Chasing Grace

by Sanya Richards-Ross

  Mom’s sister, my aunt Maureen, helped us research possible locations for our family’s new home. She was a big part of guiding our transition to South Florida and made the biggest investment in my life by leading me to Christ. She was a faithful churchgoer, a staple at what was then Caribbean Baptist Church (now ChristWay Baptist Church), and she would take us every Thursday for choir practice and Sunday for the worship service. I admired her passion and the quiet peace that defined her character. Even at age twelve, I knew there was something special about her that I wanted to emulate. I accepted Jesus as my Savior when I was thirteen. I was baptized and started living my life for Christ.

  Aunt Maureen was also the one who identified the perfect spot for my continuing growth as a student and competitor. St. Thomas Aquinas started as a small, private Catholic school in 1936 and is now a campus covering almost thirty acres in urban Fort Lauderdale, offering students college preparatory courses in state-of-the-art classrooms and laboratories. The athletics facilities are pristine, like that of a small college, and provide the training grounds for an esteemed prep sports program. The Raiders have won more than a hundred state championships, and I’m proud to say that I donned the blue-and-gold while helping the girls’ track team to four straight titles during my years there from 1998 to 2002.

  The top-notch facilities weren’t the biggest difference between athletics in Jamaica and America. Mostly, to me, it was the culture. In Jamaica, if you’re in second place, you’re the first loser. There’s no way around it. I was more than a little taken aback when I competed at my first meet in America. One of my teammates was far back in the pack as she came around the turn and went down the home stretch in front of the bleachers, hustling toward the finish line. People clapped furiously and shouted support.

  “Come on. Let’s go. You got this.”

  What in the world? I thought. She’s behind. She’s losing.

  It took me a little while to unlearn what was instilled in me in Jamaica, where there was no such thing as a participation ribbon. I had to learn to understand that sometimes you can be satisfied with giving your best effort and leaving it all on the track—no matter the outcome.

  As a young Jamaican, I was also used to living in a community where most of the people looked just like me. Most of the students I went to school with and the individuals I interacted with were black.

  St. Thomas Aquinas was a majority-white private school. Now I was in the minority.

  I’ve heard many people say they don’t see color, and it usually makes me skeptical, but I can honestly say at thirteen, one of the youngest kids entering the ninth grade, I never really felt like I was any different. I always loved people and went out of my way to make friends. Not just the people on the track team, but everybody.

  If you were in my class, in the cafeteria, or even in the parking garage when I pulled up, I wanted to get to know you. It was fair to say I was among the popular girls at school and experienced sustained success on the track and in the classroom. Add a 4.0 GPA, and I had struck the perfect balance as a well-rounded student-athlete. Or at least I thought so.

  Before the summer of my senior year, I attended the junior Olympics with one of my favorite teammates. I shared with her my new crush and how I hoped we would start dating during our senior year. He was the most popular guy in the school and the football team captain. Gregarious, handsome, and funny—all the girls liked him.

  As I walked the hallways for the first day of my senior year, I saw my teammate, the one I had confided in, holding my crush’s hand. My chest tightened, and my breathing quickened. I was in utter shock. How could this be? When did this happen? Why didn’t she tell me? I was heartbroken. I was completely blindsided.

  The dynamic of my intimate circle of friends changed. Most of the student body was unaware of what happened, but this once close group of athletes and friends who sat and visited on the stair stoops after class was now divided. Friendships fractured as people chose sides.

  I cherished my friendships and struggled with the ever-present tension that now filled the school hallways. At times it felt like a war zone. No longer able to speak to old friends freely or congregate the way we once did, I was always on guard. I was protecting the friendships I still had and my sanity. I continued to excel on the track and in the classroom, but my social life was in shambles.

  One morning, between homeroom and first period, Shari and I and two of our closest friends were chatting before class. One of the guys on the football team walked by and mumbled a sly comment under his breath. Shari and Raecena, the wittiest of the group, snapped back at him. I never said a word. To this day I have no idea what he even said, but the atmosphere was so tenuous that any little spark could start a fight.

