So many beautiful things happened yesterday. And then something hit my back as I walked home from the outskirts. And I saw red.

The day started with a 6:40 alarm (early by my standard).

I approached the starting and finish line of the race with my bag of mosh, grabbed a handful of purple balloons and blew. I had energy that comes from a place brought to you by comedy not competition. I danced to the repeat Avicii Live From somewhere song and signed up in the OMM- Oficina Municipalidad de la Mujer for La Maratón de La Mujer 3K.

Waiting for things to start, I stole wifi by Los Olivos to upload podcasts and returned home for a cough drop and to stow my headphones and phone. I’m gonna run this race naked of controlled sound.

The young girls ran, three times around the designated course, then the señoritas. They gathered the ladies and we lined up, I’m sure I was the tallest at 5’7”. The countdown from 3-2-1 and we started, I saw Abby take off in a crowd at the front (new volunteer in site) and I hunkered down as we scaled the first hill. First of all, we are running up a hill that I walk every day so I know they will not keep this pace, I’m not afraid to run slower than the mass and I don’t like races: public display of athleticism is my least favorite type of PDA. Of all the races I’ve run, this is the only one I signed up for of my own will. In fairness I was asked by the school director in Paquip and I said: “Okay I’ll do it” because I’m a volunteer. I need to integrate, set a good example, animo.

“An-i-mo. An-i-mo. An-i-mo!” shouted the children from primarias seated on the curbs. I heard a few kids yell “Mire a la gringa!” and point before the teacher snuffed that out. The kids hear it and think they can say it, the adults say it when we’re not around. I see other friends on the corners and think how cool it is that the community rallies for this type of thing and people exit their homes to watch the crowds move. I round the corner and a motorcycle is on my left. Two guys from the muni on moto were there to cheer us on. They didn’t move on to cheer on the next runner. As soon as they heard me making jokes to the crowd, “Llorando yo!” y “Yo voy a morir!” to full-on chuckles and eruptive smiles. I’d say I was dying and hear the laughter splash up behind me, cooling me off and coaxing me through this blessed event.

The moto trailed me the entire way and KEEP IN MIND I was not the last person. A 3k is very short but you know what’s almost shorter? My fuse for attention on me during anything in the least athletic. Then I passed my host family and saw in my periphery my host mom, sister and Grandmother in their traje cheering “Animo!” and clapping me on and laughing at my dramatic display. I had to smile. Abby came in third (it’s her third week in site) and I came in funny. So in other words first.

Seeing the mayor, the town council members, the school superintendent, my jóvenes, Doña Cecilia yelling “Don’t drink the water yet, wait until the end!” from the corner and little Juana who collects flowers with me all rally to support the race on International Dia De La Mujer really painted a beautiful picture in the midst of a not yet equalized Machista country. But the boom shacka lacka of the whole event is the first place winner of the Mujeres section: She was wearing corte and running. And she won the dang thing.

It was the talk of the town: “The winner was in corte!” A corte is a part of their traje típico, it’s the skirt portion. It hangs long and stops above the ankles. I even saw one lady running in the sandals with a slight heel that they wear with the corte. Good for her and good for Santa Clara that an authentic Santa Clareña ran that race and won it.

I scarfed lunch and hopped a tuc tuc to Paquip. The winner of the Young Girls race (ages 10-12) is one of my students named Wendy. Proud mom am I. Upon arrival, I taught a charla on self-esteem in hoarse voice and took a picture of each kid holding up their name on a piece of paper. I’M SORRY BUT THEY HAVE FOUR NAMES EACH and I have 130 students and I’m tired of starting each question with a finger pointed and “Cómo se llama?” We tried a dinámica, human knot, which was a disaster and embarrassing in front of the other teacher. Next they drew pictures of themselves along with things they like to do. My drawing was pretty tragic “Natalia” and a line from my mouth for “cantar” “Ingles y Español” and a pencil by my hand for “escribir.” But it was so beautiful to see the kids’ drawings of their talents.

