that. That's not me. I wouldn't feel like a human being. I've never thought about taking drugs even in childhood. I see what they have done to my own family. My grandmother was shot to death by the man she married. He was involved with drugs and alcohol. He shot her. Growing up, I lived across the street from a liquor store and near a poolhall. Every day something was going on. Some days, my father would come home drunk.”

  I wiped my face and continued. “There are a lot of reasons now why I won't even take a drink. I don't feel like putting anything into my body. It took a long time before I would even take an aspirin.”

  It was so frustrating. Partly, I felt the allegations were a reflection on the fact that I'm from East St. Louis. Some people think it's a corrupt place, so they figure I must be a corrupt person. I know I shouldn't be so sensitive. And I tried not to be. But it finally got to be too much. After the nasty stories following Al and Florence's announcement, to have to deal with these accusations and suspicions was more than I could bear. The whole experience left a bitter taste in my mouth and made me very cynical about the media.

  I'd finally reached the pinnacle of my profession. Finally achieved my goals. But I wasn't allowed to enjoy it
and feel good about it. Jealous athletes and scandal-hungry journalists were trying to tear me down and make me feel bad. It frustrated and angered me. It wasn't fair. I wanted to quit track and field.

  24

  Rejuvenation

  East St. Louis looked more depressed than I'd ever seen it on the cold, gray January afternoon in 1989 when I visited for a homecoming celebration. A dusting of snow covered the ground, but it couldn't hide the gloomy reality.

  I visited my hometown a dozen times or more during the year, so I knew the general condition of things. But the decay I noticed as we drove through my neighborhood disturbed me more than usual.

  The rust-colored smokestacks of the manufacturing plant across the street from Parsons Field still belched smoke. But the days of star-making were over for the track and stadium, now hidden and forgotten amid a forest of weeds. The Al and Jackie Joyner Park that was to have been developed by the city was a deserted, unused field, with only a single slide and a set of swings. Across the street, the brick house that was to have been our gift from the city was unfinished and boarded up. Life itself seemed to be boarded up. There were no children running carefree along the sidewalks or playing games in the street the way we had. The place had no laughter, no music, no joy.

  As our car approached the corner of Piggott and 15th Street, I looked at my childhood home. Some years earlier, lightning had struck it during a bad thunderstorm and it caught fire. My father hadn't lived there since then. The house was nothing but a raggedy, empty shell now. The fragile roof looked as if the next breeze that blew through would cave it in. Bobby and I got out of the car and walked up on the rotting porch. I showed him where I used to jump from the railing to the makeshift sand pit. Standing in the yard, the memories flooded back. I could almost hear my mother's voice calling me in to help prepare supper.

  I glanced across the street at the Mary Brown Community Center. The front doors were held shut by a giant steel chain and an oversized padlock dangling on the end. The facility had closed while I was at UCLA, after the funds that kept it operating were cut from the federal budget. It pained me to see the Center like that. The closing symbolized the locking up of hope and the shuttering of ambition in my neighborhood, which I refused to accept.

  The year before, I'd established the Jackie Joyner-Kersee Youth Center Foundation to provide enrichment programs for children in East St. Louis and to raise the funds to reopen the Center. The Seven Up Co., one of my sponsors, had agreed to help, donating $700 to the foundation every time I long-jumped 7 meters or accumulated 7,000 points in the heptathlon, and $7,000 for every world record.

  It was a heartbreaking sight, all of it. As I'd become more successful, some people even suggested that I should disavow my hometown. “You shouldn't say you're from East St. Louis,” someone in sports marketing advised. “It will hurt your image.”

  A reporter asked whether I was embarrassed to be from the city and whether I worried that it would tarnish my image. Even some people in the neighborhood couldn't understand why I so often came back. Such comments and questions upset me. “What do you mean?” I always countered. “East St. Louis is my home. I think by coming back, I give people there pride and hope. The city has a few problems, but it's a part of me.”

  As Bobby and I drove up to Lincoln High, the sight of the school was an antidote to the sadness I felt about my neighborhood's decline. Instantly, I felt happy. I got out of the car and read the marquee on the school's front lawn: “CONGRATULATIONS JACKIE JOYNER-KERSEE SEOUL OLYMPICS.” I smiled. I was home.

  The first thing I saw when I entered the gym to a thunderous ovation was a huge banner bearing the 7UP logo that read, “Congratulations Jackie! A Dream Come True.” Several 7UP executives had flown up from Dallas to participate in the school's celebration, which I thought was a wonderful demonstration of the company's commitment. Mr. Fennoy escorted me to the podium, where I looked out on a sea of cheering voices, toothy grins and wide, bright eyes. About forty girls wore T-shirts bearing the words: “Jackie Joyner Kersee Dream Machine.” Another sixty students stood along the back wall.

