PURPLE & GOLD / 2024-25
CLIMB. FALL. STUDY.
ADELAIDE FUNK‘ 25
I unzip my neon-green climbing bag and pull out my shoes, journal, and chalk. I slip on the cold, skin-tight rubber that I put my trust in daily; my climbing shoes are the connection between my big toes and the wall’ s textured holds. After warming up, I quickly move to this week’ s new set, where bright pink holds catch my eye, but before I begin climbing I step back and read.
This kind of reading is different. It sets me free.
“ THIS KIND OF READING IS DIFFERENT. IT SETS ME FREE.”
At this moment, I read the boulder problem; this enticing new piece of art the setters have created will
excite, invigorate, and puzzle me all at once. I stand looking at the various small pink holds purposefully arranged upon a steep wall casting a shadow on my feet. I read.
First I read the intended route up the wall: the Beta. I hesitate— that will require a deep right-hand lock-off as I cross my body with the left hand to a small crimp, something that may aggravate my hurt right middle finger. Regardless, I climb. I fall. I study.
At this moment I wonder if I could do a dynamic bump, a move that favors my style; this move will require added power but put less strain on my finger. Again, I climb. I fall. I study.
So, here I am staring at a wall that excited me from afar, yet now I sit, puzzled by it. I climb. I fall. I study.
I feel my frustration setting in, but I choose to let that frustration fuel my next attempt. I climb. I stick that move! I fall on the next move. I study. The cycle repeats. The frustration I feel while attacking the boulder problem transports me to my classroom chair, where I feel a similar frustration.
Climbing practice fades with the night, and school comes quickly in the morning where I sit in a stiff gray chair. I rock forward onto the front legs, determined to focus. The teacher asks the class to read one paragraph. I accept this challenge. Seems simple enough, right? No. My body tenses. Since I was diagnosed with dyslexia in 5th grade, I have learned this type of reading takes all the energy my mind can muster. Eight years ago I would never have imagined I would be able to defy my diagnosis. I’ ve made it to AP Literature, yet still I struggle.
I read, my right leg bounces— something that I have learned helps steady my racing mind. I read, but I hear the teacher still talking. I read, but my eyes dart between lines. I read, but the words blend together. I read and remember my other strategy. My finger brings the scattered words into focus— I steady my pace. The teacher asks if everyone is done. I nod yes. But no, I am halfway through the chunk of words on the page, and worse, I don’ t remember everything it said. The class continues, and I find a way to catch back up without many people ever knowing I was behind. This kind of reading exhausts me.
That afternoon, at 4:30, I walk into the climbing gym with my mind racing, hear the ba-beep as I check myself in at the front desk, turn the corner, and feel immediate peace. My heart comes alive as I look through the hazy air and see the same bright pink holds on the back wall. My attention splits. I wonder if today I should try the new blue problem. Amidst the power-screams and cheering of the others in the gym, I tune in to the constants: the chalk-eater buzzing behind the cubbies, the course bristles as people brush holds, the thuds and thumps as climbers smack their backs on the thick bouldering pad. I get to read a problem and find a solution. I’ m back to a place where reading sets me free.
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