Re-post: Running out of breath

Reposting this, from six years ago, though it feels like it could have been written today—by a comic-book author, a swing dancer, a father of three, and most importantly to me, family.

Running out of breath
by Jerome Walford

This will confirm a stereotype for some, but I love to run. Ever since I was a kid, I ran everywhere. Back in Jamaica, where I was born, I ran to the store, my friend’s house, and even in the house (that was not allowed). This love of running is despite the fact that I’m pretty awful at it. Much later in life, I came to realize my lack of running skill is somewhat genetic. My arches are incredibly flat and my toes are curled. In fact, one foot might actually be shorter than the other.

During my years at Erasmus Hall High School I joined the track team. On my first day of practice, I was so glad to see my coach standing with my teammates after finishing my laps. I completed my final lap and ran straight for him.

“How did I do?” I asked, with a big grin. I was sweaty and panting heavily.

“You’re too slow. I’m going to have to assign you to the long-distance squad.” As a teenager, I was crushed. No kid wants to hear they’re not fast enough to be on the sprint squad, the cooler kids on the team. I dimly remember him following it up with, “You didn’t stop running. Even when you looked like you were about to collapse, you kept going. That’s a good thing.”

The rules of achieving success in life are very similar to the essentials of running a race, You need focus, discipline, and determination. Thankfully, I was able translate those lessons early enough in life.

I graduated valedictorian of Erasmus Hall High School, class of 1992, the same summer as the Rodney King riots. I recall making note of it during my address, how our school was able to demonstrate their discontent, without any outbreak in violence.

During my next lap in life, I went on to attend Cornell University having been granted two years full merit scholarship. Then I graduated at the top ten percent of my graduating class.

Life is like a race, you have to keep running, putting one foot front of the other. That’s what the teachers and coaches tell you. That’s what the business success seminars will tell you. The rules of success are fairly simple. Run the race with as much determination and speed as you can, and you will go far.

Unfortunately, when you are an African-American in America, you get two sets of rules. Not long after graduating college I broke one of the rules from the other ‘guidebook’. Do not run after dark.

A friend I knew since college was moving into Harlem, and was holding a house-warming party.

“Guys, I’ve got to go,” I announced. It was going to be a long trek back to Brooklyn. After saying my good byes, I slipped on my favorite jacket. It was black and yellow, a bit flashy but I thought it made me look cool.

I glanced at my watch and realized that if the subway was actually on schedule, I needed to make a run for it. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. About halfway down the block, an unmarked car swerved up next to me and two plain clothes officers jumped out and began to forcibly search me.

As I mentioned before there are two sets of rules. The first set can be described as rules for success, the other set can be simply titled, rules for survival.

Under the first set of rules, I am free to create my own success. I have a right to self-determination. I had the right as a naturalized citizen to say something to the effect of, “Officers I demand you take your hands out of my pockets and explain any charges against me.” Under the rules of success, determination partially means to respect oneself enough, not to allow others to take advantage of you.

However, if you are caught running by the police, as an African-American in this country, only the rules of survival apply. In case you are not aware, the rules of survival go something like this. You stop, put your hands in you say, “yes, sir.”

It doesn’t matter where you went to school, or if someone else started whatever situation you found yourself in. It doesn’t matter if it something minor. It doesn’t matter if there was no just cause, or if you have white friends. None of that matters when you are confronted by a police officer. All you need to remember is that you are Black and he (because potential instances of female police brutality are so slim) is a cop with a gun and a badge. If you break the rules of survival, you could be beaten, shot or killed. And it will all be your fault.

“Come on. Things are not that way anymore. Maybe in the old days, but we have progressed so much. There is no way that would happen.” That was my usual, Ivy league educated response to Black friends and family that occasionally reminded me of the “rules”.

Thankfully, it all kicked in during my stop and frisk experience. Hands went up, “Yes, sir. No, sir,” I recited, as their hands rustled against my jacket, around my waist and between my legs. After they were satisfied, they jumped in their car and sped away. My heart pounded in my eardrum, rebuking me for running at night. I don’t think I ever wore that jacket again.

It seems no matter how far we’ve progressed, we can’t seem to escape the society of contradictions in which we live. Yes, Black lives matter. Why do we have to say this out loud? Why do we have to scream this in the streets, and interrupt sublime classical performances with this chant?

If you really want to know, I’ll tell you. Black people are not superhuman. If we are angry, we don’t suddenly become stronger than someone else of another race of relatively the same size and mass. Black people are not stupid. We do not get shot, run away, then turn around and charge into a hail of bullets. Black lives matter, because any respect of human life would not leave a body exposed for over four hours in the street for all his peers and mother to see.

Black lives matter, because all lives matter. A man was choked to death by a police officer in broad daylight, while other officers pinned him down and pushed his face into the concrete. With the weight and responsibility of a grand jury, if you can watch a video of that incident and collectively say that the officer did no wrong then clearly you do not believe that all lives matter.

Officer Damico stated that he was not performing a chokehold on Mr. Eric Garner, a tactic banned by the NYPD but that he was attempting to use a wrestling move to get Mr. Garner to the ground. Even by the standards of MMA, the most dangerous form of the sport, once a wrestling fighter has gotten his opponent to the ground, in the prone position laying on top of his opponent and engaging in any form of the chokehold, the fight is over. Any attempt by the opponent to tap out requires the fighter to release his opponent immediately. Else he runs the risk of killing his opponent in front of a live audience.

We have to say Black lives matter, because there is a lack of awareness. Officer Damico is not a wrestler. He is a police officer, and with the aid of at least two other officers, he forced the air out of Eric Garner’s lungs, and almost literally pushed him into the grave.

But it was his fault, right? Too weak.

“I can’t breathe.” Those were the last words of a dying man.

Please, just come out and say it. Trevyon Martin didn’t die because George Zimmerman stood his ground. Michael Brown didn’t die because he had the strength of a demon. Eric Garner didn’t die because he was overweight with a heart condition. They died, like many others, because they broke the rules of survival.

News sources reported that Tamir Rice was shot and killed in Ohio, even as Mr. Garner’s case was being deliberated. The two police officers responding to an uncertain 911 call shot him within two seconds of arriving at the scene. Tamir was twelve years old and twirling a toy gun in the park, alone.

At twelve years old, did he even know the rules of survival?

Some parents keep the strictest form of the rules. “You don’t have any friends, you play by yourself. If a police officer approaches, you stop, put your hands in the air and you say…”

Two seconds is not a lot of time and he was too slow.

“How are you doing?” my wife asks almost every night these days. She is patient and I’ve been far too grumpy, partly because I haven’t really slept for the majority of the last few weeks.

I lay down when I’m tired, I blackout and open my eyes next morning. I rise and put my feet on the ground, one in front of the other. The kids need to be prepped for school and work needs to get done. We seem to be always running late. Thankfully the school bus stops just down our long block and some days my father-in-law helps out. But we are always running to catch that bus.

Our eldest is ten years old. She has really long legs and runs like a swan – gracefully awkward, yet effective. She is already her own person, and convinced she knows everything about the world. Pretty soon, I won’t be able to keep up with her even if I tried. Our youngest is five years old and believes she can do anything. I run behind her and that makes her happy. Our middle child, my son, is eight and not such a good runner. He doesn’t lift his knees nor use the balls of his feet. He is already out of breath halfway down the block

I run alongside him. “You have to keep going,” I usually say. “Don’t give up.”

And my heart quietly echoed, reminding me that those words are meant for both of us.