“I have given everything I see […] all the meaning that it has for me.” — A Course in Miracles Lesson No. 2 

*Trigger warning: Parts of this essay process a person’s suicide.*

6 Days Before the Final

I’m standing in the backyard of a small rustic house atop a hill called Saint-Didier-Mont-D’Or. I’m staying with colleagues from The Equality League (EQL), an org that trains athletes to be activists and advocates.

God, I could pinch myself.

I can see everything: from the sprawling stone and metal of downtown Lyon to the ocean blue saltwater pool glittering a silent serenity in the luscious garden below.

This place is a scene in a European fairy-tale — a type of place you’d find Belles and Beasts singing “Bonjour” on their way to buying bread in the square. If anyone needed baguettes, though, they should come here where we’ve got plenty. My roommates got way too many, thinking they would last the week. But the French apparently don’t use preservatives and the loaves are hardening quickly. Please be our guest.

I walk around the kitchen half-expecting the cups and the silverware to speak to me. Why wouldn’t they, when I’d watched the walls come alive? Earlier, I had gone to the bathroom in awe of the crimson wallpaper and the drawings in the print. One of them had wings so detailed and textured I had to reach for it from my seat. A moth fluttered under my touch and flew away, breaking the spell that I was under. Back to mindless scrolling. I washed my hands, then checked Insta to read a comment on how the vid I took of that “humming bird in the garden, wow!” was not of the avian variety at all:

“That’s a big-ass bug.”

Another moth, in fact. Those muffinlover masters of mirage.

I don’t understand why my eyes keep deceiving me here. They keep painting these fantasies over what is, what’s real, and what could be — all of which might be more enchanting or disappointing than I could ever conjure up or predict.

Right now it’s nearing 90 degrees. Thunderclouds roll across the sky, preparing to give us relief from the heat, I think. The pitter-patter on the roof, though, sounds like the dance of pebbles. Ceci, PJ, and Leela stand in the backyard giggling up at a sky that’s dribbling nonsense.

“It’s hailing!”

“It’s hailing?! What the heck, it’s summer,” they say.

Lightning strikes behind the rainbow that frames the pelted city. Somehow at 9 o’clock at night there’s enough light to show how much color is in the clear.

And yet I am standing here confused at the sorcery of this place, realizing there wouldn’t be room for wonder if I fully understood. What would magic be without a little trickery? Something like a joke with a footnote. A true gem of marvel doesn’t need explanation, just space to be felt. I play around with this notion as I kick the beads of ice at my feet.

5 Nights Before the Final

Groupama Stadium is a labyrinth not by intent but perhaps shitty design. 

Or is it me and my boggled eyes?

After the semifinal against England, I leave my section having no idea how to get back to my roommate Sara, who was at another part of the stadium. The letters and numbers of each gate are supposed to guide me to our meeting spot. Instead the ramps and signs usher me into a maze of parking lots and grassy knolls — the latter of which I climb and traverse thinking I’d pioneer new shortcuts. 

Alas, the final frontier eludes me. A stadium employee catches me crawling in the sod like my last name is Jones (first name, Indiana) and offers to drive me close to the nearest McDonald’s. There, I could get WiFi and text Sara on WhatsApp.

Dozens of Americans have the same idea, apparently. Some officials had shut down the trains shuttling people back to the city center and everyone had gathered at Micky D’s to cop some internet and McNuggets. When I get there, though, the restaurant is closing and most people are sitting on the curbs outside. For some reason I can’t hop on the web so I ask a person if I could borrow their hotspot. 

“Sure!” 

Within seconds I have full access to “Parker’s Bitch.”

Sara, luckily, isn’t too far away, and when we reunite, we discover there are hardly any Ubers available to take us home. We wait hours. The McDonald’s parking lot gradually empties and we are alone. Men pretending to be taxi drivers harass us, trying to coax us to get into their cars. 

I want to sleep, pee, and punch a guy in the peehole all at the same time.

“Is this possible?” you ask. “Is that in the realm of ‘doable’?”

I wish I could tell you, but I gotta go. Finally: Here’s our ride.

3 Days Before the Final

Here we are in France celebrating the 4th of July. What I don’t know is that this is probably going to be the last time I celebrate it feeling as comfortable as I do. This is before George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Brianna Taylor…

You know, it’s funny because today I put on a dress and a necklace. Lipstick, even. I ask my friend Minky to take a photo of me in front of the flag at the front door. This is All-American drag. I hold a yellow pitcher of margarita and drop my shoulder the way I’d seen sorority girls do. How sweet.

We’ve formed a rag-tag sorority of sorts, me and the EQL crew: Minky, Mara, PJ, Cheryl, Cece, Leela, and Sara. Over the past few nights, we stayed up late eating bread, cheese, and charcuterie, sharing prom and sports stories, trashing misogyny, and how we could continue to advocate for Iranian women who are fighting for their right to watch soccer in stadiums. #NoBan4Women.

For the 4th, though, we have way more company (friends and colleagues) to drink all the lemonade and delicious burgers PJ made. This community is the bit of America I can laugh and splash with in the pool. This is the bit of America I carry with me when I’m not home. I’m privileged to get to see this side sometimes. Privileged to occasionally feel aligned on the 4th, which can and often does resound so false.