  He quickly grew upset, but this rage was both unexpected and frightening. Out of nowhere, he punched me in the face. We couldn’t believe it, and before I could rectify what was happening and retaliate, everyone jumped in and separated us.

  Everything happened in such a flurry that I had to be reminded to call Dad. I could feel his outrage through the phone. He didn’t even hear the full story before he was parked on campus, but by the time he arrived, the young man was long gone.

  It was probably the worst experience of my high school days, but support, particularly from my family, kept me involved in the church. I started to understand that being a Christian doesn’t exempt a person from tough times and trials but invites Christ to walk along on the journey.

  I focused my energy on being the best student-athlete I could be.

  In the weeks leading into my senior year, I started doing an intense core routine. I’d go to the track before everyone else and run stadium stairs. I studied film. I became a true student of my sport.

  My senior year was the first year I ran the 400. I set a new national record in winning the quarter mile at the National Scholastic Indoor Championships, shaving more than a second off the previous mark. My focus as I competed there was on the 200 title and record, both of which I attained, but once again my performance opened our eyes to potential and possibility, if properly nurtured.

  My aunt’s insistence that we move to the United States for an opportunity to attend a four-year college was beginning to pay off. Based on my performance on the track and in the classroom, college coaches visited me every weekend. It was a family dream realized.

  I was pursued by Stanford, LSU, South Carolina, Miami, Florida, Tennessee, and so many others, but my favorite all along was coach Beverly Kearney from the University of Texas. Her hundred-watt smile, her swag and confidence, and her talented young team seemed like the perfect fit for me.

  My high school career came full circle as I entered the final state championship meet. I began as an unknown freshman, and by my senior season, front-page pictures and big headlines felt like the norm. I never shied away from boldly stating my goals, and the media gladly covered my candor. Everyone knew I entered my senior state championships chasing new meet records in the 100, 200, and 400.

  I swept the events, establishing a new record in the 400 but failing to come away with records in the 100 or 200. Silently, I was satisfied, because I knew the toll my body was undertaking by competing in so many events in leading the Raiders to a fourth team title. Still, I was just the second runner ever to sweep the 100 all four seasons, and my ten individual titles were the second most all-time in Florida history.

  Mostly, I was grateful for a rewarding high school experience and the exposure it afforded me.

  By the time I turned sixteen and a senior in high school, my family was fully settled and invested in Florida. I had made strong friendships, thanks to the camaraderie of track and teammates, and was earning attention for my form and race times, competing all across the country. After a summer club meet, I was approached by a woman, Joy Kimani, who thought I was talented and promising. She encouraged me to register and compete with the junior national team. I was ecstatic. In track and field, running for one’s country represents the
pinnacle of the sport. Think about it, when you win the Olympics, they don’t play your favorite song on the medal stand; they play the national anthem. So I couldn’t wait to go sign up.

  “We’ll need your passport, please.”

  I turned to my mom, and she realized immediately that we didn’t have one. We were legal immigrants with a green card to live in the United States, but we weren’t naturalized citizens.

  If I wanted to be on Team USA, it would be a process.

  Barely old enough to drive a car, I was faced with a choice I never imagined making—Jamaica or the United States? I wanted to compete for Team USA. All my friends were American, and I wanted to make the team with them. It had been four years since my family moved to live and work in Florida. Four years to a kid feels like a lifetime, and I didn’t know any of the young Jamaican athletes. I begged my parents to let me join the U.S. team. They had many discussions about it. We are proud Jamaicans, but ultimately my parents thought it was the best decision for me and my future.

