My parents' histories have a curious way of haunting me, no matter how vigorous my evasive maneuvering. Strangely enough, the combination of my mother's and father's efforts to let me evolve into my own person have - upon reflection on my time at The Daily Pennsylvanian and at Penn - completely backfired.

I suppose I was asking for it when I accepted enrollment at the same school that my father terrorized exactly thirty years ago as a triple- and high-jumper. The situation came to a head when my Legal Studies professor pinpointed me as my father's daughter within five minutes of meeting me. Bob Humienny's lanky limbs had graced his 101 class three decades ago, and apparently my extremities (and penchant for bad joke-making) were all my instructor needed to correctly identify me.

Though my physical attributes and choice of undergraduate institution have often pegged me to my father, my similarities with my mother developed when I was far younger. She, like her mother before her, is a journalist. My love for writing evolved without her saying a word about it, though perhaps it was because we weren't of the same make. Heather Huntemann, staff writer for Georgia's school paper, was news, and I am sports. I was the founding sports editor of my high school newspaper. I had a sports blog before most people had a MySpace (I'd still like to thank my mom for giving me enough daily hits to maintain my online membership). It was the only thing I knew I really loved, and it carried through to Penn as I became a writer for DPOSTM my sophomore year.

And lo and behold, the first beat I had was track and field.

With the illusions of football and basketball quickly fading into the background, I accepted the beat begrudgingly, knowing that I had to put in my time to get to Fran Dunphy. I had been coming to the Penn Relays since I was small and was no stranger to meets, so it wasn't foreign - just, in my view at the time, a complete chore.

As time and runners passed, however, I experienced a complete turnaround. I developed a deep affection for the coaches, I respected the athletes, and I even began to attend meets I wasn't even covering. In retrospect, the spirit of track and field was in complete alignment with why I fell in love with sportswriting - I wanted to document the triumph of the human spirit. Nothing screams humanity more than pushing your body to the edge for a little-watched sport at a school that does not give out athletic scholarships. To be a part of it was an honor.

It wasn't a slow realization, because I remember the day it hit me - a sunny Saturday, Penn Invitational weekend, a recap assignment and a day at the races. It was like my mother and father were having deja vu through me. I found myself on the same infield that my father's spikes dug into thirty years ago, writing on one of my mother's old notepads, covering the sport that I had come to love.

So thanks, DP, for being the connection. Thanks to Penn track and field for the show, and the years of friendship. And above all, thanks to Mom and Dad. If only all of your plans backfired this well.

Ashley Humienny is a 2009 College graduate from Yardley, Pa. Her email address is humienny@dailypennsylvanian.com.