Personal Narrative Essay: The Race For The Cure
The misty September air froze against my skin; at least, it felt like it did. As we walked along the river, I debated the effectiveness of a faking an injury. Perhaps, then we would finally take a break. Although, It is far more likely we would continue to shuffle on, herded by orange traffic cones and dreary-eyed volunteers. Even now, years later, I still marvel at the fact the race starts at 8:00 AM. Whoever supplied the idea must not have recognized the pain it would cause my nine year-old self. Nevertheless, as we marched through downtown Portland, I felt a distinct similarity to the toy soldiers my brother had been so fond of. While we were disorganized and reckless, we walked quietly, with a common urgency. The comparison could also
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She, my aunt, and my grandmother had hauled suitcases up to Portland for one mysterious weekend every year for the past 12 years. Albeit, only recently have I taken notice. In September of 2009, I joined the tradition. The Race for the Cure is a two-day event consisting of a convention and the actual race day. Neither of which I was eagerly awaiting. However, the shopping trip I was promised in addition to my attendance left me quite animated. Over the past several years, I often stared in awe at the mysterious bags of merchandise snuck into my house upon their return. I felt as if I finally got to learn the trade secrets being a woman: running off to the city to shop, eating at expensive restaurants, and apparently swearing a vow of silence, for only those in attendance were privy to the details surrounding Race Weekend. In retrospect, I realize that my attendance had probably been neither eagerly awaited nor a graduation to womanhood, especially given the amount I complained. At the moment, I didn’t dare consider any of these recent revelations. A whole new world had opened up to me. Nonetheless, in a true childish fashion, I began to regret it after a mere 24
She, my aunt, and my grandmother had hauled suitcases up to Portland for one mysterious weekend every year for the past 12 years. Albeit, only recently have I taken notice. In September of 2009, I joined the tradition. The Race for the Cure is a two-day event consisting of a convention and the actual race day. Neither of which I was eagerly awaiting. However, the shopping trip I was promised in addition to my attendance left me quite animated. Over the past several years, I often stared in awe at the mysterious bags of merchandise snuck into my house upon their return. I felt as if I finally got to learn the trade secrets being a woman: running off to the city to shop, eating at expensive restaurants, and apparently swearing a vow of silence, for only those in attendance were privy to the details surrounding Race Weekend. In retrospect, I realize that my attendance had probably been neither eagerly awaited nor a graduation to womanhood, especially given the amount I complained. At the moment, I didn’t dare consider any of these recent revelations. A whole new world had opened up to me. Nonetheless, in a true childish fashion, I began to regret it after a mere 24