On my run this morning through some serious south Atlanta humidity mixed with fog (“humogity” or “fogidity”?) I kept thinking about the statement, “Victors write the history.”
What lead me to this thought? Well, my mind has the most joyous time pinballing off of ideas, images, and stories as I jostle my brain around in my skull and pump blood through my body during runs. My mind is super charged in these moments and I tend to let it loose.
On today’s run I was thinking about the stories that make up the neighborhood development that I am running through as it transitions from nicely paved street to crushed gravel country road. There are many transitions here; new concrete foundations poured and “old” established homes, new families and empty nesters, silly dogs with three legs and cats that lay in the middle of the road. The contrasts help illuminate their details. So, I love the transition of running surfaces and rolling nature of this road. I have been running/walking it for years now and still I forget that sometimes a tiny pebble will stick up at the exact right angle and jab me in the ball of my foot. Talk about accu-bruising! I am usually the only person on the road with deer, armadillo, rabbits, birds, bees, and the occasional turtle. Here I am, not necessarily alone, but the only sentient being that desires to remember this time and tell the stories through my senses. Am I the victor of some sort at this time? Not necessarily, I am just the human being in this moment, so if a tree falls or a deer runs off through the woods after it sees me – I am the historian, I am the anthropologist. Yes, I am writing the history of this run – but there was nothing to be victorious about. Some might say that because I woke up, strapped on my running shoes, put on my silly yellow hat, and got out there that I am the victor. I have successfully “carpe diem”ed. Yes, I have seized the day, my version of the day, AND there are many, billions if not trillions different versions of the day. This version is mine, not as a possession, but as a gift for my presence. I get to share it if I desire, talk about the tree that fell in the forest, or I get to let it be – let the only historic reference to this run be locked away in my memory. Does this run need to be checked in the Unites States Library of Congress? Probably not – there is nothing of note that will help or harm others. It just one human being – albeit very sweaty and hobbling now a bit because of that damn sharp pebble.
This brings me to the big H history – those that the victors write. Are they necessary victorious, or are they just the only one available with the power to be able to convey what it is that they “saw” or want to believe. I think it is less “history is written by the victors” and more “history is written by those in power that want to retain power”. So, then the question in the shower went while massaging out my sore foot – who wants to write history?
I want to write MY history, because if I don’t someone else will and there are few people in this world that know enough about me to write a few paragraphs. It is up to me to understand that part of my power of being is owning my story and that which others get to experience. Yes, you could have gone on the run with me and picked up your own damn sharp pebble OR I can tell you about my sweaty run down a road that transitioned from pavement to gravel. Does this story matter to any reader?Probably not, yet it is part of my history that I get to own, shape, and share.
Watch out for sharp pebbles AND don’t let them dissuade you from getting out there, early morning, in the oppressive humidity and heat, and have some natural experiences.
Write your fucking history! There will be sharp pebbles, sweat, smiles, and the occasional turtle.
Hello, I am Shelton. 