Ahmaud Arbery and Whiteness in the Running World

This Sunday marks my first Mother’s Day. Nine and a half months ago, my son Kouri Henri Figueroa came into the world via C-section. This caused me the greatest pain of my life, followed by a few months of darkness from postpartum depression, but without a doubt, it has led to the deepest sense of love I’ve ever felt. In such a short time, I’ve learned so much about him. {snip} But what separates me, and other black mothers like me, is that we are plagued by the question: At what point will a white person see my son as a threat, and attempt to murder him?

When I hear the story of Ahmaud Arbery, a man who committed the crime of jogging while black, I see Kouri. Ahmaud was a 25-year-old black man who laced up his shoes to go running near his home in Brunswick, Georgia, this February, unsuspecting that those would be his final miles. He was hunted down by a father and son—who later said he looked like a burglary suspect—and shot twice, in broad daylight. When I look at my beautiful, unique baby boy, I see the faces of all of the other beautiful black and brown babies that grew up to be discarded and murdered at the hands of police and white supremacists. {snip}

{snip}

Over the following days, I had conversations with many black and brown runners about the fear and trauma this case reignited in us: we already knew that doing normal, everyday things could make us targets of police and vigilante violence like this. But this one still hit us too close to home, at a moment where the world was already in chaos thanks to COVID-19. We discussed the disproportionate death toll of the pandemic in black and brown communities, and the over-policing in black and brown neighborhoods. This case is exactly why we never go running alone at night—and this is why we fear wearing masks to cover our faces, even though we know it is to protect us from another deadly threat. I thought about a movement that had emerged recently in the running community—one that was concerned with so-called runner safety. Where were their voices? {snip}

It was suddenly more clear to me than it has ever been in my seven years founding and leading running movements: there is a deep divide within the running community across racial lines, one that we do not address.

{snip}

For too long, the running community has pretended as though it were possible to keep politics out of running. As if, somehow, running is the great equalizer where people can come together and compete on an equal playing field, transcending all markers of identity. The truth is, when I go for a run as a black woman, that in and of itself is a political act and one that puts me at risk—fearing for my life. {snip}

{snip}

It is time for white people in the running community to cultivate a white identity that is separate from white supremacy—that means committing to antiracism and social justice. There are two great books I recommend to start with in this process: White Fragility and Me and White Supremacy. It is time for white people in the running community to take each other to task in spaces and rooms where there are no black people or other people of color. If you, as a white person, ever find yourself in a place where everyone is white or mostly white—including at your workout—then there is a problem and you are perpetuating it. And it is time for white people in the running community to recognize the humanity of black people, indigenous people, and other people of color (BIPOC) and raise up our stories as if they were their own.

{snip}