  There was so much to tell them about the facts of life. This was my chance to educate, encourage and inspire.

  My parents taught us never to hate or to dwell on racism. For Al, Debra, Angie and me, people were either good or bad, not black or white. But as I got older, I learned the harsh reality. The fact is, for black people, life is more of a struggle because we must deal with racist attitudes on an almost daily basis. Young blacks are particularly challenged because of the lack of suitable role models. Standing there, gazing at these kids, I wanted to be a symbol of the potential they all had—to play for them the role that Katherine Dunham had played for me. I wanted them to see me as someone from East St. Louis who, against the odds, had applied herself and used her talents to succeed. They needed to know that although we all start out as raw material, great possibilities lie within each of us.

  Someone also had to tell them to expect criticism whenever they grasped for more. Although others might discourage their ambitions, they had to know they wouldn't find a way out without determination and a clear focus. I wanted them to keep their eyes on the prize.

  With that message in mind, I stepped up to the podium. “I've been in your shoes. I know how difficult life is around here,” I said. “Still, I'm proud to be from East St. Louis. I think about my raggedy old house. It represents what my family is all about and the struggles we went through to make our lives better.

  “It's important to set goals and work hard—no matter how many people tell you it's useless or that you won't succeed. Without determination, your dreams of a better life won't come true. And I hope when you all are successful, you'll come back to the community and bring along a piece of your success to inspire others. Because that's the only way life in our hometown will get better.”

  I knew, however, that I needed to do more than just dispense platitudes. When Macy's invited me to ride a float in its Thanksgiving Day parade in New York, I got an idea. With help from 7UP, some other corporate donors and some of my foundation funds, I shared the experience with a group of boys and girls from East St. Louis, who might otherwise never get to ride a plane or visit New York City and see the parade in person. I chartered a plane to fly them from St. Louis to New York. The group numbered over 100 students, including the entire sixth grade from John Robinson Elementary, the honor roll members from Hughes Quinn Junior High, the honor students and History Club members from Lincoln High, and members of a citywide girls' club.

  At lunch the day before the parade, we all sat around eating sandwiches and talking about whatever was on our minds. The night before the parade, I hosted a party for the boys and girls. Terrie Williams, a publicist from New York who was working with me at the time, arranged for Marvel Comic Book characters to entertain at the party. The room erupted with squeals and cheers when Spiderman and Green Hornet walked through the door. The superheroes handed out souvenirs and posed for pictures. The folks at Revlon also gave each girl a shiny red shopping bag full of cosmetics to take home for their mothers.

  It was chilly the morning of the parade. But seeing the girls' happy, excited faces when I passed them along the parade route gave me a warm feeling. I run into some of those young women from time to time and they tell me that trip was one of the most memorable experiences of their lives.

  Unfortunately, political and bureaucratic obstacles forced me to give up the dream of reopening the Community Center. But in July 1996, my foundation announced plans to build a new youth center at Kenneth Hall Park, not too far from where I grew up. We've already collected several million-dollar pledges. We've also received support from the Monsanto Fund. It won't be easy. We must raise $10 million for the first phase of construction. But I'm excited by the challenge.

  Meanwhile, there are bright spots to sustain those who call East St. Louis home. The city built a big, beautiful brick stadium to replace Parsons Field and named it after Clyde Jordan, th
e powerful township supervisor, school board president and newspaper owner. A few years ago, the annual citywide track meet was moved to the new facility and renamed the Jackie Joyner-Kersee Relays. It's a high honor for me and another opportunity to remain connected to the city's kids. Each spring, I find myself looking forward to attending the competition.

  I also like to spend several days each year working out with the Lincoln High girls' track team at the stadium, and indoors at the school during the winter. In 1991, Gail Devers joined our workout sessions. After our running drills in the hallways, we led the squad into a classroom for a discussion, and I asked them to tell me about their goals. The team wasn't as successful as it had been when I attended the school, and I wanted to help Mr. Fennoy figure out why.

  In response to my queries, the kids offered mostly canned responses—they wanted to be doctors, lawyers, etc. Immediately, I was suspicious. No one had said anything about winning a championship, which was always the first thing out of my mouth in high school when someone asked me that question.

  “You guys are just saying stuff you think we want to hear, but you don't fool me,” I told them. “Jot down on a piece of paper what's bothering you because I can tell something's wrong.”

  Reading some of the notes broke my heart. There was a lot of dissension on the squad. Several members were angry that others put their boyfriends ahead of the team's goals. Some came from families with drug problems and had no one to talk to. A lot of the girls had similar problems, but each felt isolated. I started a discussion about it, without being specific, that brought them all closer together. And that year, the team won the state championship. I was pleased about that, liked to think that my encouragement had played some small part in it, but helping those girls win a trophy wasn't my ultimate goal. I was more concerned with helping them get their lives on track.