Aurita Maldonado

INTRODUCTION

As a young child, I realized that I enjoyed each journey much more than its inevitable destination. The well-trodden path has never interested me nearly much as the overgrown, thorn-laden game trail. I often played a game with my friends called Hide and Seek Tag. To this day, I feel it’s an excellent example of how I’ve chosen to live my life: while my friends trotted off to hide, I would instead use the time to run to the other side of my neighborhood as fast as I could. I would weave in and out of trailers, turn corners, and cut through well-manicured lawns. At a certain point, I would sprint at top speed back to the towering oak tree we called “base,” and taunt whoever was “it” to chase me. I’d be grinning like a puppy that was just let out of the car and listening to my heartbeat pulsing in my temples. I loved playing a game with myself that allowed me to do what I wanted to do alone while still being semi-social with other children.

When we picked our characters to play “House,” I always picked the dog. Even if there was an open spot for Dad or Mom, I wanted to be the dog. Dogs remain present and always in tune with the activity happening in front of their faces. They run to play, rolling in something because it smells good to them, smiling, sleeping in the sunny spot while everybody sits in the shade. That’s what I wanted to be when I grew up. A dog. Living completely in the moment and running to feel my body move.

I enjoyed delayed gratification, and if a situation wasn’t geared that way, I would create a way for it to be so. For example, I grew into a long-distance runner, turned marathon runner, and ultimately ultrarunner. 50 miles. While gaining experience training and racing, I realized that I truly loved the technical, rocky, dangerous courses that made me increase my turnover into quick choppy steps. They allowed me to express agility and forced me entirely into the present moment to avoid injury. These terrains became a meditation for me - a singular focus. To increase speed in these areas is quite tricky, and without the proper experience, borders on stupid. As a result, most of these sections go much slower than the clear, open, grassy areas sans obstacles. Still, the footwork necessary to avoid a wrong step on the trail is a delicate dance that has continuously fed my spirit — a boogaloo with nature.

Skip, change step, duck, slide right, boom, clack, chick, taca-taca-taca. Complicated syncopations are nearly marked in place, but progress, nonetheless. There is nothing except the trail and you.

The journeys in life can be this way, with easy flowering grassy knolls followed by deep swift river crossings and rocky technical strips through dense brush. During these times, it is necessary to slow your speed, quiet your mind, and focus entirely on the present moment to dance your way through the section without injury. You may even be able to take the increased rate of choppy steps with you into the next open section and push off with more pressure on the balls of your feet, thus increasing your speed even beyond that of when you entered without increasing your effort. Without fail, you will be grinning by the time you enter uninhibited terrain.

Forgive yourself quickly, every chance you get, even when it feels you are moving more slowly than desired. Not everything comes quickly, nor at the pace you choose. So be good to you, because each moment you live is the last time you get to live it. There are no do-overs, but don’t forget that every second of every day is another opportunity to reset and start over. There is no statute of limitations to this. Age is not a factor.

CHAPTER 1:

A LOVE AFFAIR WITH MOVEMENT

Before I entered the school system, my father was told that I would have a lot of energy, too much energy even, to have the ability to focus. He was advised to put me on medication to calm me down and keep me still. I am eternally grateful that he never listened. Instead, he took me outside each day. While he walked, I was allowed to burn energy running laps in Stoever's Dam, a family park with a shady 1.5-mile pathway that snakes through trees, encircling a large lake.

I loved the feeling of movement. If I was allowed to move enough throughout the day and find a reason to be interested in the topic being taught, I had very few problems focusing through school.

