Breathless

After having been a bit off this past week (physically due to food poisoning that lingered), I went out for a short jog yesterday. It felt good to feel my heart pumping again. To move to the rhythm and pace set by my legs. By my breath. To breathe. Deeply. To feel the warmth of the sun.

As a woman I learned long ago to set certain parameters for my outdoor pursuits. I do not run in the dark. I stick to trails and paths that are cluttered with people. I check my surroundings. When traveling I would try to recruit colleagues and friends to join me. When necessary, I would stay in the confines of the safety and drabness of the hotel gym and use a treadmill. The state of these was often an entirely other wordly adventure.

What I love about running is that it is relatively cheap. You need a decent pair of shoes and an outfit that can be easily hand washed in the sink. You can wear these same running shoes on your flight and the clothing packs small. It is efficient.

You also get to see a part of a culture country city that is different quiet. The awakening of the day. People carting things to market. Kids going to school. People tend to be friendlier in the morning hours. More open to newness or less bothered. The heat has not quite settled into the fabric of the day. Women and children move about. The world feels safer fresher easier.

But in towns areas locations more hostile less amenable to women exercising in public. I feel denied. Of the opportunity to get out and feel the heartbeat of the area. Of the capacity to shrug off the jet lag from long flights. Of the ability to wake up with the sun.

I have been protected by complete strangers at times. Walking through a market. Having a middle-aged woman weave her arm in mine and share that men are following me. Escort me to a safer more populated area. Look out for me. Looking for nothing in return.

New friends joining me on excursions to be sure I am attended. Seen as belonging and being accepted by people who are local familiar known.

Hotel staff providing directions and assistance to ensure I am taken to the correct address place. Following up to be certain I am ok.

I have lived travelled worked in places where I am the racial and ethnic minority. But from a status of privilege. Protected category.

Once. In a remote area. A very young boy laid eyes upon me and screamed horrified. Sure I was a ghost with my pale skin. Nothing could convince him otherwise. Somewhat humbling experience but people offered apologies on his behalf even though I assured them all was fine. Confronting something or someone apparently so starkly different in contrast from one’s normal. Can be shocking scary. For young children.

But more times than not. Kids are curious. They sit with me and compare the color of our nail beds. The hair on my arms. They touch my skin and note the similarities of our bodies. Of these physical embodiments of our hearts and souls.

So very many children have touched played with my hair. I once had 7 young boys gather around me on a beach in Zanzibar. They spent quite some time braiding my hair. It took several days for my hair to recover from knots and tangles. I felt it was an adequate trade for the moments of connection and laughter and humanity.

Humanity is what all of this is about. I look at my collection of books gathered over decades. I am about to part with them and it breaks my heart just a little. But the knowledge hope that kids adolescents can have access to these amazing works. Can have something to escape to relate learn indulge senses. Expand grow worlds and minds and be transported to novel ideas approaches and ways of life.

I look at books by Toni Morrison, ee cummings, Maya Angelou. The one book to keep: Their Eyes Were watching God. By Zora Neale Hurston. Inscribed with: Merry Christmas, Love, Mom and Dad 1985. My mom wrapped the book over Thanksgiving. No realization thought understanding comprehension. That my father would not make it to Christmas. But would pass. Quickly. Painfully. At the end of his battle with cancer. Two weeks prior to opening this lovely gift.

My parents were raised in segregated communities schools in the south. Florida. West Palm Beach. They were poor. My dad’s bedroom was the shared somewhat enclosed front porch of a trailer. For years. Before they moved into a small home. My maternal grandmother was widowed at a young age and supported two children on her school secretary salary. My parents attended community college before earning enough money to attend FSU. Somehow my dad managed to secure funding and support to pursue achieve his PhD in physics.

I am not sure what happened along the way. They were not raised educated nurtured by open minded people. But somehow. Along the way. They encouraged and explored and grew minds hearts humanity.

They did not teach me to hate. We went to museums and learned about different cultures and ideas and thoughts and religions. My dad’s common response: Neat!