I calculated their self-esteem assessments after class then attended an assembly on “Responsabilidad.” Seño Débora and I did a dramatization of responsibility that I wrote in 30 minutes in the morning, dictionary close at hand. There was polvo on my knees after I imitated a cow but I thought it was worth it.

Sun was still in full effect when I decided to walk the 50 minutes home. I passed the usuals, children with fixed stares, men carrying shovels and machetes, women with fabric on their heads or Pedro Anthony de Jesús running out to the street to yell after me “Me llamo Pedro Anthony de Jesús!” when I passed by a group of well-behaved boys. One looked age 11 the other four were between 6-9 years old. I said the usual “E Naaaa” (Goodbye) in K’iche’. Sometimes they do a surprise-giggle because the tall Estadounidense said something in la lengua materna and then I felt a really strong blow between the shoulder blades. I turned back and scowled at the children because it really hurt. I think they were smiling with pride at one another but also realized that they hurt me.

And they did hurt me.

And what I’m sure was a tough-skinned avocado invited a cascada of negative thoughts.

The day was pleasant and beautiful and triumphant in spite of the wrinkles in culture shock, abjection to running and jóvenes being jóvenes.

In an instant I was thinking things like “Why, if it’s a race for women, was it still being sponsored and facilitated by a group of almost all men?” “Why was I told to run with a group of 13 year-old girls because I didn’t fit in the mother category?” Of course there wasn’t a “Women” category, it was “Mothers” or adolescents. And I replayed the sound of Juana crumpling up the sheet of paper with her self-drawing after she asked “Do I turn this in?” and I said “It’s for you.” She rapidly made a ball of it in her hands as she walked away. And I don’t need two men on motorcycle to follow me and encourage me to run. And I’m tired of being asked if I’ve ever kept my hair long. And I’m tired of being protected from the cars in the street by my host family. I know that a car is coming. And then I thought of the kissing sound the 16 year-old directed at me as I started walking home, the one who sat with me as I graded quizzes offering his hand in marriage and asking me if I was single and how old I was. And I thought about how many times I was asked today if I was married or if I want to be.

And the multiple sessions we had during training on unwanted attention resonated in major chords.

Before I was in a pile of tears, I texted a friend: “Ok so can you help me qualify how upsetting it is that street kids just threw some hard object at my back, probably an avocado, after I said ‘e na’ to them? Because I’m somewhere between brushing it off entirely and feeling hurt.” Next message: “Maybe’s it’s because jóvenes have been sh*tting on me since work started.”

And I took the rest of the walk back to think about the pressure that one avocado anointed in my spirit.

I thought about being marginalized for one of a few times in my life and the privilege my race and nationality has always secured for me. And I thought about the marginalization of the people who I serve, the marginalization of anyone who wears traje típico. And I thought about how much I normally love avocados.

By the time I rounded the hill to the plant shop I was comforted to see Doña Catarina working in her beautiful green oasis. “Allo?” I announced not to scare her. She greeted me with a smile, remembering my name, and asked me where I am coming from and what I was doing there. After she bagged up my plant, typical small chat ensued: How old am I? Mm I married? Do I miss home? Do I want to be married some day? Then we both agreed that being single is easier. I asked “and what about you?” and she told me her husband died three years ago, just the same situation of my host mom in Ciudad Vieja, and that she has one son. I’ve seen him there before working among the plants.

So I took my bagged plant and left, warmed by her interest albeit aware of the predictable questions. I saw a cracked avocado in the street and thought about stepping on it. Instead I added it to the bag. At dinner I opened it up and spread it over a tortilla. It’s the best avocado I’ve had in country so far.

Once I bought a plant and adopted a street avocado and considered that kids are kids and that everyone here has been nothing but kind and that maybe one of these 130 jovenes will benefit from self-esteem charlas and that I’ve hardly been marginalized in my life experience and recounted the effervescent greeting of Pedro Anthony de Jesús, I didn’t see red anymore. There were too many wins today.