I ran to burn energy, compete, get faster, go harder and longer, but mostly I ran because I loved it. I would often catch myself wanting to skip when I walked. Sometimes, I would just feel the overwhelming urge to break into a trot and let out a scream of excitement for the blood coursing through my body. So, why not run? That burning feeling in my lungs, of a torrential downpour of icy rain beating against my quickly numbing skin, the wind pushing against me, the burn of sweat sneaking its way behind my eyelids, not being able to speak through lips stiff with cold accompanied by the clear, intimate sound of my heart's methodical drumming in my ears feels like… unfiltered life. When the frigid air rushes from the world through my mouth, down my throat, and into my lungs, leaving them raw in its icy path, I feel the life in me erupt in pleasure. I become one with my body: in tune with every movement, each change in temperature, each effort. Suddenly, parts of my body that I rarely notice during other activities become major players. The way the chilled wind blows the soft hairs on my arms, the burning in my shins with each strike, the melody of my ventricles playing life's tune in step.

Becoming aware of these senses then searching to make them more pronounced drives my desire to run even harder. I feel pure life in making my own heart race. The awareness makes me smile, and the more "pain" I feel, the more my awareness grows, creating in me an overwhelming joy at being able to handle the burning sensation in my muscles. A joy that stretches my smile, often making me skip, yelp, or even break into uproarious laughter in appreciation of life. Moments of Zen. That is when I feel the luckiest.

I feel blessed, almost guiltily, to have the ability to run, jump, dance, burn and reach muscle failure. Movement is a gift. Although it has been taken from so many, being conscious of this valuable gift of movement drives me to celebrate it as fully as possible for both myself and for those who aren't able.

I'm able.

Therefore, I run.

In the 6th grade, I was a huge Civil War buff. I lived in Central Pennsylvania, about an hour outside of Gettysburg, read Killer Angels by Michael Shaara, and watched reenactments with my class and family. I was young and in love with the romanticism of history. Death wasn't real. It wasn't a sudden and incomprehensibly final moment. It was like in the movies: romantic. A bunch of white men dressed in blue and gray shooting point-blank back and forth at each other over a big barren field. Most had bayonets fixed, and some stabbed at their opponents when they could get close enough. Every death was glorious and accompanied by a dramatic clutching of the chest while falling slowly and grunting loudly. When they weren't fighting, they stood by their clay cauldrons, cooking a fragrant chicken stew. I remember walking through their tent cities with my mouth watering, looking on in awe as the grizzled men wiped the remnants of battle from their skin and wool uniforms. Death wasn't real, sudden, or final. It was solved with a bit of water and a paper towel.

It wasn't until I returned from war myself that I thought anything of those reenactments. The loss of life in battle is not pretty, glorious, or entertaining. Death cannot be solved with a bit of water and a paper towel. The remnants of battle remain, even if not physically; they remain in your mind, and they remain forever. A cruel awakening is the moment of realization and the shattering of childhood innocence. I was a scholar/athlete in high school, but much to the chagrin of my teachers and coaches, I turned down a full scholarship to the University of Chicago where I had planned to study political science and international relations and chose to sign the dotted line for Uncle Sam on September 17, 2001, six solid days after 9/11. Even my recruiter begged me to change my mind when the towers fell, but he didn't know me well enough. He thought I'd be miserable and encouraged me to just drop the military mission and go to school instead. I understood how he felt.

School was fun and easy for me. I was 5th in my class and was already taking college courses after my basketball and track practices. Luckily, I'd had the opportunity to learn in a very black and white, undeniable way that my choices in life don't need to make sense to others. I had wanted to drop everything and play soccer my last year in high school but under peer and teacher pressure, I’d chosen cross country. Some of my teachers had challenged me and even bullied me for voicing my desire to do something drastically different, and I’d folded.

I ran cross country, the sport everyone knew I rocked, and I won…everything. I got the accolades, the medals, the hugs, and the high fives. Still, I was miserable because I felt like I was missing my opportunity to do what I wanted by doing what others had wanted for me because they were scared that I wouldn’t receive enough playing time. I knew I wouldn’t get playing time, but I’d wanted to train with the team. I had wanted to play soccer the entire season, but I didn't claim the choice as my own. This time, when I felt the desire to join the military, that was what I was going to do no matter who tried to bully me into making a different decision based on their own fear or lack of vision. Blame G.I. Jane.

