Susan Jackson

At the Laoshan cycling cluster, my knowledge of track cycling, BMX, and mountain biking changed from theoretical to first-hand. I went from reading about each discipline to seeing the world’s top athletes compete in them. The Brits dominated on the track, the United States didn’t quite pull off a BMX sweep, and a French guy ran away (or pedaled, I suppose) with the Mens Mountain Bike gold. I sacrificed my bucket hat to an athlete from the Netherlands who looked like she was about to die of heat exhaustion after coming off the mountain bike course. I used the (not so) stylish lid as a pillow filled with ice water to help cool her until the medics arrived.

I collected dozens of pins, a few business cards, and a cadre of new friends—friends I may never see again, but who were a major part of my experience and understanding of China. Especially the realization that I never will fully understand China.

They walk slowly and follow the rules; they are afraid of the rules; they don’t question the rules. They giggle like children over silly things; they’ve seen families in poverty who can’t eat everyday or attend school—one was only one generation away from this. They taught me how to say “delicious” and “I’m hungry”; I taught them how to say “What I mean is…” and “Internet cable.” Their English names are Pony, Johnson, and Joy; their English names are French—Portia and Yvonne. They ask if Beijing is like New York City. They’d like to study in America, but fear the GMAT, the cost, and U.S. Customs. They hang charms from their cell phones; they eat black eggs and processed chicken meat in stick form for breakfast. They have surprise in their eyes when I insist that I am able to walk to the subway alone—they didn’t believe I knew where I was going, seven weeks later.

They made my experience. They gave me gifts of chopsticks, bookmarks, and silk bags. They opened up to me over time, admitting that the volunteer experience wasn’t all they were promised it would be during their year of training. In doing so, they quietly spoke out against the rules. They trusted me enough to do this. They surprise me with their depth, even seven weeks later. I’d been in their ranks and changed their lines a little, and they changed me as well.

They cried when I left them on the last day of competition.

I cried too.

Thinking I wasn’t going to see any Olympic events besides those I’d be in uniform for, I didn’t bring any patriotic t-shirts, flags, or face paint to Beijing. The United States wasn’t on the ticket at the gymnastics and softball events I’d attended, so it wasn’t too much of an issue. The night the world would crown its new fastest man however, was a different story. I had some scrambling to do.

Taking pity on those of us who did not land assignments in the Bird’s Nest, BOCOG wrangled us tickets to the highlight of track and field events—the Men’s 100m finals.

It’s old news now—Gay didn’t make it and Bolt broke the world record—but nothing about being there that night feels old. I’d had several “Olympic moments” by that evening; moments where I felt the intensity of the whole experience, that the whole world was watching and cheering, and pulling for what was happening there. But that night topped them all. Just being in the stadium would have been enough. Ninety-thousand people emoting and flags of every country waving. That we were only a few hundred yards away from the most talked about race in any Olympics was just gravy.

Clad in a red shirt, white skirt, and blue neck tie (I said I had to scramble), I joined my classmates on the end of the stadium closest to the 100m starting blocks. My first look at the field through the corridor brought tears to my eyes, but by the end of the night, after Bolt had run his barefoot victory lap in front of us, I was on my feet dancing to the reggae music blaring through the Bird’s Nest’s speakers. Reggae music playing in China’s National Stadium—just another Olympic moment.

Pre-Olympics, the exchange rate in China was approximately seven Yuan to one U.S. Dollar. During the Games though, a different kind of currency was king—the pin. Every country, team, newspaper, college, sponsor, etc. had a pin with its logo emblazoned across it, and for many people, collecting them was of utmost importance—for good reason. In addition to being cool little keepsakes, they greased wheels all over the city. From sneaking into private parties to making sure a cabbie didn’t go the long way, a pin could sometimes get you farther than cash.

Before the Games even started, I significantly bargained down the price on a nice leather purse by throwing two Emerson College pins into the deal. That the back of the pins said “Made in USA” was a big selling point for the vendor.

By the end of the Olympics, I’d racked up close to 25 pins, upping the weight of my credentials to what felt like 10 pounds—a great reason to get another massage.