And so I wonder. Ponder. Mourn. Feel such incredible sorrow. Over the thought concept possibility. Of pursuing chasing choosing to end a person’s life.

No explanation. No justification. Can make this better. Can bring back the life of this young man. Can heal the heart of his mom. Provide a safe secure feeling for the community.

Horror. Pain. Imagining the loss of my own child.

I cannot fathom.

I awoke this morning knowing that my top priority was to run in honor of Ahmaud Arbery. And his mom. The social request was for 2.23 miles to commemorate the date of his death on the date of his birthday.

I was not ok with this. Not with any of it. I decided to do 5.08 miles to also honor the date of his birth. Of his first breath. Of the first time his mom held him in her arms and kissed his beautiful face.

For all moms and all children. For everyone who has lost having known or the possibility of knowing this young man.

Mourning all of us. Humanity seems lost wavering undone.

How. In this time of thousands of deaths. Pandemic. No sympathy empathy consideration.

Instead. Seeking out. Destroying life. Taking away breath.

The amount level consuming hatred. Of one’s own life. Evil. Hatred of themselves. Separation from their own humanity.

See. I tend to feel like a mom to all children. I want the best for all of them. To grow into evolve into the very best version of themselves. To open hearts and minds to the wonderment of existence. And breath.

(Last week. J.P. and I were walking. A dad was bike riding along the sidewalk with his two young sons. We moved to the road because… kids. The older boy had made it to a crosswalk. The younger was crossing a driveway. A huge SUV came barreling down the driveway. There was not enough time space to travel to move him. J.P. raised his arms and moved towards the vehicle. I screamed. The driver stopped. Three inches away from hitting this child. Dad was behind him.

The driver eventually moved the car back. But did not exit the vehicle or apologize or check on this potential victim.

I leaped across all social distancing guidelines. Held his bike while he nervously stumbled off. Made sure he was ok and then walked him and his bike across the path. The safety of the sidewalk that this vehicle had ignored violated.

All of us were shaky. It was all I could do to not wrap this child in my arms. And no. I had never met or seen him before. But suddenly. He was one of my children when they were young. Perhaps a future grandchild. But a child whose life is precious. The global village.)

After my short run yesterday, J.P. and I went for one of our walks. I have learned how to navigate several local communities neighborhoods and trespass local marinas so that I may run in the relative safety of people and kids playing on lawns riding bikes. But still keep my distance. My old trail is no longer safe. There are too many people.

I am one of those persons individuals who offers encouragement to others. (Perhaps one of the most difficult parts of this quarantine is not being able to greet and pet dogs I encounter along the way.) I have seen a couple of young men separately starting beginning their journeys of running during this time. When we cross paths, I offer supportive words. That they are doing a great job. I wave acknowledge smile at others sharing the lovely outdoor spaces.

On the way home, I saw one of these young men. He came up behind us and hearing him. Turned around. And we moved to the road. He thanked us and shared a huge smile. I made my typical standard way to go comment and told him it was so great that he was getting out and doing this. I say pretty much the same thing to both young men whenever I pass them. I wonder if they know each other. Similar age.

But this time. After the words left my mouth. I wondered if he would be ok. If he would be safe. Jogging along the streets of our shared community.

Because this young man is African American.

And suddenly I am scared. Worried for him.

Today when I ran. I thought about all of this. Hills helped me delay push off tears.

There is one section. Its small. But is through the woods. Often there are others nearby. But not this morning.

I thought of a friend who has offered in the past. To be my running partner. In the woods. Because cement is not friendly to my knees. And I have commented that it is fine for him as a strong young dude to go off for a run in the woods. But that’s not an option for me. As a woman.

And as I ran this path that is only a couple of hundred feet. But provides such solace. Peace.

I wondered if I should offer to be his running partner. As the color of his skin. May make him a target. For hatred.

And I mourn. The death of another young man. A person pursuing deep breaths. A clearer head. A stronger mind and body. A person who was living breathing.

How

Will we ever possibly

Explain

The loss of our humanity

Please teach your children kindness and love and respect for everyone.

No exceptions

(Picture of Ahmaud Arbery and his mother)