Army Basic training was a breeze. I was already an athlete, albeit one with a quick temper and a smart mouth. I finished my time at Basic as the one private in my platoon chosen to be promoted at the end of the cycle. After that, I graduated from training at the Defense Language Institute for the Korean language with an associate degree from Monterey Peninsula College and was quickly sent off to Ft. Hood and subsequently Iraq. I arrived at Fort Hood in early January of 2004 and had boots on the ground in Iraq two months later.

When my unit A co. 3 BSTB, 1 Cav Div. arrived in Kuwait to prepare for our tour in Iraq, our vehicles were not armored. It was really quite a mockery of the "American Dream." We were unprepared, and our best 50 Cal gunner had just been discharged from the Army for being a homosexual. After welding on heavy iron front doors, we departed for our three-day convoy from Kuwait to Baghdad. I was selected as a driver. Our trucks still had canvas back doors, and by the time we'd arrived in country, bullet holes decorated them like Christmas lights. Mortars, rockets, small arms fire, and Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs), quickly became a daily occurrence in my life.

One night I was working on the top floor of a 6- story blown-out building in Baghdad that we had deemed our office. At around 0300, I heard a loud thump on the roof directly above my head. When my shift ended, I went to the roof to check out what had happened. There was a completely intact 60mm mortar round. A dud.

Another morning, I was running 1-mile laps around the base with a scruffy, playful pup that ran with me regularly. As I neared a corner to cut behind a building that used to be a beautiful swimming pool, the pooch ran ahead. I felt the concussion of the explosion before I realized what had happened. A mortar had hit the path where I was headed and had killed my running partner.

A few days later, I was in a building that had been cleaned out for gym equipment when an explosion hit so hard that two mirrors came down from the wall. I ran outside to evade the collapse that was sure to come if the building had been directly hit. It hadn't. The ceiling did not drop.

I trotted quickly back to the "barracks" to check in, but on my way, found the source of the explosion. It had been a car bomb right outside of the compound's walls. There was a driver in the car when it exploded. How did I know? There was a charred, bloody arm in the middle of the road. It was not uncommon to pass burned, blown up vehicles on any mission, but to see it inside the walls wasn't something for which I was prepared. The smell of burnt hair and flesh lingers in my mind to this day. That smell never quite goes away.

When the time came for my mid-tour leave, I had the idea to surprise my father and stepmother. I gave him the wrong date for my arrival so I could show up at his door without him expecting anything. I called my mentor and friend, Tammie Queen, and she agreed to pick me up at the airport and help me surprise my family.

After several days of traveling in the same dirty uniform, I was ready to go into the house and shower. We arrived after dark. My parents didn't know I was coming. So, at 9 PM, when Tammie pulled up in her gold sedan, a soldier in uniform stepped out, approached the house, and rang the doorbell. They thought their worst nightmare had come true. I hadn't realized my miscalculation until my stepmother started hitting me and crying hysterically.

I'll never forget my father's face when he opened the door. His expression was one of terror and defeat suddenly turned to disbelief and then elation. He grabbed me suddenly, pulled me close, and held me tight. So tight that I could feel his heart beating frantically and his hot tears running down my neck. He thanked God. He didn't let go, and I awkwardly allowed my daddy to hold on until he was ready.

That time with my family was something I'll never forget. I went out to eat with my father and he couldn't stop bragging about me having returned from Iraq. I didn't place much value on it, and at that stage of my life, it even embarrassed me, but everyone around him seemed to be so impressed and happy to recognize it. He beamed. He was incredibly proud.

During my trip, I saw a boy waiting to cross the street at a crosswalk in Hummelstown, Pennsylvania. He was around 8-10 years old, with blonde hair and blue eyes. I watched him walk across the street casually, without a care in the world. He wasn't nervous about an explosion, car bomb, stray bullet, rocket, or mortar stealing his life. He showed absolutely no concern outside of being a child. I surprised myself as the sobs erupted. I needed to pull over. I felt incapable of driving without taking a moment to compose myself. That moment turned to 10 as I sat there for nearly a half-hour sobbing for the children in Iraq and the privilege of this American child who had no clue that his inherent safety is a privilege.