Being a creature of habit, I have always jogged a path that takes me under a certain bridge into a recreational park for a breathtaking three-mile run. I’ve stuck to this path like a bus route. This particular evening, I accepted the challenge of trying a new route. Brad, a white middleaged jogging acquaintance with the stamina and speed of a Derby winner, thought it would break the monotony. As usual, 10 minutes into the run he chose to quicken his pace, while I chose to continue living. It wasn’t long before he disappeared. I remembered his directions and instead of going under the bridge, I crossed over it and made a few extra turns. Twilight Zone it must have been because within minutes, I was in unfamiliar territory where homes boasted titles like “chateau,” “estate” and “villa.” The vegetation was orderly and even the light breeze seemed to cooperate. There were signs with pictures of dogs baring their fangs and words like “patrol and protection.”
The way I figured it, the warnings were meant for those harboring criminal motives or acting suspiciously. Being a clean-shaven black male in broad daylight, wearing no bulky attire to hide weapons, no suspicious bag, no dark glasses (and not being in South Africa where they have the Group Areas Act), I had nothing to worry about. Wrong! I started to get an eerie feeling. A lot of expensive cars were suddenly slowing down, almost as if there were a visibility problem. I assumed I was it. A silver-haired older lady, who oozed power from every pore, abruptly halted her Jaguar and sweetly inquired whether I worked for the McArthurs. On hearing “No,” she sped off in apparent concern. Still, I reassured myself that this was America. I would not retreat, even while drowning in sweat and adrenaline.
I thought back to the media depiction of a white middleclass suburbanite who gets lost in the heart of a tough inner-city neighborhood and takes leave of his nerves. At that moment if I could have had my choice, I would have chosen the inner city. It wasn’t long before a police car cruised by and I noticed the driver adjusting his rear-view mirror. As he didn’t stop I knew trouble was stalking me.
I saw a few other blacks in the neighborhood but they wore the working clothes of gardeners, nannies and utility technicians. I wore a spandex running outfit, headphones and an ingratiating smile. The teeth of the black man have been known to get him out of some tight spots, and my father did not raise a fool. There were a few fellow joggers and some walkers who moved with impressive alacrity as they crossed the street and responded to my nervous nod with furtive glances. It was not hard to imagine that to come face to face with a stranger the same color as Willie Horton must have been, for them, a terrifying experience.
I tried to quicken my pace, hoping that through some miracle I could catch up with Brad or at least keep him in sight. Experience has taught me that a little ethnic buffering serves the politics of acceptance and at the very least lessens the shock factor. However, it seemed decreed that I would do this journey alone. I kept reminding myself that this was not Bensonhurst and there was little chance of a mob-induced fracas. These people obviously had class and believed in maintaining secure borders.
I sensed I was being followed and I looked around. My fears were confirmed. Driving about 150 yards behind me at funeral-procession speed was a lone police car. As it pulled alongside my flank, a portly white police officer in the trademark sunglasses ordered me to pull over. “Do you live around here, sir?” he asked. “May I see some kind of ID?” As I never go jogging with my driver’s license, or my wallet for that matter, I knew this would make “Bull Connor” a little upset. I explained my predicament. He then said something I was not ready to hear. “That’s OK sir,” he said, “I’ve been watching you for the last 15 minutes and you do seem like a runner going about his business. The problem I’m having, and I hope you’ll try to understand, is that some of these people think their snot can make cole slaw; fact is, I still have to do my job.” He went on to explain that the police had gotten a flood of phone calls about a suspicious black man roaming the area.
We spoke for another two minutes. I went on to point out that in my own neighborhood, I had witnessed a few white strangers running by in the name of exercise and wondered if maybe I ought to start calling the police. As he got back into his car he removed his glasses. His weary eyes appeared to plead for some kind of tacit understanding: in the future, he would be counting on me not to make his life more difficult by running through this forbidden stretch. I sensed a conspiracy to cooperate with the forces of bigotry.
Later I recounted my journey to Brad and wasn’t surprised when he said the only problem he’d had was his hamstring acting up again. He also thought I was being a little sensitive. On reflection, I think I can see Brad’s point. Yet where would we be today if Rosa Parks’s “sensitivity” hadn’t gotten her into all that mess in Montgomery 35 years ago?