People leave. The night quiets. I Facetime my parents to find out someone we knew completed suicide: The sweetest guy who struggled out loud for others to know that we shouldn’t hide our emotions behind masks. 

He reminded me that we need each other because we only have each other.

And sometimes even that isn’t enough to keep us here.

It’s strange to eulogize and I want to cry. But for some reason I’m not able to tonight.

The Night Before the Final

Back by the window in my room, fireworks brighten the sky an ominous purple. They are so far away that they are mere pops in my ear. The thunder growls to reclaim its authority. I feel the rumble in my sheets.

The air is electric with anticipation. The U.S. soccer team will probably make history tomorrow as the first national squad to win four Women’s World Cup titles; they’re that strong. Many will cheer when that happens. But tonight I hear many trying to make room for their own celebrations.

Downtown a girls’ soccer club honors their 10th anniversary. I know this because the party was a part of a soccer conference I went to that day. For that team and their revelry: an orchestra, pyrotechnics, and a pasta buffet.

The churches on the hill chime in and ring in the 10th hour, reminding us of the faith, the eternal, and our surrender to time. The bugs tweet and jitter to claim the evening as theirs. They flit and dance around the lamps as if they desired the afterlife.

The Gods rumble.

The people pop.

The bells toll.

The gnats zap.

These are the sounds of light and death, keeping me awake with static.

The Final

Back in the maze of Groupama Stadium, time, space, and reason seem to warp again. I think I’m better prepared this time, at least when it comes to making my way in. 

My strategy? 

Follow the people who look confident in where they’re going. I befriend a white family who also chose to traverse the lots and hills. I don’t know why I think this couple and their son know what they’re doing. Maybe I’m attracted to those who also like knolls.

Anyhow: Huzzah! We find an entrance lined with red carpet, like a tongue entering the mouth of Alice’s “Where am I?”–land. The dad says something bold. Tells security that we are Carli Lloyd’s family and that our VIP passes are inside or something.

Lies.

Terribly successful lies. The secret codes that allow us to move through each security checkpoint with ease. Maybe there is something about the language barrier, something that overloads and rearranges the system. The family tree. If anyone asks, I’m now Carli’s adopted Black cousin.

The universe shrinks and my circles collide. I see all the women I’ve met on this trip at a crowded bar booming with Americans who buy beer and spirits. My team. My girls. My drink. Each out here working to change the world and my equilibrium. 

On the patio, I bump into someone I knew from grade school and I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen her in years. We talk about running track, my 7th grade Tina Turner weave, and our history teacher Mr. McGee: the one who I’d tripped many, many times with my less-than-cool camping backpack that I’d mindlessly leave in the aisle during class. Been laughing “Sorry!” ever since.

Before the starting whistle, I walk to my seat and casually cross paths with a fellow Dyke Soccer Club teammate from Brooklyn.

“Hey! I gotta go but I’ll see you on Monday,” they say.

“Yeah, see you some 3,800 miles away.”

Small world. Big confusing stadium. Fortunately, this time I find my section without any problems: 409, Gate C.

I’m high up in what my Australian friend Trang calls “the bleachers,” looking down on a field with players the size of legos. I’m by myself this time in between strangers: to my right a French man with a reddish tan, his daughter, and two American kids eating sandwiches and dishing out soccer analysis.

The Netherlands are putting up a decent effort, but the feeling is that the U.S. is going to win. Holland looks tired. Young. Like they aren’t prepared enough to withstand all the demands of a long tournament. Their goalkeeper, Sari van Veenendaal, is playing out-of-this-world, but it’s still not enough. American, Megan Rapinoe nails a PK, then her teammate Rose Lavelle slips past the defense to knock another to the back of the sack.

It’s 2-0.

The final seconds count down and I’m anticipating the crowd’s hugs and tears. An immense roar of sorts. I pull my phone out and press record.

The whistle blows and I’m under water. Not really, but the cheers sound distant, feel as underwhelming as if I were submerged. I blame the bleachers, my neighbors’ stoicism, and the fact that I’m technically alone in this sea of feeling. 

I feel a mere ripple from the tide I watch rise and fall through my camera. I see the American Outlaws, the USWNT fan club, drumming, chanting, and hopping afar, and all the iPhones recording each other nearby. In 409C, many of us are taping one another taping the game, a mirror experiment we are all a part of, etching history into the fragile infinity called the Internet. Ours is a rather silent celebration that we hope to share on social media or at least send to family back home.

It’s snowing confetti on the pitch. The U.S. players dive in to swim in the way angels fly: blessed. Next up, the demons. FIFA officials walk towards the podium and the stadium comes alive with boo’s and a chant:

“Equal pay!”

“Equal pay!”

A short protest before we all resign to party or go home. (Let ’em have it. Let ’em know.) 

I have an early flight in the morning. 

A room in a one-bedroom AirBnB close to the airport. 

I lay my head on the pillow where I guessed my generous host sleeps when there are no guests. Tonight he gets the couch. I sneak to the bathroom, hoping to avoid ghosts, meaning: the shadows of his friends, who hang around the apartment watching TV or playing games. I have no words for small talk. No energy for “How was the game?”

I’m too busy processing the end.

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