  My mom started working toward her citizenship immediately. Once she was naturalized, Shari and I would automatically become U.S. citizens because we were minors, and I’d be eligible to compete. It’s a tough process, with so much vetting and preparing. I remember quizzing Mom, a complete change of our norm, and helping her with her American history. I felt like she was doing it for me and wanted to help her as much as I could. I was elated when she passed all the tests and checks, and we became United States citizens.

  Being a young and naive teenager, I could not foresee the controversy it would eventually cause.

  The summer of 2002 gave me a glimpse into the future we had so purposefully fantasized. Those months between high school graduation and enrolling as a freshman at Texas allowed me to completely focus on track—no homework or group projects also requiring my attention.

  Of course, as my focus intensified, so did the pressure. We traveled for the first time to Eugene, Oregon, for the prestigious Prefontaine Classic at the end of May. Known in the track world as simply “The Pre,” the race is named in honor of Steve Prefontaine. He was a gutsy distance runner, and shouts of “Go, Pre” followed him around Hayward Field, the track where he competed in college for the Oregon Ducks. He died tragically in a car accident at just twenty-four, and the meet endures as a stage where runners are invited to honor him with their focus and bravery. Annually, this track reveals the breadth and depth of competitive character.

  The Pre was probably the first meet of my life in which Dad didn’t direct himself to a seat on top of the finish line. At one of the largest and most respected track and field meets in the United States, he didn’t have to worry about making his own recording. It was on TV, aired nationally by ESPN2, and I was the only high schooler invited. He knew my race would be showcased, and Dad was more than happy to find his place some seventeen rows high in the east grandstands, in the middle of the home stretch.

  Fast times and mounting buzz carried me to my first appearance at historic Hayward Field, which would quickly earn a special place in my heart. I held the fastest girls’ 400-meter time in the nation, and my indoor performances that year in the 400 and 200 would have placed me among the top five against NCAA competition.

  I set a new Florida state record (52.51 seconds) in winning the 400 title for my high school a few weeks prior. Chasing the national record of 50.74 was the next goal. Dad always had me looking forward, asking what’s next and what’s possible.

  In a field that featured two Olympians and a handful of other world-class professional runners, I wasn’t expected to do any better than finish last. But by identifying a tangible goal—the national junior record—I was able to stay motivated to be at my best, and that was significant at a track meet with a reputation for showcasing top prep performers like long-distance runner Alan Webb and quarter-miler Monique Henderson, who just happened to hold the record I was chasing.

  The spectacle of the event opened my eyes to the enormity of my reality. When Dad and I first walked onto the track for practice, I saw Olympic stars like Gail Devers, Stacy Dragila, and Marion Jones.

  “Dad, we’re finally here.”

  I fell short of the national record, running 51.15, but surprised everyone with a second-place finish out of lane 2. The winner was eventually banned from the sport a year later for steroid use. The announcer called me back onto the track and urged me to take a victory lap. The Hayward Field crowd, some of the most knowledgeable and appreciative track fans in the world, stood and applauded.

  I was stunned. They were cheering for me—after I finished second.

  Only in America.

  Another passionate crowd awaited me in July. What were the odds? For the first time, never before and never since, the IAAF World Junior Championships were contested at the national stadium in Kingston, Jamaica.

  To get there, I won the 200 and 400 meters at the U.S. Junior Nationals, and that was no easy feat. I had to defeat Monique Henderson, the high school national record holder in the 400, and Allyson Felix, an upcoming star in the 200. I was the only one chasing the double and needed to run my best races to win.

  The 400 final was contested first, and I broke Monique’s national record in her hometown and maintained my status as the top-rated junior quarter-miler in the world. Edging out Allyson in a tight battle for the 200 title, I couldn’t wait to head to Jamaica.

  My Team USA international debut was set for a stage where I already cherished so many memories. This country—this track—helped shape me as a runner and competitor, and I anxiously hoped the appreciation I felt for the place would pour back into me. The Jamaican people, though, felt as if I had abandoned my homeland, and instead of warmth and affection, hostility greeted me as I arrived in Jamaica. It was apparent from the beginning, and at a press conference to preview the star-studded championships, which also featured a young Jamaican hopeful named Usain Bolt, I could feel my nerves fraying. “I hope everybody will still love me,” one newspaper quoted me as saying.

