Sometimes What We Want and What Actually Happens Aren't The Same Thing

The sound of a gun firing, for many people, is a sound of alarm, fear, perhaps even terror. The pulse quickens. The brow beads with sweat. The knees bend slightly as the shoulders curl up to the ears; a protective stance is assumed. Biologists have given a simple term for this reaction, known as the "fight or flight" instinct. Everyone experienced it at one time or another, perhaps after stepping on a rattlesnake or witnessing a fuel pump explode. Or hearing a gun fire.
I am no different.
When I was first approached several weeks ago by the Sports Day steering committee and asked if I would participate in the relay race, I couldn't think of a reason to say no.
The petite student whose job it was to recruit participants stood before me, clutching her blue clipboard before her chest like a shield of armor. She had been conferencing for the past five minutes with the other English teachers, trying to perfect her pronunciation of the question, "Would you please run in a relay race for Sports Day?" (too many R's).
"Well, I have to tell you, I'm not very fast, but I'll try my best." She gave my long and gangly legs a doubtful glance. Standing, she came up to just above my head- as I sat at my desk chair. I could see what she was thinking: "This person is a giant. Even if she is slow by Gaijin standards, she's gonna kick serious ass on sports day."
Sports Day is a bizarre Japanese tradition, one which every school in the nation celebrates. For one day each semester, classes are cancelled and students apply the passion they usually devote to algebra and history to more physical activities, such as tug-of-war and choreographed dances. Teachers, of course, are in attendance, but only participate in the last event of the day: the relay race.
The morning of Sports Day, I was feeling in high spirits as I sat in the observation tent with the other teachers. Everyone was looking smart in their color-coordinated track suits and sneakers, and I was enjoying a lecture on the history and significance of Sports Day.
"So, basically, today is just fun and games- literally? I mean, this isn't a real competition; I think that's fantastic!" Why can't Americans be more like the Japanese on this front? I've never cared for competative sport.
"Oh, no, Sarah-sensei," my friend Arisaka-sensei corrected me, "it is all just for fun EXCEPT the relay race. That is very serious. The fastest runners from the school are chosen to represent seven teams, and the eighth team is the Teachers. It is the finale of the Sports Day every year, and the runners have worked hard to prepare for the race."
Oh.
I flipped to the page listing the other runners on the Teacher's team. "Which teachers are running with me? Are you running?" Arisaka-sensei shook her head.
"No, all of your teammates are male teachers. And actually, you are running in place of the principal, who is too old to run. So please, Sarah-sensei, do your best job and run fast." Ok, no problem. I can beat a bunch of scrawny high schoolers, right? "And Sarah-sensei, one more thing: the Teachers win every year. They have never lost. Good luck!"
It was the last part that was running the track of my mind as I lined up with the other runners later that afternoon.
The Teachers win every year. Why should this year be any different?
I took my place, twelfth in a line of fourteen.

The gun fired. My reaction was fight.

I jumped into the air, screaming wildly for the incredible lead my teammate made on the girls in the first leg of the race. The baton was passed. The Teachers gained even more ground. We were teaching the students a new kind of lesson.
And then it was my turn. I stood in place on the track, arm outstretched behind me as I cheered on my teammate with the baton. I started to run as he entered the passing-zone, and as my fingers curled around the bright plastic tube, a burst of adrenaline hit my body.

My reaction was flight.

I could tell you the story of how I flew through the air, like a bat out of Hell. How my Gaijin speed was so incredible, so unlike anything the Japanese public had ever seen before that small children cried in awe and grown men swore aloud to the superhuman miracle they were witnessing.
I could tell you a story like that, but it wouldn't be true. What really happened was more like this:
I'm running as fast as I can, and running in first place, so I'm feeling pretty hot. I can hear the cheers of the students lining the track, but am moving too fast to see their faces.
And then I see something unexpected: a blur of a shape emerges in my right field of vision then passes before me. I think I am hallucinating from the ecstasy of being a champion, but then I see a similar shape appear to my left. And then another on my right. And another, and another, and another, and another. That's when the shapes solidify and my mind finally grasps the cold horror of my situation: I have just been passed by seven of my students. I realize this as I'm completing my leg of the race- a half-track's length- and am preparing to had the baton to my teammate. As I do so, I catch the steely-eyed grimace of the poor math teacher who must run at the heels of his pupils. It is the face of malice and misery.
It is a face I saw thirteen times over again as I met with all the team Teachers at the end of the race. What started out as a near-sure victory for our team ended in a seventh-place finish. The team who placed eight fell during a pass-off.

At the sound of a gun firing, we naturally react. Some of us prepare to defend ourselves. Some of us prepare to flee. The trauma of Sports Day has suggested to me a third possibility: diplomatic negotiation. When Sports Day comes around again this spring, I know what to do. "Me, run in a relay race? Why, of course I will, but you know my philosophy on teachers beating students. We really should let them win. Shouldn't everyone have a share in the victory?"

*photos by Romain Jourdan