FloJo: One woman's inspiration

We always remember our first loves.

I was a gawky, socially inept seventh grader when Florence Griffith Joyner flashed past the TV screen in her one-legged purple spandex and wildly painted finger nails that were visible even on our old set. I didn't understand her reasons for displaying those bright talons - I cringed when she approached the third leg of the 4 x 100, visualizing the golden baton glancing off a nail and flying into the stands. But, hey, she was Flo Jo. I didn't need to understand; I simply marvelled at her ability like the rest of America, our own daily exercises abandoned as we planted ourselves in front of the television.

Her times were faster than many of the men's. At the time of her peak, I could run faster than many of the boys in my Junior High, which may have contributed to my permanent wallflower status at those awful middle school dances. I felt connected to her. Somehow, she was able to bring together both athleticism and grace, something I wasn't able to achieve yet. I wished for that ability.

America witnessed history, spellbound by the simple beauty of speed. Records fell, showering hope, and showing how far women had come in sports. New worlds were waiting for us, the next generation of female athletes.

I was the little girl who would rather play football with, rather than write notes to, pre-adolescent boys. I preferred running to gossiping and was enthralled with this woman and all she symbolized. She was everywhere in my mind during the summer of '88. She made sweaty competition a beautiful, noble thing.

Her death was unimaginable. Thirty-eight year old Olympians, world record holders, co-chairs of the President's Council on Physical Fitness and mothers of second-grade daughters are not supposed to die of cardiac seizures.

The announcement of her passing, which was relayed to me by my current track coach, made me remember the places she took me, took so many of us, in the 1988 Olympics. She stood for us. Her unashamedly bulky, muscular thighs reminded us that function and form can be synonymous.

She did not compromise what she saw as her essence and femininity for the sake of sport. Integrating style and speed, she glamorized the sport, not needing the sparkly golden spikes Michael Johnson would chase her popularity with eight years later. She was a paradox to a society that expected its women to either be no-nonsense athletes and workers or symbols of soft femininity. She combined these two elements with finesse and apparent ease.

That incredibly muscular physique raised eyebrows, and her blistering times made people question the purity of her competition. Some felt that her body and speed were too developed to have come from the natural amount of hormones allotted to women. While she underwent a battery of tests during her tenure as an athlete, she never tested positive for the steroid abuse people suspected.

I remember none of those allegations. She was Flo Jo. I was in seventh grade. I just knew that this woman symbolized much of what I wanted to become: strong, fast, confident, not afraid to be in the race, not afraid to put herself out there, not afraid to strut with 6-inch nails and daring outfits.

Even now, I question whether it should matter much in our collective consciousness if she actually abused steroids. People die unexpectedly, even superstars. If she wasn't clean, I'm not sure that I want to know. I know that seeing her, being blessed to watch this awesome display of talent and work and fearless grit was what I, and so many others, desperately needed during those tumultuous junior high years.

Those who believe that her ascent to the top was made possible by performance-enhancing chemicals say that her family should admit to such an indiscretion, if only to let fellow athletes know about the deleterious effects of steroids. We already know that there are a host of medical problems associated with anabolics. Tarnishing the legacy of this inspirational woman is not necessary. Cautionary, speculative statements to Ben Johnson and the Chinese women's swim team littered the remembrances on a web site devoted to Flo Jo chat this week. People who choose to use steroids should already be aware of the potentially damaging effects. We should not use Florence Joyner's death as a dialectic for any athletes tempted to cut corners.

"If I can just give back a little of what people gave me, I'm happy," she said in a recent interview. Not just an inspiration from afar, she volunteered her time to help budding athletes and even had her own youth foundation. She worked with the girls who may someday chase and catch her world records, creating her own multi-generational legacy and historical immortality.

While her stunning athleticism was what caught our eyes 10 years ago, we should also remember her as someone who was willing to stand up and stand out as a speaker, a mother, a wife, a writer of children's books and an incredible human being. We shouldn't let allegations of steroid abuse ruin the memories and the beauty she left with us.

As a female athlete, I will always be indebted to her for broadening the limits and raising the standards for the rest of us. Flo Jo was who and what I wanted to be when I grew up. I will never achieve the athletic heights that she has, but her social contributions and individualistic flair stand as a monument and a challenge for me, and all of us, to stride toward.

Amie Ely is a College senior, captain of women's track and field and a Commentary Editor