Photo by: Michele Bauer
On Friday May 7, I went through my normal routine to go for a morning run—drink coffee, get my clothes and shoes on, go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, stretch a little. This was the last day of an emotional week and I needed the medicine of a good run. The day before, a video of the chasing and killing of Ahmaud Arbery, a Black runner in Georgia, had been released. It was a violent, horrifying video, including racist remarks by the perpetrators, and ending with a fight where Ahmaud was shot and killed.
A few days before, on May 5, Native people took to social media for the annual campaign to raise awareness for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls (MMIWG)—an ongoing crisis throughout North America caused by the refusal of federal law enforcement to investigate these crimes and bring to justice the primarily white male assailants who are often working on remote Native lands as part of extractive industries like oil, gas, and mining. According to official reports, Arizona has the third highest number of cases of missing or murdered Indigenous women and girls, and Tucson ranks high among US cities. The crisis is not only the deaths but also the lack of data; for example, in 2016 the National Crime Information Center reported almost 5,712 Indigenous women missing or murdered nationally, but only 116 were recorded by the Department of Justice that year.
I got ready for my run thinking what a week it had been, and as I opened the door I was frozen with deep fear. That morning I could not leave my home. I could not go outside for the regular run I do most days. I felt fear for my own life and the possibility of no one in my running community knowing what happened to me, even when I tried to rationalize that “this doesn’t happen here.” I had never felt this fear before in relation to running, even though I’ve been threatened with guns by Border Patrol agents and the Minutemen vigilantes while working in the borderlands, but that’s another story. I didn’t go running that morning, and that affected me even more.
I was struck with the realization that many other people might feel this fear every day, and that I never considered that possibility. In that moment I could relate to the feeling of fearing for your life while doing a routine daily activity, like running, or driving to the store, or going to my job, or having a BBQ at the park. Not running that day and the fear I felt affected me. I was sad, scared, angry, and feeling very alone, wondering how many runners in my community feel this fear. How many runners are out right now, without fear or even considering running a safety issue in their lives? How many runners, Black and Indigenous, have to balance the risk of doing their daily run? Who else am I not seeing?
Photo by Kerry Whelan
The murder of Ahmaud Arbery and the honoring of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls both highlight crises in the country of which many people are not aware, and little do they know these crises affect their own communities. These are not isolated events. These crises are invisible to a lot of people, yet they inflict and increase the historical trauma constantly affecting Black and Indigenous People of Color (BIPOC) mothers, children, families, complete communities.
On Friday night, I ran for Ahmaud and posted about it on social media. However, my post didn’t make me feel safer, and definitely did nothing for Ahmaud’s family or for the Black community as a whole. Posting my Black Lives Matter photo was an empty effort, nothing but just “performative action” like many other people did that day. I did not contribute much other than posting a photo and a hashtag. What I really wanted was action that would positively affect me, my friends, and neighbors, and help us feel safe when running (or during any other part of our lives)—something that would truly address these issues. I went to bed that night with guilt and emptiness of a job not completed—it was not enough to just post a photograph.
All of this happened before the killings of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Nina Pop, Sean Monterrosa, Jamel Floyd, Tony McDade, James Scurlock, David McAtee and many others at the hands of police and White civilians. By now, you have seen how demonstrations and protests unfolded across the country and the world. Maybe you watched the videos of the killings (you have that choice), maybe you posted online or protested in the streets, or maybe you complained about “looters.” It’s been a month of civil rights protests stemming from events publicized thanks to everyone having a camera in their pockets. To be sure, these events—the overt and covert racism, the lynching, the calling cops on Black people, police brutality, and more—have happened for centuries, but it’s only now that some are more aware of the interactions that Black, Indigenous, Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, and many more people go through every day. It has been a very difficult month for some of us, but I acknowledge it has been a very difficult 400 years for a whole lot of people. Historical trauma is real. And this connects with the running community. As I wrote on my post: “Some people run in flat, grassy obliviousness and privilege; some others run a rocky, uphill battle every day.”
Running to raise awareness about Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls. Photo by Tim D. Peterson Jr.
If at this point you are feeling defensive, blamed, or attacked, understand: This is not about your feelings. The awareness raised through these events has brought out big stars like Meb Keflezighi and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar to share their experiences and struggles that happened during their illustrious careers. You can also read the New York Times’ “Running While Black: Our Readers Respond” to see what average runners go through in their daily lives while running.
There are many things you can do to improve the experiences of BIPOC runners in our community to make them feel comfortable and welcome, to make them feel they belong, regardless of their fitness or finishing times.
The most important step is self-transformation: Educate yourself; Google is your friend. Be curious and aware of issues affecting some communities, not defensive or offended. Acknowledge that you are part of a society that has created structures of power and privilege, and you play a role in it. This is not about your feelings; it’s about their experience, which includes their deaths.
Stop saying “I don’t see color” or any variation of it (“all people are the same to me” or “all lives matter”). Colorblindness is a way to deflect responsibility, and it only serves to make White people comfortable. It protects and shields you from getting to know the realities of different populations and having uncomfortable conversations, but it doesn’t allow you to see their challenges. This is why we say that Black Lives Matter—specifically because Black people are continually over-policed, profiled, and subject to all sorts of scrutiny.
Work on equity and inclusion, not just on diversity. Tucson’s running community is a diverse community, but is it inclusive? Does everyone feel heard or seen? Are all voices and experiences represented in running groups, businesses, or boards of directors? Inclusion is a system where everybody feels comfortable, heard, seen—an environment where diversity is expressed and accepted, not just present for a photo or a meeting.
Make people feel they belong in your group instead of making them feel like they have to fit in—it should be your effort, not theirs. You take the burden. Understand the difference between belonging and fitting in and welcome different people in their own space. Don’t patronize or condescend. Acknowledge their humanity, their background, disability, physical shape. And, very importantly: Hire them for roles in your organizations or events, and pay for their labor and expertise.
Diversify your role models: Read and watch non-White authors, books, documentaries, athletes. Support non-White running businesses. Sign up for races in different locations. Follow and share non-White running role models and stories of running, not just those who conquered mountains or who ran the longest or reached the highest point—these are all stories of privilege. Read about running from the perspective of people for whom running is an ancestral practice, a ceremony, a community-wide event, not just an outlet to get medals or travel around the world.
Seeing, confronting, and stopping racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, fatphobia and other discriminatory acts is everyone’s responsibility. You may not be at fault, but it is your responsibility to do something to disrupt behaviors, systems, and biases widely accepted in society.
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