Culture
Sha'Carri Richardson, chasing an Olympic legacy, has already made one back home
DALLAS — It’s the middle of June and just shy of 11 a.m. on a Wednesday. The track and infield at David W. Carter High School is bustling. The sky is mostly clear and bluer than a teenager’s tongue after a Jolly Rancher. The Texas heat is already sweltering, as if the sun rose from the East and loitered just south of I-20. It was hot enough to laminate skin with sweat. To dehydrate the dandelions on the barren grassy field across the street. To wonder if Willis Carrier deserved a Nobel Prize for his 1902 invention of the modern air conditioner.
But it’s not even remotely too hot for Kennedy Jackson-Miles, a 14-year-old whose fingers are spread on the rubbery surface of the track, her feet pressed against metal blocks. She’s a sprinter heading to high school and a prodigy for the Cedar Hill Blaze summer track club. It’s apparent as she explodes out of the blocks, throttles down after about 10 meters, then returns to do it again. Her T-shirt is soaked. Her forehead glistens. Her braces sparkle, because she’s smiling.
“I’m going to be in the Olympics in 2028,” she said during a break after her umpteenth rep from the blocks. “Because I have the mindset for it and I see it in my future.”
Sounds fantastical, predicting an Olympic debut at 18 years old. And then you see the look in coach Marcus Stokes’ eyes when he says she’ll be in Los Angeles in 2028. And then she spouts her birthday as if she’s bragging about its recency — “March Fourth, two-thousand ten” — and reminding you 14-year-olds aren’t choosing hours of work in this Texas oven, during their summer break, unless they’re built differently. And then you remember who preceded her on this journey.
On this same track, at this same school, in this same heat, Sha’Carri Richardson put in the same work. She is about to make her Olympic debut, qualified for the 100-meter in Paris, with a chance to secure her spot as a national legend and one of the marquee faces of American track and field.
“There’s no doubt about who’s the greatest to ever come out of Dallas,” said Robert DeHorney, a long-time coach in the area who is taking over as head coach of cross country and track at Hillcrest High School in North Dallas.
“And it’s Sha’Carri Richardson. … She was lights-out from the beginning. This baby was fast when she came out the damn womb.”
But Richardson was first, and still is, the face of a region and culture. The pride of Dallas. The might of North Texas. The ambassador for a local community teeming with talent.
For the longest time, it was undercover, hidden behind the monstrosity of Texas football. But Michael Johnson, Oak Cliff’s own, shined a spotlight on the track culture with his heroics in 1996. He had people all over North Texas claiming to be his cousin.
“Still,” Johnson said during an interview at Hayward Field in Eugene, Ore. “I got cousins I don’t even know.”
Sha’Carri Richardson runs at the U.S. Olympic trials in June. She’ll compete in her first Olympics later this week in the women’s 100-meter. (Patrick Smith / Getty Images)
Johnson became a legend with his all-time performance in the 1996 Olympics, winning gold in the 200- and 400-meter races. But according to locals, he wasn’t a prodigy during his Skyline High School days. He was a late bloomer who blossomed at Baylor, where he won five NCAA championships and helped establish the Bears’ reputation as “Quarter Mile U.”
Johnson’s heroics, though, shined a light on a gem of a culture. Nothing tops the Friday Night Lights, but the Dallas sprint scene is one of fervor, immense talent and strong community — especially following Johnson, the first from the area to make it big in the sport.
“Great athletes are made across the country,” Johnson said. “There are special places everywhere. But Dallas is special to me. It’s home.”
Now, 28 years after Johnson put North Texas track and field on the international map, Richardson, also from the Oak Cliff area of Dallas, carries with her the spirit of her region. She’s taken it to new heights, especially for women sprinters.
Having already secured an epic world championship, she embarks on her debut Olympics in Paris with her home, her culture, on her back.
In Richardson is the sheer talent reminiscent of Roy Martin. They called him “Robot” because of his mechanical running style, but he’s one of the greatest high school sprinters ever. Straight out of Roosevelt High. His 200-meter dash of 20.13 seconds in 1985 is still the national high school record.
In Richardson is the competitive spirit of Marlon Cannon and Derrick Cunningham. Famous rivals in the 400 meters whose battles against one another lit up the city. Both local superstars, Cannon from South Oak Cliff and Cunningham from Carter High, would have Sprague Stadium teeming with excitement.
