At The Races
People crowd against the railing, wrapping their tweed and denim and leather closer about them. Stilettos and abused Nikes tread through puddles of popcorn-beer-ticket-stub mush. �Go, number seven! C�mon! Come on c�mon c�mon!� �Yes, go 12! Do it do it!� Push a little closer, watch the mud flick onto the horses� chests, the jockeys� knees, staining silks a raunchy brown. I resist the urge to start humming �William Tell Overture.�
Moments later, the instant replay shows 12 in first and seven in second place. A light signals that the win is official. Heads drop, inspecting betting ticket to see if they had indeed predicted that 12 would be first and seven second, or if they had accidentally flubbed and bet the other way around. My boyfriend whoops (third race and third win of the day), and we slide through the mass of bodies so he can collect his winnings, striding over discarded losing tickets on our way.
I had never been to a horse race before this month; never been to any loud, let�s-cheer-for-our-favorites-in-solidarity activities at all, for that matter, except for one or two high school football games. I debated about what to wear � jeans, slacks, a long sleeve shirt, or maybe a short sleeve shirt with a blazer just in case it was cold � and if I should take my leather purse or my well-loved purse with the political pins all over it. My boyfriend told me it was my big chance to act rich (that answered the purse question, anyway).
I suppose it was everyone else�s chance to act rich, too. Those with big tax cuts and those without all paid their $3 for admission and $2 for the guide to that day�s races. Everyone filed through the turnstiles, past the paddocks and the corduroy-clothed, Irish-style band. And while some traversed to the reserved seats with the view, most congregated yards away from the track, shifting from foot to foot, chasing after rampant children, or unfolding lawn chairs, and settling in for the afternoon.
Despite everything in society that seems to point to a widening in the gaps between social classes, here was a place where anyone and everyone rally together, watching the horses and jockeys round the curves of the race track while adrenaline rushes through their own bodies. Here was a place where the highly touted equality of American society was readily visible.
Most cynics would take this opportunity to expound upon the downfalls of our society, and how we indulge freely in vices, but I simply marvel that this solidarity happens at all. It seems incredible to me that, in these times, and even if just for a few hours on a breezy autumn day, people can lay aside their presumptions and preoccupations and maniacally ringing cell phones and just be human, as fickle, fallible, and pleasure-seeking as any psychologist could recommend. Outside the constraints of jobs and responsibilities, we are all remarkably the same � driven by the same passions, in pursuit of the same goals.
It seems remarkably dissimilar to Findlay High School, where people amble (or sprint, depending) through the hallways, caught up in their own lives full of teenage drama, extracurriculars, and homework. Everyone is intent on making it through the next few hours of school, the next few days of school, the next few years of school that it seems we forget about the other people who are there going through the experiences with us. Even the aforementioned football games have a tendency to dissolve into social happenings, groups of friends each staking out a bit of bleacher and forsaking the game itself. But truly connecting with others seems rare.
I wish that people could truly leave the bonds of their identity as part of a social class and forget their compulsions. Perhaps then we would arrive, for longer than just a few hours, at the freedom and equality inherently part of our society.