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

by Alison Mariella Désir

My story is a running journey, but at its heart, it’s a story for anyone who has experienced the harm and powerlessness that comes from not fitting into society’s expectations, anyone who has ever existed in the margins. It is a story of finding and creating your place and space.

Sometimes it’s easier to pretend something is white people’s shit than it is to reckon with the historical and cultural factors that have stolen everyday activities and places and made them off-limits to us.

Running with that group wasn’t the first time I’d felt a lack of belonging. I’ve spent my whole life navigating the discomfort of white spaces. Being a racial interloper is a role I know well.

I began to understand that the color of my skin was salient. I learned that I wouldn’t be seen as myself, an individual, and that Raisha would also not be seen as herself. We were the Black girls.

You are going to have to be mindful of how you present yourself. The message: White people can be average and get ahead. You have to be exceptional.

The white students had such strong stereotypes of Black people, it never occurred to them that we were a diverse group, with different accents and language depending on where we grew up. It was painful. I was just speaking the language I’d been surrounded by my whole life, in the voice that came naturally to me, and people were telling me I was pretending to be something else.

There was the appearance of fitting in, but I had no sense of belonging. I read somewhere, years later, that fitting in is shaping yourself to try to match the space or people around you. But belonging is being yourself, being accepted for yourself regardless of the space you are in or the people you are with. Belonging is being embraced and valued as your authentic self.

Sean’s racial identity was one brimming with deep pride in Blackness, one that was not contested at every turn as mine seemed to be. What a concept, I thought, to have lived in a place that viewed you as normal.

It would be difficult for me to ascribe a single factor that led to my depression. It was a layering that began with the constant hum of racism, of whiteness. There was no name-calling, no overt anti-Blackness, simply the fact of existing in white spaces where the real me was invisible. The persistent feeling of not belonging, of feeling deficient, and not being seen was always inside me, just below the surface. Ashton, who didn’t see me, either, brought it all to the surface, pushing me over the edge.

I was Caribbean American but felt neither Caribbean nor American enough, which lent itself to a disorienting in-betweenness.

This was where the lessons of running crossed over into life for me: the ability to see myself in a future I was planning for and to trust in my ability to get myself there.

Oregon, in 1963, was not unlike the rest of the United States at the time: intentionally segregated. But while other states separated Black people from white people within a city and state, Oregon had declared the entire state white. In 1857, white people who had colonized the territory approved a constitution that barred Black people from moving to the area. They also made it illegal for Black people already living in the territory to vote, own real estate, make contracts, or use the legal system. When Oregon became the thirty-third state two years later, it was admitted to the union as the only state with a Black exclusion law. In the 1920s, Oregon had the nation’s highest Ku Klux Klan membership per capita, and had you looked north on Willamette Street in Eugene, you would’ve seen large white KKK letters on the hill.

Social justice counseling puts the individual within the context of society, meaning it doesn’t look only at what’s going on with you; it explores how what’s going with you is influenced by social forces like racism, sexism, white supremacy, transphobia, ableism, capitalism, and so on.

No matter where we ran, white places—the West Side Highway, Central Park, the New York City Marathon—became our places, too. With every stride, we were in a community. This was the power of the third space, a sociocultural term used to describe a transformative place where oppressed people plot or find their liberation. A place of unity. A place where folks like me can exhale. A place where we belong.

Daily hypervigilance due to racism and microaggressions is one reason for higher disease rates and increased stress levels in Black people, which leads to premature biological aging, a phenomenon known in the medical world as weathering.

But working for a brand showed me the industry’s power. It was a big machine that shaped the culture of running. Brands had a look and feel that they wanted, and if you fit their look, you were highlighted. I understood that the industry—the brands, the media—decides who is elevated and visible, who receives funding, who is presented as a runner, and how they are presented. It was the industry who defined who a runner is.

The words of Aja Monet would define my purpose: “I move, I am a movement. I lift and carry sisters I am most free running for freedom.”

I felt familiar anger rise up, an anger captured by Malcolm X in a 1962 speech: “The most disrespected person in America is the Black woman. The most unprotected person in America is the Black woman. The most neglected person in America is the Black woman.”

White ignorance is part of what keeps a white supremacist system in place. If we don’t acknowledge it exists, then there’s nothing to address. White supremacy is the system that allows racism to flourish, and prevents racial diversity from being welcomed and celebrated. I often think of this quote from the hip-hop artist Guante: “White supremacy is not a shark, it is the water.”

In many cases, brands are confusing diversity with racial justice—increasing diversity is purely a numbers game—leaving efforts largely performative, rather than systemic. Featuring Black people, people of color, different body sizes, and other diverse runners in your marketing material and online is essential. As is diversifying your staff. But diversity is a single step. “Equity” and “inclusion” are essential to the end goal: racial justice. Racial justice means that every space is a space of belonging. It means feeling free to be your full self without fear and having equal opportunity to thrive. It means everyone present is accepted and celebrated for who they are, and not expected to conform to a white standard or “fit in” to white culture.

When I hear white runners say “keep politics out of running” or that running publications and brands should “stick to running,” and that “race” and “social issues” don’t belong in running, I hear someone denying structural racism, bias, and white supremacy—denying my reality and the reality of millions of others. These comments demonstrate a lack of racial understanding and a narrow view of our nation’s history. And they ignore the fact that running occurs outdoors, in neighborhoods and parks, and on streets and trails. They ignore the fact that politics and racism are embedded in everything—all aspects of American life.

The running collective is “come as you are,” in sweats or sweat-wicking gear. We want to dispel the myth that running is only about getting faster or that it must be about pain and struggle; running can just be about movement, community, and joy.