Earlier this year, watching the Superbowl in a room full of friends, in unison, we repeated what the announcer said about a player – who he described as showing “relentless quality.”
I don’t know why that characteristic was suspect to me, but I do know I’ve spent the better part of the last years exploring trauma and how it has affected my son and myself. The culmination of this investigation has been a real distrust of behavior deemed relentless.
In the following definition of relentless, I see why the adjective makes me bristle:
Relentless describes something that is harsh, unforgiving, and persistently unyielding. Whether you are fighting to survive, chasing an ambitious goal, or dealing with an unending barrage of stress, being relentless means you never stop, let up, or take “no” for an answer.
I was watching an Instagram reel of a girl who stumbled during a track race. She was all limbs in that awkward way young teens have of looking like jellyfish floating through water, limbs going this way and that. She quickly recovered and went on to win the race. Watching her fierce determination as she ran to catch up, surpassed the front runners, then circled round and round at break neck speed to win – I wondered why? What was inside of this young stick figure that was driving her so madly to finish first? My heart hurt for her.
Earlier this month, I arrived in Mexico City to reflect and write; I found after a day alone, away from my madding life, I was inclined to do neither. I met myself, fully present without any fear of missing out if I didn’t do something or of missing anything really that would be needed to enjoy my day.
I wasn’t even curious as to why it was this way – although I have spent an entire lifetime running at breakneck speed like the young track star chasing an ambitious goal, dealing with an unending barrage of stress … never taking no for an answer, and now I have a lot of compassion for her and me. Slow down I want to advise her — want to warn me.
I jotted down notes in Mexico City, memories that snaked in during the presence of the day, scenes from my childhood, teen years, and now in adulthood which is edging quickly over the hill – these were chapters in my life – some notes where not even chapters, only scenes.
Flight from GPT to DFW on way to CDMX – an under three foot tall young girl with large hazel eyes gazed at me and I smiled down at her. Often, I forget I am bald and children are fascinated at the sight of me, and they remind me with their sneaky stares. This young girl smiled big back at me. How did she know I was smiling? I had a germ mask on. I reckoned it was my eyes.
I was eight years old when my mother pulled up to the theater near our house and let my sister and I out to see The Graduate. We lived in Brooklyn and she gave us sticky salty popcorn balls mixed with caramel. The grey-haired woman at the box office, whose face was a map of spider veins, asked if our mother knew we were going to this movie, and we both pointed to the car where my mom was parked watching us go in. My mom flicked her golden hair out of her face and waved back, smiling. My sister, then nine years old, and I walked through the lobby into the dark theater. It was after Dustin Hoffman asked, “Mrs. Robinson are you trying to seduce me?” that I wondered if we should be watching this movie alone, or at all.
When I was in my 50s, I walked into the office of Ruby Slipper Restaurant Group to apply for their marketing director position. The man who interviewed me was at least 30 years my junior. The other employees I noticed scattered through the small office space were junior to him. The interview got underway with the young man asking me about my experience – a solid forty years of marketing and development – as I recounted my history, I watched his gaze dart from computer screen to me, from me to computer screen, and back again, over again – and I had a sinking feeling I shouldn’t be interviewing anywhere given the weight of my need versus the superficial interest I was clocking.
Recently, I was on a Google meet with a young woman who had founded the BlackAmericana Fest in New Orleans. The Fest is in its third year and a friend had connected us to see if there was any overlap between what we are doing at 100 Men Hall and their mission. The young woman had a power point deck presentation with statistics ranging from how many visitors, how many visitors said they would return, many statistics, many questions answered, and she named the roll out into year-round programming that they envisioned as an adjunct to the Fest. Grantors and funders always ask for this information about the Hall’s events. I absorbed all of her presentation sitting in the Hall’s bar area surrounded by original works of art that help us tell our story, and I felt equally impressed and tired. I wondered if I should be leaving this place sooner, rather than wait one more minute.
Soy una criatura que vive debajo del nivel del mar y la altitud de aquí me afecta muchísimo. I wrote this down to remember. I had been telling Mexicans I am a person who lives below the sea. I looked up a better translation and thought dummy, I’m not a mermaid ffs! I am a creature who lives below sea level and the altitude here affects me quite a bit.
Know what the opposite of relentless is? Antonyms: intermittent, relenting, surrendering, yielding, WEAK.
Wow, it feels like weakness, but I don’t want a pejorative alternative to relentless – I want to describe a quality not relentless and not weak, a quality of being that takes it all in, slows the reaction to find the response that feels right at the time, which allows for getting it wrong without fearing wrong has no unwinding characteristic to unlock, for not buying into every damn destination needs to be arrived at within breakneck speed philosophy … perhaps some things work better on slow burn, with a savoring, a pleasure passage to the unknowing.
More will be revealed (Jerri – my dearly departed friend, I’ve kept this saying of yours and will take it to my grave.)
