I have been running steadily, seriously, for about a decade now. Running has been a gift to me, even though I hated it at the beginning. Kind of like Catholic school—it often didn't seem like fun and involved a fair amount of suffering, but there was a vague promise of something redemptive at the end. And even during the mostly grueling process, there was a part of me that liked having to be accountable and disciplined. There were clear consequences of my actions or inactions. Even now, I know that no matter how much I don’t feel like running on any given day, I always feel better after a run. It’s become something I can count on to clear my mind, to keep my body fit, and to push myself out of complacency. If there’s one thing I don't want to be, it’s complacent.
As a female runner, I have been the object of numerous catcalls and beeping horns, of patronizing “coaches” and “fans,” of some really rather rude and obscene comments and gestures, and of the bewildering assumption that I am somehow running for the approval or admiration of others—as if the act of running itself is like running for office. I’ve been called obsessed, I’ve been accused of trying to conform to cultural standards that are resented by many, and I’ve been judged time and again for choosing to run rather than do other things. None of that bothers me so much. But you know what bothers me?
I have never considered what it meant to be running while white. Not until last night.
I have considered being shot while running. But not in a serious way. It was only because, like you, I have heard some crazy running stories. There was an instance years ago where some deranged man used a machete to hack to death a runner who was simply passing by the area. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that story conjured up some images and scenarios for awhile, particularly as I was running through isolated areas where machete-weilding men might be hiding. I have also, like you, heard of tragic rapes and murders of women runners. I always tried to be careful, but I was determined to live my life, and not to let fear stop me. And it didn’t seem a stretch of any kind—there is a better chance of my being hit by a car than purposely attacked. And there is a much, much better chance that I’ll simply return home, a little more ready for what the day holds—a little more in charge of myself.
I also have my own crazy running stories. I have jumped over a naked addict on a sidewalk, been attacked with a bag by a homeless woman, grabbed mid-stride by a person with a clear mental disability, and don’t even get me started on the dogs. But the most disturbing instances by far are the number of times—I can’t even tell you how many— I’ve had drivers of trucks purposely swerve toward me to scare me (and yes, they were almost always white adult males in pickup trucks). Miles of my life are spent contemplating these people. Who are they? Why is this somehow funny to them? What kind of sick power trip is this for them? Are these really grown-ups going to work? I spend a significant amount of time in my life considering what is right with people. I love people—I believe in human goodness, and I believe in positive psychology and focusing on what’s good, capitalizing on it. But these actions always begged the question: What is wrong with these people?
Today, as I ran my five-mile route, I was thinking of Ahmaud Arbery. I have seen the video. I have heard the defenses that have been offered. And I can’t understand how anyone on earth thinks that killing that man was a justifiable act. I’ve run though plenty of neighborhoods I don’t live in—some that I could never afford to live in, and some that I would never want to live in—and I never once worried about being tracked and killed because of it. Is it because it’s easier for me to blend in? Or that the color of my skin somehow protects me? The truth is, I never really had to think about it—I never had to think about running while white. In fact, I rarely have to think about doing anything while white. (Except maybe dancing.) And when people talk about "white privilege,” that’s the whole point. It’s not that being white makes me have an easier life, necessarily, but that my skin color ensures that I will never have to jump through a thousand extra invisible hoops that would be quite visible to me if only my skin pigment were darker.
It’s humbling. I have had to deal with some crap because of how I look or how I dress, probably just like you have. But it’s easy for me to blend in—to be who I need to be, when I need to be, to make life easier for me and for my kids. And since my kids are white, that privilege extends to them. We all learn how to play the game. But the game itself is wrong. It’s wrong to play it. There is no reason that anyone should be able to chase down a runner with guns. It makes zero difference what that runner looks like. There’s no reason to expect that if someone pointed a gun at a runner, that the runner shouldn't try to ensure the gun was pointing elsewhere. The fact that someone could point guns at me for no reason, and then claim self-defense when I tried to get those guns away, is sheer insanity. What are we supposed to do? Throw our arms up in the air for anyone toting a gun?
The message seems to be that we have to surrender: Surrender to a culture of inequity. Surrender to a culture of violence. Surrender to a culture that is built on fundamental distrust. I don’t want to surrender. I want to fight. I want to take the lead from the unsuspecting 25-year-old Ahmaud and fight. I want to keep running. And I want to help ensure that other people can keep running. I’ve always felt that the act of running itself is an act of hope—some kind of prayer or meditation in action. We all deserve to live peacefully, to engage in activities that help us live better, and to experience the “privilege” of not having to fear others just because we’re alive. Let’s keep running. And hell, that might mean running for office. But at the very least, it should mean running to the polls. I hope you’ll run with me.