Home Lasted Only A Few Seconds A Year

Words and Photograph by Anaiis Avanesian (Grade 9)

I have been asked to tell you where I feel most at home, a question I fear I cannot really answer. I say this because I have not seen enough of the world or done enough to know where or what home is. However, as the question was presented to me and I do have to write something down, I’ll tell you about the one place or rather the one activity I get the most sense of belonging from: track and field.

I had always been fast. Every year starting from first grade, I was chosen to participate in the track portion of our school’s field day. I took it seriously, even at that age. I wanted to win. As the years went by, I became faster, accumulated more and more medals, and started my reputation as one of the fastest girls in our grade. Fifth grade came. My last year in elementary school, and my last year running track and field. Track was only for elementary. I was upset that I was no longer able to run, but the following year, our school participated in our first ever Kaham games and I could run again.

The Kaham games are a series of friendly sports competitions among the Armenian schools in Los Angeles. One of these sports was track. We all had to try out, and I made it. The races took place at Glendale Community College. We got lost on the way to the track itself. When I finally reached the track, I remember seeing a few of my friends and getting a number pinned to my shirt. We were wearing our P.E uniforms. The older boys were getting ready to run the 400 meters which was one lap around the track. It seemed like an impossible thing to do at the time.

A few of the Armenian schools there were Ferahian, Chamilian, Alex Pilibos, and Merdinian. I remember feeling very excited all day. When it was finally my turn to run, they called my name and which school I was running for over the loud speaker. I went to the track and stood in the lane I was assigned. We were about to run the hundred meters. A man explained to us that he would be at the end of the track and would say the usual “On your mark, get set,” but the “go” would be a shot from his starter gun. He shot it once so that we would become familiar with the sound. As I stretched, I looked around at my competition. Some were stretching, some seemed to be mentally preparing themselves, and others were nervously chattering with friends. Armenian music was blasting and parents, relatives, and little children were in the bleachers above us talking, taking pictures, and recording every minute of the day. There were butterflies in my stomach and my heart was racing long before I was.

Soon it was time to race and all I could hear was the sound of the starter’s gun. BAM!!!! I was off. All I could see was the end of the track. I don’t remember if I won or not. All I remember was running. Wind in my face, legs working hard, arms pumping, looking straight ahead.

It was that year I began to realize that this was where I felt most at home. This was what I was good at. Sure, there were others who ran fast, but I was the fastest and I was the one who fell in love with it.

The following year my reputation as the fastest girl was pretty much set. No one tried to take it away from me, even if they could. I was faster than most of the guys as well. That year, the Kaham games were early in the morning, same place as last year. I knew exactly where to go this time. The butterflies had settled in my stomach the night before, but I didn’t care. My coaches were there and they pinned my number on: 232. Again I don’t remember winning or losing. It had become insignificant. All that mattered was that I was doing what I loved, what I was good at, and I was comfortable doing it. I remember the rush I got before and during the race, the most wonderful yet terrible feeling you could ever imagine. I do remember losing the 400 meters that year. I was upset with myself afterwards. I vowed that next year, I would win. It was NOT impossible. I could do it.

Some of my friends didn’t understand why I liked track so much. Running to them meant getting sweaty and tired. “You’re crazy Anaiis.” I didn’t care what they said. It didn’t make a difference; I was still going to run and give my 110% even during P.E. After a while they stopped trying to figure out why I was so obsessed with speed and even started to support me. One day, a few of us were at a friend’s house. It was already dark and we were tired from our usual day of craziness. It was Olympics time, and we were all piled on the couch watching the games on T.V. It just so happened that the women’s Olympic track was on. One of my friends turned to me and said, “Is that going to be you ten years from now?” The question made me smile.

“Maybe,” I replied. And I’m still smiling.

Eighth grade. My last year in middle school. My last year running in the Kaham games. Coach Dikran had chosen a lot of us that year to make the school look better. It was definitely a fun year having most of my friends there, but they complained so much there were times I literally had to hold back from slapping them. It was the same routine as the year before. I showed up early in the morning, and had my number pinned on my shirt. My number was 464. In my first race, the 100 meters, I did not only win but there was at least ten feet between the other runners and me during the race. Needless to say, I felt great. The next race was the 400 meters. All five girls were supposed to run. I ended up being the only one. “This is your race!” one of the parents told me.

I was assigned to the fifth lane, which was right in the middle. Perfect. The gun sounded and I was off. This was a longer distance so I kept my pace, slowly passing everyone till I was in second. I could hear my friends and the parents screaming,” Go, Anaiis, Go!!!!!!”

As we reached the last hundred meters, I suddenly turned on the afterburners and zoomed past the last girl and won the 400 meters. I did it. In those few seconds of intense speed, I found home.

What was sad about my home though was that it lasted only a few seconds a year. I’m in ninth grade now. No Field Day, no Kaham, no school team, and no teams outside of a school. Where am I supposed to feel at home now? I’m still searching for a team, but until then I’ll always be running. Wind in my face, legs working hard, arms pumping, looking straight ahead. Catch me if you can.