In Richardson is the strength of Henry Neal, the 5-foot-7, 177-pound sprinter from Greenville High, who, as a senior in 1990, ran the 100 meters in 10.15 at the state championships, a national high school record that lasted until 2019.
In Richardson is the showmanship of Michael Johnson. The ability to not only meet moments, but look good while doing so. He went into the Atlanta Games as the prohibitive favorite and illustrated his expectations with a gold earring, a gold Cuban link chain and his now-iconic gold Nike spikes.
In Richardson is the inspiration of the Texas Relays, the seminal event in the state. Held at the University of Texas, the high school portion is where kids put their big dreams on the line. Before packed stadiums, with their neighborhoods behind them, they test themselves against the best in the state. And Dallas always shows up.
“That’s how you make your mark,” said Vance Johnson, host of the Texas Track Dads podcast, and, most importantly, father of Indiana University-bound sprinter Aliyah Johnson.
“I tell everybody the same thing when their kids go down to Texas Relays their freshman year — they will never be the same. You have to qualify for the Texas relays. UT will post the names of who made it. And once they go, they’re gonna see the best in the state. And when they come back, they’re really gonna want to go hard. Because they’ve got to get back to Texas Relays.”
Richardson made her name living up to those occasions. Before she shocked the world with the race of her life in the 2023 world championships, before she became a national star at LSU by winning the national championship in the 100 meters and the coveted Bowerman Award, she was a must-watch in North Texas. Where summer meets are packed and high school meets carry the intensity of decades-long rivalries.
Students practice at Carter High’s John E. Kincaide Stadium in Dallas, Texas, where Sha’Carri Richardson once plied her trade. (Aric Becker / AFP via Getty Images)
In middle school, she won the 200-meter at the Dallas Independent Schools Invitational by three seconds. She was a freshman at the Leon Hayes Relay when she clocked 12.00 seconds in the 100 meters at John Kincaide Stadium in Dallas in 2015. Second place was 12.80 seconds.
As a sophomore, she won the 4A state title in the 100 for Carter and was runner-up in the 200. She defended her 100 title as a junior and won the state championship in the 200.
Richardson finished her high school career with another state championship in both. Her time of 11.12 seconds in the 100 bested the national record (11.14) set by Marion Jones 26 years earlier, though Richardson’s time was wind-aided. Her 200-meter time in 2018 was second-best in the nation and set a Texas state meet record. Richardson had fans, classmates and meet officials asking for photos and autographs.
Richardson has long been a show to behold.
“One time,” said DeHorney, who coached against Richardson all four years, “I can’t remember if it was a state meet or Texas relays, but she pulled up at least 10 meters from the line. And still ran 11.4. Blew my mind. She was on her heels for the last seven to 10 meters. Still 11.4. Never seen anything like that.”
Her swag didn’t come from nowhere. She absorbed it. From her people. From her neighborhood. From the track soil from which she sprouted.
Her particular section, Oak Cliff, has endured some of the same issues prevalent in the inner city around the nation. Raised by her grandmother, Betty Harp, Richardson’s life has been touched by many of the issues common in poverty.
“It’s a pretty tough area. You’ve got to come correct,” Michael Johnson said. “When I was growing up, it was a pretty good neighborhood. It became a lot more difficult after I left. By the time Sha’Carri came along, it was a rougher area. But it was always tough as far as competition. You had to have personality. You had to have confidence. Otherwise, you’d get eaten alive.”
Character is the fruit of struggle’s labor. The ones who survive, who thrive, do so because they’ve managed to harvest intangibles from the adversity.
And in North Texas track, when the work ethic merges with talent to produce greatness, it gets your name in the mouth of the neighborhood.
“Have you ever heard of Indya Mayberry?” DeHorney said. “She’s going to TCU. You ever heard of Nasya Williams? She’s going to LSU. Royaltee Brown is going to Baylor. Christine Mallard is at USC now. I’m trying to tell you it’s ridiculous down here, the amount of talent.”
That includes DeHorney’s daughter, Kennedy, a sprinter headed to Memphis on a full-ride scholarship.
They all know the name Sha’Carri Richardson. The next generation has developed an affinity for the superstar. Not only is she from their soil and has reached the pinnacle. But they’ve watched her fall from grace in the public eye and bounce back.
