A Thousand Sisters Read Online Free PDF

Congolese women through Women for Women International, one sponsorship for every mile I run.
    I’m not sure I can do it. That’s why at first I keep it a secret.
    Everyday I hit the trail alone. Each week I go on the longest run of my life. I hire an ultrarunning coach and follow her training schedule to the letter. Ted drops me at the trailhead in the morning. While he works for hours, grocery shops, and does laundry, I pound miles of trail, getting smacked in the face with branches and spider webs. If I’m lucky, I brush them off my face or hair. Less lucky for me and the spider, I sometimes get a surprise high-protein snack.
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    I REALLY NEED TO PEE. Never mind public toilets; I am ten miles from the nearest porta-potty. Without any other option, I climb off the trail to the most secluded, dense underbrush I can find and I squat. When I continue on my way, I run like a snail. I crawl, shuffle, wince, and spend miles trying to forget what I’m doing. I try all kinds of mental tricks, from counting my steps to reciting the Vedic prayer I sang to my dad when he died and composing letters to my future Congolese sisters. Anything to distract myself from the searing pain that shoots from my sciatic nerve. Anything to get through the remote stretches of the park where I don’t see another jogger for hours. When I reach
the more populated section, everyone is faster than I am. As college girls in bushy-bushy ponytails bounce straight past me, I reassure myself: They are probably on mile two; I’m on mile eighteen.
    Another jogger rounds a corner and says, “Nice job!” as he passes. I mumble on an exhale, “Thanks,” and then get misty-eyed! No one ever warns you that on these long stretches, with the body’s resources beyond tapped, you get wiggy.
    On the final stretch, I feel like I’m running while I have the flu. I was overly optimistic about my pace again. Ted has been sitting dutifully in the car, waiting almost an hour for me to round the last curve of the trail and emerge, sweaty and exhausted. When I see him waiting with a cold bottle of water and a sandwich, I think, That’s love . My gait disintegrates to a crumpled, stiff shuffle back to the car.
    After a hard run like this, I collapse for the rest of the day, avoiding social functions if I can. If I can’t, I simply accept that forming complete sentences is not within my realm of possibility.
    Over months of training, my toenails fall off; some fall off twice. Bloody blisters, severe leg pain, and sores caused by chafing are daily companions. Thanks to the sun hitting my sweaty upper lip for miles, overpowering my sunscreen, my summer look has a special new accent: the mustache tan. Sooo sexy.
    It’s raining? I run anyway. I’m in pain? I run anyway. I’m tired? I’m busy? Ted and I have a fight? I run anyway. When it all seems too much, I try to picture the women living in eastern Congo. Their faces are always a blank, but I try to imagine what they are doing. They can’t pick up a cell phone and call a cab to take them out of the war zone. So I keep going.
    Though I signed up as a sponsor in January, it is April before I receive a packet from Women for Women with a postage stamp-size image of my first Congolese sister, Therese. The photo is dark, distant, and blurry. Her head is smaller than my pinky fingernail, and I can barely make out her face. She stands against a white wall, shoulders raised in discomfort, but her eyes are
clear . Holding the photo feels like magic. Congo feels a little closer. Therese was born in 1970, she’s married, and she has no formal education. From now on, I picture her on my long runs and fantasize about what I might say one day if I met her in person.
    Four months into my training and two months before the run, it’s time for another reality check. I need to raise ten thousand dollars. I’ve never done any fundraising or public speaking. My only