Miles for Ahmaud
In March 2020, just after the kids’ schools had closed, I purchased one of those lighted running vests. They’d been stalking me on Instagram for months and the time for conversion had finally come. Since the kids would be home all day, I would need to rearrange my schedule and the only place my late-morning runs seemed to fit was in the 4:30am - 6:30am block, depending on the workout. My first thought, upon realizing this, was How are you going to do that safely?
Our area has a variety of well-maintained trails as part of the Great Rivers Greenway, winding their way through many of its neighborhoods. It’s one of the things I love about our town and I’ve run them hundreds of times over the last year. All of those miles had been in broad daylight. Running in the dark posed a serious problem but it wasn’t from fear of distracted drivers or blind bends in the road. Sexual assault was certainly a close second. As problems go, though, avoiding the “what are they doing here and why are they running?” reaction was chief among them. This reaction is dangerous.
There I sat, trying to solve this problem, and Ahmaud Arbery had been gone for weeks. As I was mulling over how to indulge in a sliver of public space—and do so safely—Ahmaud Arbery had already run his last mile, trying to navigate the same landscape. In his own town, as he ran through its neighborhoods asking only to be treated as a neighbor, he was shot dead. There was not enough space for him.
There is never enough space.
I count myself lucky for the relative ease with which I’ve been able to fit the pieces of my life back together during this pandemic. This piece, though, took a bit longer than the rest. In the end, I figured, there’s only one way for a black person to run inconspicuously, and that is by running very conspicuously. Avoid any surprises and telegraph your intentions clearly. Very clearly.
No, clearer.
I did a quick Google search and found the website for one of those trendy, lighted vests, along with a coupon code. A week later, the vest was delivered to my door. I remember reading through the reviews. Hundreds of happy customers had finally received it as a gift or a splurge. To be honest, when I saw the ad for the first time, it didn’t even make it beyond my “Heh, That’s Cool” list. Then overnight, it became a must-have, just one more thing I’d be carrying with me on my runs, tucked in alongside my love for the sport and my latent fear of it.
Runner’s World magazine did an issue recently on running safety for women. It’s a topic that has loomed large in conversation for some time now, especially as it pertains to representation among enthusiasts and athletes. What doesn’t get discussed nearly as often, however, is how this issue of safety manifests itself for people of color—black men, in particular—and how these dangers are compounded and complicated for women of color.
Trust me, as a 5’10”, small-chested, broad-shouldered, black woman, these things can get very complex.
Not running was never an option, though. Last August, running made its way rather quickly from the “That Was Amazing” list to the “Daily Ritual” list. My anxiety often gets the best of me, forcing me to prepare for contingencies that will never manifest (I’ve designed my fair share of Plan E’s and F’s). It’s a lot of the reason that I do run: it’s an easy way to direct some of that nervous energy that otherwise gets bottled up, ultimately spilling out all over my relationships and work and art. My heart needs it, cardiovascular-ly, and otherwise.
Yes, sure, my anxiety plays tricks on me but this boogeyman is real. Only, he doesn’t live under my bed. He lives under my neighbor’s. I’ve seen him in video after video, killing us without cause. I’ve heard him in comment after careless comment, cutting us down without reason (How is it that this boogeyman so easily forgets that I’m in the room? Does he ever actually notice or am I the only one who hears the record scratch?).
I’ve loved him, too, and dearly. Spending my nights, planning for his surprise. Deferring to and defending him, hoping that one day he might love me back, one day we might really dance. As it stands, I do not refuse the dance but I do not dance. Not really. I keep time and all that, but there is no swing. I can never quite fall into the grooves with him, my American Boogeyman.
I might not have spent the money, had I known I could just be shot dead in broad daylight by a retired investigator for the local department and his son. But, I did know, though, didn’t I? It’s why I never listen to my music too loud, even when I’d love nothing more than to drown out this world and imagine I’m running along the streets of a different one. It’s why I always have clean, presentable kit. No, I do not run in regular clothes, only ever running clothes. It’s why I can’t get out of the door too quickly, not without filling in my over-plucked brows and applying a bit of concealer + blush. It’s why I do any number of things: run in place at crosswalks; do a full stretch + calisthenic warm-up in the parking lot when I’m visiting a new or unfrequented trail; move to the other side of the road if I’m approaching certain people when they’re out alone; pick up the pace a little—but not too much—when an onlookers glance lingers a little too long.
It’s all ridiculous and insane and bewildering and comedic and tiring.
I am so tired.
A photo of Ahmaud Arbery provided by his family
I couldn’t run for Ahmaud Arbery yesterday. I woke up, ready to take a break from my break. I’ve been battling a bout of runner’s knee but I was determined to run through the discomfort. I knew that I shouldn’t but I told myself that I had to do it—a few miles for Ahmaud—it was the least I could do.
Instead, I spent the day sad and angry and bewildered and a beggar, weeping into my mask in the parking lot of Wal-Mart. It hit me in the checkout line and I spent the next 20 minutes trying to hold it in, hoping I could hold out long enough that I didn’t make the cashier too uncomfortable. She tried to make small talk near the end, commenting on the size of the strawberries; I assured her that, yes, they’d actually been really good lately. It was right after I had to look away, trying to dry eyes that wouldn’t stop crying, no matter how many times I scolded myself, demanding that I pull it together. When I finally got to the parking lot, I collapsed. My mind wandered aimlessly, wondering what the fuck the point of all of this is if my sons can just be gunned down on their own roads without recourse. I am living in a place where I am clearly unwelcome and trying to make some room in it for my boys. All I want is to secure for them a plot on this piece of the world. But this piece of the world would, on nothing but a whim, spat them out of its mouth like gristle. Worthless flesh.
Quickly, my despair dove deeper into the chasm of colorism as I realized that my boys’ complexion will shield them in ways that Ahmaud’s couldn’t. Guilt, then, joined despair, for its own dance—a swim, really—among the waves of sound that make up this American melody. I recall hearing it for the first time in my childhood. It is a melody that has wound itself so tightly through the moments of my life that my first thought upon realizing that I’d be running at night was: How are you—a black person—going to do that safely?
It is a melody I am sick of hearing. And I am sick of humming.
I am tired of running to its tempo.
Truth be told, I’ve been tired. I was tired nearly 3 years ago when I wrote a song titled “Bubble Boy.” It was right after the officer who took Philando Castile’s life was acquitted. My firstborn, Eli, was freshly-weaned + fierce. He’d only been in the world for a year but he has always moved through it at an unyielding pace. I’d need to be sure that he was clear on the melody. Very clear.
No, clearer.
Mama’s gonna put you in a bubble, boy
They’ll never get their hands on you
You may never know the love of another
But they’ll never get the chance to shoot
Mama’s gonna put you in a bubble, boy
They’ll never get their hands on you
You may never know the love of a brother
But they’ll never get the chance to shoot
You down
Yes, I was tired when I wrote that song 3 years ago but black mothers have been singing it for centuries. And, at some point, they have all grown tired, too. They’ve been tired of following rules that are all too unfair, to placate people that are all too unreasonable, to secure space that is all too unsafe. No matter what we do, no matter where we go… and no matter how much right we have to be there, there may never be enough room.
A dark cloud’s hanging over
Like the spirit of the Lord
I’ve got the blood
I’ve marked the door
No, not enough
There must be more
Still not enough
They want it all
Yesterday, I was too tired.
Ahmaud, dear: there should have been room for you here. I hope you are resting well now, lulled along by a different song.
I do not want to sing this one anymore.