Running While Black: Finding Freedom in a Sport That Wasn't Built for Us

by Alison Mariella Désir

White supremacy dictates the time; it dictates the lessons we all learn and the rules I will teach Kouri.

I thought of Ta-Nehisi Coates’s lines in Between the World and Me: “Black people love their children with a kind of obsession. You are all we have, and you come to us endangered.”

But a discussion about the dangers of white supremacy for Black runners had been notably absent from the conversation. I asked the publication to bring attention to Ahmaud’s death with the

hashtag #IRunWithMaud, and to publish an article about the unique and justified fears Black runners, Indigenous runners, and other runners of color have; how our safety is compromised by white supremacy and the lack of justice we receive from the legal system.

Were we honoring Ahmaud? Or was this for us?

As always, I gained a sense of clarity that comes after a run. We were running for Ahmaud because that was his place of joy, something we as Black people all deserve to feel while moving through space.

White supremacy has allowed white people to police Black bodies for centuries, with little to no consequence.

“In America, it is traditional to destroy the Black body.”

So where do you run to avoid the risks? How much do you limit yourself? Do you choose safety, or do you choose exploration? If you choose exploration, what will the consequences be?

Running ignores race in the same way the nation does. It pretends that there is

no divide, no race problem; it pretends to be color-blind. Running believes it is a sport that welcomes everyone, when it remains a sport that primarily prioritizes and celebrates white experiences while having no clue that there are other experiences.

White runners typically told me I should stop tainting their running experience because these incidents had nothing to do with running, or they expressed shock that such discrimination and violence was still happening in 2020. Their shock was frustrating; a sign of white privilege, of not paying attention, of racial ignorance.

She was the highest placing American in the race. But the reporter looked at Alysia, then looked past her to the white teammate behind her. “Maggie,” the reporter said to the white woman, “you’re the highest [American] finish; you placed sixth.”

The racism was so blatant. The reporter literally pretended not to see her.

From the reporters covering the sport, to the announcers at the races, to the editors who decide who appears on covers, who to cast as models, whose experiences are featured—whiteness permeates all of it.

The New York Times, for example, gave her more space in its story and never mentioned the historic nature of the Black women’s achievements. Even though America loves a winner, the article treated Aliphine almost as a side story.

like a mention is cool with white people BUT ITS NEVER FAIR OR ENOUGH

At one point, Alysia’s contract had a clause that offered her a bump in pay if she made the cover of Runner’s World. She joked about how impossible that was and wondered why the magazine listed in her contract couldn’t have been Ebony. Media coverage generally shows an athlete’s sponsor their value as a marketing voice and influencer, and lack of coverage can reduce an athlete’s bargaining power.

When everyone sees mostly white runners in the media, Black people are not seen or understood as belonging in that space. A Black person running is not normalized. Instead, the media perpetuates the stereotype that a Black man only runs in public when he is running from trouble; a criminal fleeing a scene—the perception that killed Ahmaud Arbery.

when I looked back at the image of the Runner’s World covers, I saw an industry that not only valued whiteness, but an industry that failed to acknowledge our presence in the sport. An industry that failed to see us.

I knew I was Black and what that meant in this world by the first grade, while a white man in his early forties was uncovering his racial identity on this podcast with me. How, Sway?

Hire editors of color. Use Black sources. Tell the full range of Black stories. Put Black people on the cover of your magazine!

just because white people think their race (or store or group) is welcoming doesn’t mean it actually is to people of color.

insisted we must do something now, resulting in urgent emails—Can you host a panel this weekend? How do we “fix things?!”—as if systemic racism could be addressed overnight, with a simple checklist that would make the work easy and digestible for them.

“listening to us,” which sounds nice, but it’s impossible to have a meaningful conversation on race if the time is spent educating white people on race. It’s impossible to feel safe sharing experiences of racial harm when the people you’re talking to do not have a historical understanding or awareness to hold space for your experiences.

now THIS explains beautifully the epitome of the black experience.

Once I accepted that I was not responsible for white people’s racial education, I was finally able to let go.

Here we go, I thought. Was I going to have to comfort a white man newly awakened to racial harm?

the first time white fragility had exploded in front of me.

I also told him that it was his responsibility to understand these terms if he was going to be involved in this work. He couldn’t hear me. He was too deep into defending his “good person”—i.e., non-racist—status.

A common tactic, the “I have a Black friend” defense.

The average Black person without a formal education knows more about racial issues in our country than a formally educated white person.

AND I HATE THAT!!!!!

I often think of this quote from the hip-hop artist Guante: “White supremacy is not a shark, it is the water.”

I had done what I could to avoid white people and white spaces.

I had no interest in building deep relationships with white people that would’ve made those conversations possible.

i need to implement this. ASAP.

cross-racial work, how it was hard and uncomfortable. She validated me without trying to calm me down.

“Why would we prioritize white people’s comfort over Black people’s reality?” White people: “Because we want to bring people in. Once they’re here, we can bring them along.”

You’re centering white people’s feelings.

The white people could not let go of needing to make white people feel good about engaging in issues of race.

A Black woman walked in.

Not wondering why the presence of a Black staff member was so central to this Black customer. Not wondering what that was about.

We have little patience for their racial awakening, their processing, their trouble with language.

I was done with white people saying they wanted to address the problem but were actually unwilling to address the problem. They wanted to do what other diversity efforts did. Talk around race. Make sure it was comfortable enough for white people to participate.

they’d done had addressed the “easier” issues, like LGBTIQ+ inclusion. In these moments, I let myself turn off my camera, roll my eyes, scream internally—Black people are also members of the LGBTIQ+ community!—then come back on.

One brand celebrates the running “tradition,” rooting its imagery and references in “Americana.” But it fails to see that running’s “tradition” is whiteness. The brand romanticizes a time when Black people were

fighting for basic human rights and the ability to move through public space with a measure of safety.

Our ancestors handed us the torch and we must carry it forward. This thought does not make me hopeful; it makes me tired. It reminds me that endurance requires pacing, it encourages me to take self-care days, shut off social media,

Even white people with a history of being committed to racial justice often prioritize their own comfort or their own power

yes. this is a valid question to ask our white allies

over marginalized groups. We all want comfort and safety.

I saw in these lists the structural racism that underlies running—the

decenter whiteness and center Black people, Indigenous communities, and other people of color. I don’t mean we exclude white people. I mean that by decentering whiteness, we open space for other people, expanding the circle of privilege to include everyone.

“When Black history is suppressed or delegitimized, we lose the ability to reckon with systemic racism, from one generation to the next.”