Patti Dillon: My Journey as a Mi'kmaw Woman

Patti Dillon photo by Getty Images.

Patti Dillon (née Catalano) is the recipient of the 2023 Abebe Bikila Award, presented annually by NYRR to an individual who has made an outstanding contribution to the sport of distance running. She was one of the most dominant American road runners of the 1970s and 80s. Patti shares the story of her heritage and her dramatic run at the 1980 New York City Marathon, where she became the first American woman to break 2:30.

I am a proud Mi’kmaw woman. And it has been a journey to be able to say it, and for people to listen. I learned this from my mother. I learned many things from my mother.

When she was 10 and a half, my mother was sold to become the live-in nanny/housekeeper for three children six and under. She spoke Mi’kmaw (her native language), French, and English. After that her formal education stopped. She stayed with that family until she married my father when she was 23.

Growing up, my family were the only Indians that I knew of other than my cousins who we would visit on the reserve on occasion. It wasn’t something that was talked about in a positive way. My mother always passed herself off as French.

One day I came home from school and couldn’t wait to tell my mother what had happened in class. Each of us stood up and told the class what nationality we were. When it was my turn I shouted "INDIAN!" I loved Tonto from The Lone Ranger, and at the time he was only the Indian I really knew.

When I told my mother that the kids teased me during recess and I started to cry while telling her, she slapped me. Hard. "Serves you right," she said. “What did I tell you? See what you get! Never say nothing to nobody!" She threw the words in my face. That was first grade.

After that she used to make me look like Shirley Temple. Cute dresses, permed curls, and dance lessons. By seventh grade the perms passed and my hair grew straight down my back, which caused a huge argument—all the girls were wearing long splits-in-the-middle style. My mother hated it because it made me look too Indian.

So she cut it all off, to my ears.

Sometimes it was very hard. I was scared to grow up to become an Indian woman.

I learned that Indian women get beat. Indian women work harder than anyone else. I learned that when they spoke they said little but it was to the quick! I learned that they take care of their kids, all kids. Work one job. Two jobs. Three. Just to keep everyone fed. I also learned that despite abuse and trauma, Indian women are strong and resilient!

It wasn't until I was out on my own that I started to mention here and there that I was Indian. Mi’kmaq. People would say, “Oh yeah, you're right. I see it now.”

When I started the "Be Nice to Patti Campaign," all I wanted was an hour a day for me. Running played a role. So much so, that it took over everything. I ran. I thought about running all the time. About how it made me feel. I never had such wondrous feelings like I had while I was running. I like to think that running found me. My "Kemosabe,” or in Mi’kmaw, “Nitap”—my friend. And as my friendship with running grew so did my self-discovery.

During this time, women didn’t run. Or at least it seemed like that. I would see a few here and there, at local races. I didn’t care.

I was strong like my mother, a Mi’kmaw woman. An Indian woman. I worked hard. Like an Indian woman. I learned that I was self-reliant. I was determined, maybe obstinate, when it came to running. Just like my mother. She was always determined to get back up. And she did, every single time she got knocked down.

When I raced, I ran like my mother fighting to get back up on her feet. Each time she did, she won. She was not going to be defeated. And neither was I.

It's not the winning, or finishing first, that determines if you're a "winner." I was never beaten, even when I didn’t get first place, because I ran with Nitap. My friend. And together we met every obstacle and were never defeated.

I desperately wanted to break 2:30 in the marathon. I had other people tell me it was impossible, that I should be happy with a 2:35. That it takes talent to get under 2:30. But I had something no one else had—everything my mother had taught me. To get back up and keep going.

I ran a marathon about seven weeks before the 1980 New York City Marathon. I had run a new PR, a new world record for a women's-only race. Did I use it all up, my dream? I ran a 2:30:31. Close. I hadn't hit my goal. And I had something left.

Hunger.

I went to Europe to run cross country races, four of them. Finishing second each time to the formidable Grete Waitz.

The talk of European runners was New York. Everywhere I went, every run, every country. New York, New York, New York. I hadn't thought about running there as I was wrapping up my season with the XC races.

And I was hungry. The more I thought about it, the more my hunger grew.

I called the race director to ask about running in New York. He said no, that he had everybody he wanted and needed. And besides, didn't I just run a marathon? He thought it was too soon for me to run another hard-effort marathon. I didn’t tell him I was looking for a sub-2:30. And I persisted. Finally, he gave in and I was given a number! I went into the race so unsure of the outcome. The one thing I did know was that no matter what happened, I would get back up.

I was running the race splendidly. Being careful not to overextend during the early miles. At some points I was third, fourth, fifth place. Didn't matter. My goal was a sub-2:30.

I didn't know what time I was running or if I was on it or not. I had tears in my eyes from my effort. I hurt so much, all over. I had the briefest moment of not pushing anymore, it hurt so much. At one point I thought that whatever happens, it'll be fine. But it was quickly replaced with the thought of coming in at 2:30:01. After that there was only one thing on my mind—RUN!

I didn’t see the finish until I was right on top of it, like a surprise. My eyes were watery, my arms flailing, my legs churning.

I look for the clock to check the time and can’t see. My eyes are flooded with water. My tears. So much pain. All around people are saying my name. Cheering loud. My vision finally clears enough to see the numbers…

2:29!

All the hurt, all the pain, vanishes. I let out a scream of pure, exhilarated, unabashed joy! I did it!

Because I kept getting back up.

Because my mother showed me the way. A Mi’kmaw woman. Some of the things I learned from her, my Mi'kmaq woman, an Indian woman, were painful and hard. Others gave me strength. But they were all gifts, in a way.

To receive the Abebe Bikila award as a Mi’kmaw woman during Native American Heritage Month is a wonderful feeling. To be publicly acknowledged is an honor, and it fills my heart with joy. To me it means that Native people are strong. We are resilient. We always get back up, and we are still here. I'm so humbled, honored. My soul is in awe. It is the top of my running career.

Wela’lioq, thank you all.