That matters in a community of overcomers.
“There’s no doubt about who’s the greatest to ever come out of Dallas,” says Robert DeHorney, a long-time coach in the area. “It’s Sha’Carri Richardson.” (Christian Petersen / Getty Images)
“They really look up to her,” said Vance Johnson, the host of Texas Track Dads, who interviews area runners on his show. “She made an adjustment but she never changed who the person is. She’s a professional, but she’s still Sha’Carri. And out here we like the spice. But she knows how to be professional, too. I think that’s important. It goes a long way. These young athletes, they see her.”
Krystan Bright, 18, is one of those youngsters who sees Richardson. That’s why, though she’s graduated from Cedar Hill High and no longer runs with the Blaze, she’s still on this Carter High track on this hot summer day. Right next to Kennedy Jackson-Miles, Bright working on hurdles in the thick warmth of June.
Bright’s AAU Junior Olympic T-shirt is soaked and tucked beneath her sports bra. Her face glistens with sweat. She pants as she talks after a rep on the first two hurdles. She is preparing to run track in college this fall. In her first-ever meet as a freshman, she ran the 300-meter hurdles in a minute. She was so slow, the team cut her. The magnitude of track in Dallas was instilled. She couldn’t go out like that. So she joined the Cedar Hill Blaze and committed to hurdles.
She just finished her senior season. She made state in the 300, finishing sixth in Texas at 42.67 seconds. She also holds her school records in the 100 and 300 hurdles.
In her is the resilience of Richardson.
“She’s such an inspiration,” Bright said. “To see her story and everything she’s been through, it gives a lot of motivation. She’s always been a superstar. It was a little different for me. I was an underdog. But once you get on that track, it’s the same for everybody. You gotta produce. And it’s all fun. It’s all good. It’s all love. It’s community.”
GO DEEPER
Sha’Carri Richardson, with emphatic win at trials, closing in on Olympic glory
(Top illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic; photo: Hannah Peters / Getty Images)
Culture
Finding Wisdom in a Poem by Wendy Cope
Where do you turn when you need advice? A chatbot? A life coach? A wise and trusted friend?
How about a poet? Poets may not be famous for making the best life choices, but because they subject the mess of human existence to the discipline of language, they can be as helpful as any therapist or mentor.
Good poets know the rules and when to break them, which is something they can teach the rest of us.
To wit:
Giving advice is a peculiar literary undertaking. It flourishes in certain popular genres — graduation speeches, newspaper columns, country and western songs and poems like this one — but what, in these contexts, is it really for?
I’m thinking of situations when you don’t urgently need help but nonetheless enjoy reading answers to questions you may not have thought to ask. What interests you isn’t the content of the advice — you could get all the life hacks you want from A.I. — so much as the voice of the person dispensing it.
Wendy Cope is an English poet, born in 1945, who has been a fixture of her country’s literary scene since the 1980s. More recently, her short, buoyant poem “The Orange” has been widely memed online, bringing her to the attention of new readers beyond Britain.
Cope favors rhyme, meter, brisk jokes and tart aperçus. She addresses romance, friendship and the petty absurdities of modern life with disarming good humor. The last line of “The Orange” is “I love you. I’m glad I exist.” Somehow she makes it the opposite of cringe.
This isn’t the kind of poetry you would describe as “confessional.” And yet …
Question 1/7
Stop, if the car is going “clunk”
Or if the sun has made you blind.
Don’t answer e–mails when you’re drunk.
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.Want to learn this poem by heart? We’ll help.
Fill in the missing words below. You can always refer to the reading by A.O. Scott and full
text above.Let’s start with the first stanza.
Culture
Can You Match the Places These Authors Lived With Settings in Their Books?
A strong sense of place can deeply influence a story, and in some cases, the setting can even feel like a character itself. This week’s literary geography quiz highlights places where authors were born (or lived) that later became locations in their books. To play, just make your selection in the multiple-choice list and the correct answer will be revealed. At the end of the quiz, you’ll find links to the works if you’d like to do further reading.
Culture
Book Review: ‘America, U.S.A.,’ by Eddie S. Glaude Jr.
AMERICA, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries, by Eddie S. Glaude Jr.
