The first Sunday of November is always a splendid day in New York, even when it is cold or it rains. That Sunday is when the New York City Marathon is run, and thousands of runners from all over the world, exhausted and sweating, go past the corner where my house stands.
I never used to miss this event; I'd go and stand at the corner of 116th Street and First Avenue with the rest of my neighbors to shout encouragement to the runners. At this point of the race they need it. They still have to cross the Willis Avenue Bridge and run into and out of the Bronx, to come back to Manhattan to reach the finish line in Central Park – if they make it to the finish line.
We knew which country they came from by their shirts, and this inspired special exhortations. I remember the year when a Catalan runner, a thin, somewhat older man, passed our corner, almost dragging himself along because he was so tired. My friend Rita, who had studied in Barcelona, recognized the yellow and red on his shirt and shouted to him, "Viva Catalunya lleure!" which in Catalan means long live a free Catalunya. The runner looked around to see where the voice had come from, smiled, and ran off toward the Bronx with renewed energy.
This anecdote is a good example of the importance of knowing other languages: to encourage the long distance runners who pass our doors.
A few years ago I stopped going to stand on the corner. The runners were no longer using shirts that identified where they came from – all now wore logos of the corporate sponsors of the race. The truth is there was nothing fun about cheering for Reebok or Coors or Bank of America.
This past Sunday many of the runners were again wearing on their chests the colors, shields, flags or seals of their countries. And for the first time since 1982, a runner with USA on his chest won the New York City Marathon, dominated for years by runners from Kenya and Ethiopia.
But as soon as the winner's name and history were announced, the hallelujahs diminished considerably among a certain sector of the populace. The winner, Mebrahtom Keflezighi, is a citizen of the United States, but he was born in Eritrea, Africa. His parents immigrated to the United States when he was 12 years old.
On an Internet blog there was a commentator who said Keflezighi was not a "real normal American" but just one more African runner, in spite of the fact that he grew up and trained in this country.
And this brings us yet again to the Hamletian question confronted generation after generation by a nation of immigrants: "Who is an 'American'?" Now it seems proof of citizenship is not enough. You have to have been born here, and with a name that is easy to pronounce.
It's a good thing this is not a problem in sports. When the Yankees are in trouble and Alex Rodríguez hits a home run, and then Mariano Rivera strikes out the final batter to save the game, nobody cares where they were born.
Oh yes, and the last United States runner to win the Marathon in 1982? Alberto Salazar, born in Cuba.
To be or not to be.
