by L. Smith
"At the end of the day, the evidence in this case will prove that if Ahmaud Arbery had been White, he would have gone for a jog, checked out a cool house under construction, and been home in time for Sunday supper," Assistant US Attorney Barbara Bernstein told the jury [in an opening statement of the federal hate crimes trial of Arbery’s killers]. "Instead, he went out for a jog and ended up running for his life.” —CNN, February 14, 2022
“A White father and son in Mississippi were charged this week after they were accused of chasing and shooting at a Black FedEx driver in an incident that the driver’s attorney says was a “copycat crime” of the murder of Ahmaud Arbery. FedEx driver D’Monterrio Gibson said he was delivering packages on his route in Brookhaven, Miss., on Jan. 24 when two White men with whom he had not interacted chased him in a pickup truck for about seven minutes and fired at least five shots at the van he was driving.” —The Washington Post, February 12, 2022
Inhale, exhale. Red blood pumping.
He was a black man running.
Running for what? For leisure?
For health? For fun? For fit? In pursuit of dreams?
He was a Black man running, running until the gun, the threat, the them,
the father and the son—they both pointed that gun and
Black man running now running from that gun
from the threat
of the ones
in pursuit
of him.
Black man running, for what? For leisure?
For health? For fun? For fit? In pursuit of dreams?
(Nah, they don’t do that. Not the black man, huh?)
Black man running run from himself, from his shadow,
run from his responsibilities, from his family, from his integrity,
at least that’s the lie they try and try again to tell me. Black man running from
something that he did, that he ain’t supposed to do, ain’t supposed to have done, and
Black man running with something he stole, like their wealth, like their women’s innocence,
running with something he ain’t supposed to have like self-pride and self-confidence,
that’s what they wanna feed my conscience, but nah—
Black man running running b’cause he gots to run.
He gots to run to keep from crying, from screaming, from loosing.
He gots to run to keep from coming loose.
He gots to run to keep from the noose.
He gots to run to keep the noose loose.
(That uppity nigga there got the audacity to run with entitlement.)
Hell yeah, that black man running. He running from that gun.
Black man running always been running from the gun,
from the one with the perceived power, from the wretched one with the will to
kill his potential, stifle his legacy, ruin his reputation, claim his coins and his creations.
Black man running, he run from the pain, from the fear,
from the frustration, and he can feel all those running who
ran before him, running with him now, running inside of his chest—
making his heart beat harder and his lungs fill faster and legs run rapid.
Inhale, exhale. Red blood pumping.
Black man running been running a long time. Black man running is
tired of running—not of feeling tired, not the bottom of his feet feeling tired, not the soles aching,
but the bottom of his soul, tired and aching, from all those souls running inside his chest keeping his
blood pumping red.
He is so tired; he is soul-tired of blacks running.
Tired of being a black man running.
Tired of them chasing him while he’s chasing his dreams.
Tied of them chasing him while he’s slowing down.
Tired of them chasing him while he’s doing no thing. At all.
Inhale exhale, inhale exhale. Red blood pumping.
(This nigga here got the audacity to be running and funning.)
But what happened to black man running?
Black man running with his red blood pumping? Well,
they forced him to stop running. Inhale, inhale.
But what if black man running was running toward somethin’?
Well, black man running was forced to fight those in pursuit
of his portion, in pursuit of his promise. Inhale, inhale, inhale.
Black man running had to stop his run, to stop his fun, his fit, his leisure,
had to quit his pursuit of his kingdom, of his dreamdom
to fight those in pursuit of his freedom,
those in lust of his life, jealous of his journey, envious of his evolution,
not that one, but of the magnanimous way he was created
by the Creator, and how their pursuit to stifle him never seems to really win,
they—them other theys—literally shackled his ankles a time or twelve million,
amputated his manhood for sport cloaked as social order, for hate hooded as justice,
and black man—well, he just keeps running, keeps evolving,
so they—these theys—saw this black man running
and decided for him that he would run no more.
Inhale, inhale, inhale. Red blood pumping.
Black man running would have run on, would have won on, had he kept on running.
He would have been winning, had he kept on running, but they—the jealous, the fearful, the hateful—
they jolted his journey.
Inhale, inhale. inhale. Red blood pumping.
The father and the son—they both had that gun.
The wicked and the wretched—they both wrestled his run, and when it seems like
black man running wins with his wrestle, with his hustle, with his bustle, and
when it seems like black man running is making gains with his grind and with his grit, and
just when it seems like black man running might get the glory,
what they know
is that black man running
can’t win ‘gainst no gun.
(This nigga here ain’t gone outrun this gun.)
Inhale, inhale, inhale. Red blood pumping.
The gun wants no fun, no fit for the black man running.
No gaining, no glory for the black man running.
No playing, no pleasure for the black man running.
No leisure, no living for the black man running.
(Black man running, you gets this gun.)
The kingdom not coming for the black man running.
(Black man running, this gun got your gallows.)
No dreaming, just drumming for the black man running.
Exhale. Red blood spilled.
He was a working black man running
running at work.
He was a running black man running
who went for a run.
L. Smith, a New Orleans native, is a writer, an English teacher, and a Johns Hopkins University graduate who has freelanced for local newspapers. She has an anthology of poems and prose set to publish spring 2022 that her mother and daughter created space for her to write. She also has begun the blog
Writer Teacher for writers teaching writers.