For those of us in the national memory-keeping business, anniversaries hold near-totemic power. Satisfyingly round units of time, ideally bearing fancy, Latin-derived names, serve as the overburdened pegs on which to hang think pieces and museum exhibits, revisionist documentaries and maudlin public ceremonies. The arbitrary nature of such occasions is precisely what gives them their charge, inviting us to set aside complacency and submit to a comprehensive check-in.
In his new book, “America, U.S.A.,” Eddie S. Glaude Jr. presents an intriguing variation on the genre, seeing the country’s 250th birthday as an anniversary of anniversaries: 50 years since the malaise-ridden, schlock-heavy Bicentennial. A century since the subdued Prohibition-era Sesquicentennial. A century and a half since telegraphed reports of George Armstrong Custer’s defeat by the Lakota and Cheyenne at Little Bighorn rudely interrupted the Gilded Age Republic’s 100th birthday party.
If an anniversary offers a snapshot of a moment, the core of Glaude’s book is an old-timey photo album, a collection of notable episodes from earlier national reckonings, long-ago glances in the mirror. An estimable scholar of Black history, politics and religion at Princeton — best known for “Begin Again,” his 2020 meditation on James Baldwin’s relevance for our times — Glaude focuses, as his subtitle puts it, on “how race shadows the nation’s anniversaries.”
Such celebrations, he contends, have never really been the moments for honest self-reflection they are often advertised to be. Instead, the nation usually shatters the mirror, refusing to accept what it prefers not to see. “American anniversaries are often moments to turn a blind eye to the evils of the past and the present,” Glaude writes, “to suppress the fact of America’s divided soul.”
It’s a clever concept, and, needless to say, perfectly timed. Last year, Glaude notes, the Trump administration executed a hostile takeover of the government’s studiously bipartisan 250th anniversary planning. It is now preparing a program that is certain to conceal more than it reveals about the country ostensibly being celebrated.
Glaude, in no mood for celebration, argues that such omissions and evasions also defined commemorations in the past. In 1875, Frederick Douglass predicted “one grand Centennial hosannah of peace and good will to all the white race of this country.” He was right: The nation reached 100 years old at a crucial moment in the post-Civil War fight over racial equality, with white Northerners ready to give up on Southern Reconstruction. The occasion would help the once-warring sections to reunite around a shared commitment to white supremacy. On May 10, 1876, at the opening of the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia, the police tried to bar Douglass from the grandstand, until a white politician vouched for him.
The 150th anniversary came soon after a resurgent Ku Klux Klan successfully pushed for a restrictive immigration law aimed at keeping America a “Nordic” nation. At the lavishly funded, lightly attended celebrations in Philadelphia, Black veterans of World War I were excluded from marching in the opening parade. A writer with The Associated Negro Press wondered “what was in the breast of those black men who fought to make America safe for Democracy and on Monday stood on the sidelines, forgotten, as the Nordic strode by in all his vain pride.”
By 1976, when the nation marked its Bicentennial, the violence of the ’60s had destroyed any semblance of consensus. Vietnam and Watergate had eroded trust in the government. The commission initially tasked with organizing the anniversary was disbanded amid reports of corruption. Corporations filled the vacuum, Glaude explains, with “star-spangled whoopee cushions; patriotic toilet seats; Liberty hamburgers; red, white and blue beer cans.” The author, around 8 years old at the time, dimly remembers donning a pair of tricolor trousers.
A half-century later, Glaude is refreshingly honest about the depths of his despair. “I do not love America, and never have, especially now,” he writes in one of the more startling opening sentences I’ve read in some time. He dismisses this year’s Semiquincentennial as reaching back “to a storybook America that requires either the banishment of Black people from view or the reduction of our role in the country’s history, so as to affirm America’s ongoing quest to be a more perfect union.”
Undoubtedly true. But Trump doesn’t own the country, at least not yet, nor the 250th anniversary of one of the most radically liberatory and confusingly contradictory events in world history — an inspiration, as Glaude shows, even to critical observers of the American experiment, like Douglass. Far from the revanchist MAGA-palooza in Washington, I suspect this summer’s unasked-for invitation to national soul-searching may surprise us yet.
Despite his despair, Glaude concludes that “the past still offers resources for us to freedom-dream.” So, too, does this book.
AMERICA, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries | By Eddie S. Glaude Jr. | Crown | 270 pp. | $31
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