So let me tell you– the Games were great. That first night, we got to see Sydney McLaughlin shatter her own world record, a race that was laughable in its utter dominance. It looked like a preliminary heat. On Friday night, I strained my voice as Sha’Carri Richardson anchored the gold medal win in the women’s 4×100, further solidifying my pain of knowing I’ll never be the lead singer of a post-hardcore band.
But if you ever get to experience the Olympic Games, you need to look into the bones of the performances to find the marrow of it all– this deep sense of unity, each country cheering for their own, but each country respecting the others. For the most part, anyway. Instead of dots on a map or borders on a land, the countries are represented for what they are– humans with dreams and the desire to do better and be better and show the best of what we have to offer. What our beautiful bodies and iron minds are capable of doing, whether they’re white or brown or black or tall or short or fast or strong.
It’s something that can be appreciated in any language that’s spoken and everyone seemed to agree on that. While we were in Paris, there was a pervasive peace in the air, like everyone could just let out their collective holding of our breaths. Nothing bad was going to happen here, at least for these two weeks (the triathletes may disagree, but diarrhea and vomiting is temporary, saying you swam in the Seine is forever). The wars were outside, the protests were next week, the elections were somewhere in the halls of parliament, not on the playing field, not along the banks of the Seine, not in the corner cafés buzzing with life, as they should be.
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