  Like usual, I bore a heavy load for my team, scheduled to run the 200 and 400, as well as the 4x100 and 4x400 relays. The entire junior squad voted me team captain and elected me to be the flag bearer during the opening ceremonies. I was honored to be both but told my teammates I didn’t want to offend the Jamaican fans any further. I declined the role as our flag bearer.

  Still, the locals suggested I was a traitor, and boos and jeers rang out as I arrived at the stadium. I was caught off guard. Emotionally, I wasn’t prepared for the negativity. Shari cried in the stands. It was ugly.

  The opening heat of the 200 was scheduled just hours before the 400 final. The win-or-lose mentality that Jamaica ingrained within me reared its ugly head. I was still a young runner, and I had so much to learn about racing with strategy. In these opening heats, all you have to do is finish among the top two to advance to the next round. But I was intent on winning. A girl from Canada ran the race of her life against me. I had to set a personal best to beat her—in the first round.

  What was I thinking? We were so far in front of the rest of the field, I could have geared back and walked the final meters and still moved on, but I didn’t know. I was consumed with having to win, and that obsession beat me soon after.

  Of course, the 400 final was a sight to behold. More than fifteen thousand fans crammed inside the National Stadium. Steel drum beats and the black, green, and gold flags of Jamaica rose into the muggy night air from the sea of people. Jamaicans love track and field and are very rarely rewarded with international caliber competition, so this event meant a lot to the people and the country. Every fan wanted to see the Jamaicans win, and unlike my Vaz Prep days, I was not wearing the right colors. The fans taunted my family.

  “She nah go win!”

  “She’s a sellout. She don’t deserve di gold.”

  Even though I was treated as the adversary, for the first time forced to line up as the villain, my focus didn’t waver. This time, like every time I entered a
race, I was set on winning. My mind and heart were ready, but my legs couldn’t answer.

  I ran out hard and felt strong, but when I came into the last 100 meters, there was nothing left. My energy was all gone, drained from me on this same spot a few hours earlier with that crazy kick to conquer my 200 heat. Now, when it mattered in the 400 final—when a winner was actually determined—I couldn’t find another gear to match my American teammate Monique Henderson. I looked over at her in disappointment mid-race as she passed me. How could she do this? Why would she let me suffer such embarrassment here? I was devastated.

  Just past the finish line, I found Monique, hugged her in congratulations, and then slumped into a nearby chair. I was exhausted and humiliated. As I stared at the track, I berated my effort. I wanted to win; I wanted to set a personal record and prove to the people who sneered at me and taunted me that I was at least worth the effort. That I lived up to my billing. That Team USA was lucky to have me. But I didn’t do any of that, and I had to be back at the track the next morning for my 200 semifinal.

  I went down to Jamaica with sights set on a pair of individual gold medals but left with none. With a silver in the 400 and a bronze in the 200, I was beaten, mentally and physically. Then, to add injury to insult, I sprained my ankle during the preliminary heats of the 4x400 relay—a race I wasn’t even supposed to run. I was in the stands wearing jeans and a T-shirt, supporting one of my teammates, but the team needed a quick sub in the relay. I didn’t have my uniform or spikes.

  In borrowed clothes and shoes, I crossed the finish line first and then promptly stepped into a covered hole and severely rolled my ankle.

  It was a difficult international debut, to say the least.

  Later that month, as I was preparing for the move to Austin and my start as a collegiate athlete, Mom drove me to a hotel near Miami. I put on one of my best outfits, and Mom hurried me into the car, telling me we were going to be late for a newspaper photo shoot. That seemed reasonable to me, until we arrived at the hotel, and I saw one of my uncles in the hallway.