Ready, Set, Go!
13.1 miles left.
Billows of confidence from the crowd start to fill the starting line. I begin to waver. This isn’t me. I’m not really a runner. Someone bumps me, and I turn around to a child in a wheelchair. I find out he has cerebral palsy.
Thirteen years ago, I’m in the third grade. Billows of confidence fill my classroom as we begin our annual oral speech exam. I began to waver. This school isn’t for me. They’re placing me in speech therapy for the third year because they think that my Arab tongue rolls my “rs” a little too much and my “ths” a little too thick.
Eleven.
The first two miles are over quickly. I run next to a man wearing a “Black men run” shirt, but he quickly speeds off. I find a girl at mile three with similar sun-kissed skin as my own. We have an unspoken promise to pass this hill together.
Eleven years ago, the first two years of the Iraqi invasion are quickly over. The death toll is nearly half a million now. And what about all those other countries? Their deaths don’t really matter either. Pakistan. Syria. Yemen. We have drones now. But a faceless death is still a death.
Nine.
If this were a 5k, it would be over by now.
A bit over nine weeks ago, Razan Abu-Salha was training for this half marathon. I see a “#OurThreeWinners “shirt at the finish line. Families and friends of Razan, Yusor and Deah ran the race in Razan’s name. I smile as I see the families yelling out runners’ names as they cross the finish line. Around the same time Razan was training, Political Science Professor Carol Swain at Vanderbilt University writes that Islam “poses an absolute danger to us and our children unless it is monitored.”[1] I cringe at the power Swain has in influencing subtle or unconscious bias. But I know she’s not the only one. If only we can all mirror the inhibited love Razan, Yusor and Deah had for humanity and the love their parents had for us at the finish line.
Seven.
I’ve been running for an hour now. We pass Shaw University and the marching band welcomes us with thunderous music on top of the aging bridge. Runners are dancing, but I wonder if they know that this historically black university is home to Ella Baker and Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) meetings. They probably don’t even know what SNCC is.
Seven years ago, the U.S. elects its first mixed race, Caucasian and African-American, president, Barack Hussein Obama. Some use the president’s platform to preach post-racial ideologies. We’re anything but that. The 2013 Sentencing Project to the United Nations Human Rights Committee reports that one in three black men will go to prison compared to one in seventeen white men. Moreover, current Mississippi governor Phil Bryant has opposed expanding Medicaid under the Affordable Care Act. His time in office is spent attacking rather than collaboratively seeking solutions to mitigate his state’s problems. By withholding these essential services, Governor Bryant, and several other state leaders, is preventing hundreds of individuals, black but also others, from receiving the assistance they deserve.
Five.
My body is slowing down. People are passing me. I think about slowing down for the next two miles, but then the course suddenly swirls down a hill to a crowd of blue posters. For about a quarter of a mile, I pass dozens of posters of soldiers who have lost their lives. I don’t want to dwell on this reality again so I speed up. People often do this. Speed up to ignore, to forget.
Five years ago, Duke believed in me and offered me admission. I entered with a fire to wreak good everywhere I go. Now? Well now I imagine the problems are bigger than I thought.
Three.
The only thing pushing me forward is knowing that I’m not struggling as much as the guy to my right. He’s running the full marathon.
Three months ago, 11 people were killed during the Charlie Hebdo shootings. Vigils, discussions and marches erupted all over the world. During the same week, Boko Haram killed hundreds in Nigeria. The media coverage was not proportional to the Charlie Hebdo coverage. It is similar to how disproportional it was to the Kenya murders this week. Is there an inverse relationship between color of skin and importance of death?
One mile.
They fooled me. I waited for the mile 12 sign, but it never came. People begin cheering, and I realize I’m only a couple of blocks away from the finish line. I begin to pick up my pace, but a guy with a long beard steps out in front of me. I realize he’s the same guy I passed as he was walking up the hills. How is this fair? I run the 13 miles, I conquer the hills and I never stopped. On paper, however, it looks like he beat me. Life isn’t fair.
One month till the Duke finish line.
They fooled me. I waited for the final semester email, but it never came. Faculty and family begin cheering, and I realize I’m only a couple of weeks away from the finish line. I begin to pick up my pace, but certain powers step out in front of me. Some people step out in front of me. I realize that I know these people. The America I come from is not the America they come from. I ran the same race, I conquered every hill and I never stopped. On paper, though, it looks like they beat me. Life isn’t fair.
I ran every mile of the Rock’n’Roll half marathon determined to push my own boundaries. As I crossed the finish line, I found myself asking, “Is that it?” I was thrilled to be done but felt that this journey that I’ve been training for exceeded the miles I could ever run.
People run marathons in which the boundaries placed on them are not self-imposed. Marginalization exists at the expense of advancing someone’s personal agenda. Dehumanization exists simply because a particular person or community has no place in the larger narrative. Inequality exists because we fail to recognize the long-standing effects of our socially constructed policies.
I want to conquer those hills. I want to finish those miles. And maybe just then, I’ll run and feel like a winner.
Leena El-Sadek is a Trinity senior. Her column runs every other Wednesday.
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