Walking 2.23 Miles in a Black Man’s Shoes

Last Friday I responded to an invitation I saw on Facebook. An invitation to participate in a dedication walk in honor of Ahmoud Arbery. The walk took place on what was supposed to be his 26th birthday, and we were asked to walk 2.23 miles, to remember the date in which he was murdered by two white men, February 23rd, 2020.

It is important for me to note the year 2020. The killing of Ahmoud did not take place in the 1864, the year before Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. It did not take place in 1968, the year of Dr. King’s assassination. It took place THIS year, in 2020.

I note this date because it speaks to the fact that racism and bias is a nasty, bloody stain that, yes, is still with us today. I note this because my son has conversations about what is happening in the world with his peers on social media, and some of his peers believe that white men are just as likely as black men to be victims of violence. They believe racial injustice a thing of the past. I can forgive their ignorance, because I also would have believed this at their age. They haven’t received the proper education, as I had not.

But these are not the facts, and this belief, that racism is in the past, keeps hidden biases in the dark, rather than bringing them into the light where those biases can be transformed by truth and love. And it is up to me and my generation to educate our children and their peers about the legacy of racial injustice and violence that leaves people of color more vulnerable to profiling, more vulnerable to police brutality, more vulnerable to all sorts of blind prejudice from even well-meaning people – educators, peers, neighbors, coworkers, bosses, etc…

I share this poem to reveal the process I am undertaking of bringing my biases into the light. I share this because I have been trying to listen more closely to stories of people of color, and I am weary of these stories of senseless violence toward black men in particular. I share this because I have been told that the fundamental work in being an ally for people of color is to raise my voice in my white circles, to call out our hidden biases, my own and others. I share this in remembrance of a young man whose life was stolen from him, Ahmoud Arbery.

Here are my reflections from the 2.23 dedication walk for Ahmaud Arbery.

Walking 2.23 Miles in a Black Man's Shoes


I lace up my shoes
and head out the door.


Why am I walking these 2.23 miles?
I ask the clouds,
which gather tears in their eyes.


Walking can't bring back the dead,
can't erase centuries of racism,
can't put an end to generational trauma
slavery,
Jim Crow,
the noose around the neck,
the over-abundance of brown bodies behind bars,
the under-abundance of fairness, equal opportunity, reparations.


I walk through the neighborhood
past all the pretty houses with their pink peonies
and painted doors
and mulch,
still warm and smelling.


I think about the people who live
within these pretty houses,
people like me,
who wear the fair skin of European ancestry,
the descendents of colonialism,
and I think about what skeletons lie buried in our closets
behind our pretty doors
and neatly trimmed hedges.


A pretty house can hold a lot of secrets.


Believing bullets make us safe,
we hide guns under the mattress,
though our weapons
are more likely to take life
than defend it.


And in our closets,
lie the bones of all our shadows -
the opiate addiction,
the sexual abuse,
the depression,
the anxiety,
the stains of slave blood
and hidden bias in our cells.


It strikes me now that I've never stopped to wonder,
when my teenage son hops on his bike,
hoody pulled over his ears
and pedals past the pretty houses,
     will he return home alive?
Should I remind him not to reach in his back pocket
for his candy bar or phone;
     they may think you have a gun.


I've never thought to say to my son,
     don't be too loud;
     don't bring attention to yourself;
     watch out for the cops.
I've never said any of these things to my son.


Because somehow,
despite the fact that the white man enslaved the black man,
despite the fact that the white man lynched, burned, abused the black man,
despite the fact that the white man sat on juries that exonerated violence against the black man,
despite the fact that the white man is far more likely to commit a mass shooting than a black man,
his white skin affords him protection
from the people behind these pretty doors.


I thought about young Ahmoud,
who on 2.23.20
went out for a jog,
perhaps in a neighborhood just like mine;
how two white men
assumed he was dangerous,
killed him,
then returned to their pretty house,
to their fear and their privilege,
placed their guns back under their beds...
until the next time a young black man
comes strolling through the neighborhood
    out for a jog.

© Annette Darity Garber