Not the One

The world of running seems vulnerable, somehow. Unprotected, carrying only my keys and my wits about me. No money, no cell phone, no iPod. Only awareness, glasses, a pair of shorts, grimy rain-stained gym shoes, and invariably, a t-shirt whose manufacturing predates my birth. In this space, I feel sacred. Primitive, even. Although I am running more for sport than survival. Or maybe I am running for survival—against obesity, heart disease; complications down the line. I feel safe running. Even when the seediest male eyes scan my body, as if I’m some anomaly, or object. But, I don’t know if this is the world that I really live in. I think it’s more the world I want for myself, and for other people. I want to exist in a space where I am utterly unperturbed, where I’m not messing with anyone either. I want to be as safe in the real world as I am in my dream world.

Apparently, that’s too much to ask.

On Friday I boarded the Western bus with promptness thanks to the CTA Bus Tracker. I noticed a sketchy pair of teenage eyes look me up and down with a gnarly grin. Noted, registered, and set aside. But, something about this kid’s look was sinister. I chastise myself about this sixth sense all the time. I don’t want to be that girl that’s afraid of kids younger than her, or who clutches her purse on public transportation. Usually, I’m not that person until someone disrupts my peace.

I decided to turn my concentration elsewhere and pulled out my Case Files: Family Medicine. But as I passed stop after stop, I decided to look at my phone. My old iPhone from 2008 or 2007 that my cousin gave to me. My cousin who died this year. Busted, slow, sacred and still useful. Clenched in my left hand, I surfed the web, reading to myself and passing time on my commute. And then I heard all the noise; the intentional distractions. Still, I decided that teenagers were teenagers. Some made noise and some brooded quietly. I didn’t think much of it, and I carried on.

Suddenly, a thin set of fingers reached over the screen of my iPhone poised to clench and carry. I resisted, left hand stiffened and right hand raised in astonishment. With a quickness I didn’t know I possessed, I put my right hand over the phone already in my left and pulled the phone towards me, only to look up and see that they had bolted. Two teenage boys; both black, and one of them being the kid with the gnarly snaggle-toothed smile.

This is the second time in 5 months that I’ve been harassed by teenage boys. The scenario is similar—public transportation, black teenage boy. In the other situation, the kid was trying to steal my personal space from me—pressing himself against me so I was fleshed towards the window, elbows waving towards my eyes. He expected me not to say anything, and got nasty with me when I did. He mentioned something about me calling the police, mockingly saying, “these niggers are bothering me”.

I’m not sure which situation is worse. I’m not sure what kind of assumptions people are making about me. Maybe that I’m not black. Or maybe that I am black, but not black like them? The constant struggle of my life is being black and being accepted for not taking on a role dictated to me by media, or a solely black American experience. How can I be anything other than what I know? I can’t change who my parents are, the culture I grew up in, or the neighborhood I called home.

Or maybe these instances where people take their liberties with me have nothing to do with race. Maybe it’s gender, height, class, assumptions about my age. Whatever it is, or isn’t, I am watching.

Even when I’m running, I am watching. Even when I feel safe, I’m watching. I’m watching with restraint, with courage, with anger that I have to be watching myself, my things, my body. I’m watching my emotions. If you’re thinking about it, don’t even think about it. Because I’m not going to sit there and let anyone of any race take me for granted.