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Hauling ass was what Ahmaud Arbery of Georgia was doing, according to one of the men who apparently shot and killed Arbery because he thought the young, black man was burglarizing homes in the neighborhood. What my team didn't know was that I ran scared when running alone, precisely because I did not want to die at the hands of a mistaken accuser.
In America, in my lifetime, Michael Donald and James Byrd, both black, disappeared into the night and were later found dead in racially motivated killings. Donald's 1981 death in Mobile, Alabama, was the last reported lynching in America. The 1955 death of 14-year-old Emmett Till in Money, Mississippi, is believed to have triggered the modern civil rights movement. All were tortured to death.
While America once chose a black man as president, its historic relationship with black men remains troubled. Black men disproportionately pack America's jails. They are front-line "essential" workers, yet are unemployed at nearly twice the rates of whites. Very rarely do they become C-suite executives, or executives at all for that matter. They do not receive benefit of doubt (see the Central Park Five).
And so a black man running through a coastal Georgia neighborhood has to be up to no good, not training for a marathon or out for a jog. So, yes, I ran a little scared. And I smiled widely and waved from a distance. And, I tried to wear cool running clothes. Hey, it's me and I'm a runner!
He was in construction, Op said, not bricks and mortar, but "the man with the plan," a guy who made deals come together. He'd built a hotel in Duluth, a bridge in India--"amazing place, small people, a lot of them brown as black if you catch my drift, but high-class accents, the ones who speak English, respectful, take orders, good soldiers, strictly semper fi"--and a luxury resort in Mali.
There was something curiously soothing even in the full, pale,dove-brown water of the lake. A boat was coming over, with itssail hollowed out like a shell, pearly white, and its sharp blackcanoe-beak slipping past the water. It looked like the boat ofDionysos coming with a message, and the vine sprouting.
'I am sure - sure - ' he voice tailed off into vagueness, his faceseemed to go grey and peaked, as a dead man's, only his eyeswatched her blackly, like a ghost's. Again she was confronted withthe suffering ghost of the man. And she was a woman, powerlessbefore this suffering ghost which was still in the flesh.
A black boat with a red-painted roof and a tall mast was moored tothe low breakwater-wall, which rose about a yard high, from theshallow water. On the wall stood loose little groups of white-cladmen, looking into the black belly of the ship. And perchedimmobile in silhouette against the lake, was a black-and-white cow,and a huge monolithic black-and-white bull. The whole silhouettefrieze motionless, against the far water that was coloured brownlike turtle doves.
Then two peons passed a rope loosely round the haunches of thebull. The high-hatted farmer stepped on to the planks, and tookthe nose-ring again, very gently. He pulled softly. The bulllifted its head, but held back. It struck the planks with anunwilling foot. Then it stood, spangled with black on itswhiteness, like a piece of the sky, immobile.
He stood huge and silvery, dappled like the sky, with black snakemarkings down his haunches, looming massive above the red roof ofthe canoa. How would he ever duck to that roof, and drop under,into the darkness of the ship?
The planks were taken away. A peon ran to unfasten the mooringrope from the stones of the shore. There was a strange thudding ofsoft feet within the belly of the boat. Men in the water werepushing the ship's black stern, to push her off. But she washeavy. Slowly, casually they pulled the stones from under her flatbottom, and flung them aside. Slowly she edged, swayed, moved alittle, and was afloat.
Then he sat down again, and deftly, silently, with the dark,childlike absorption of the people, took up his work. He wasmending a chair bottom. When Kate watched him, he glanced up witha flash of black eyes, saluting her. And she felt a strange powersurge in her limbs, from the flash of living recognition anddeference in his eyes. As if his deference were a sort of flame oflife, rich in him when he saw her.
In the shadow of a great tree a mother-ass was tethered, and herfoal lay in the shadow, a little thing black as ink, curled up,with fluffy head erect and great black ears spreading up, like somejet-black hare full of witchcraft.
The ink-black ass-foal did not understand standing up. It rockedon its four loose legs, and wondered. Then it hobbled a few steps,to smell at some green, growing maize. It smelled and smelled andsmelled, as if all the dark aeons were stirring awake in itsnostrils.
Glancing up, Kate met again the peon's eyes, with their black, fullflame of life heavy with knowledge and with a curious reassurance.The black foal, the mother, the drinking, the new life, the mysteryof the shadowy battlefield of creation; and the adoration of thefull-breasted, glorious woman beyond him: all this seemed in theprimitive black eyes of the man.
He let his black eyes rest on her face for some minutes, watchingher, unchanging and incomprehensible. He was thinking, superficially, that if he liked, he could use the law and have herprevented from leaving the country - or even from leaving Sayula - since she was legally married to him. There was the old fixity ofIndian anger, glinting fixed and relentless in the depths of hiseyes. And then the almost invisible change in his face, as thehidden emotion sank down and the stoic indifference, theemotionlessness of centuries, and the stoic kind of tolerance cameover him. She could almost feel the waves of successive shadow andcoldness go through his blood, his mind hardly aware at all. Andagain a fear of losing his contact melted her heart.
Her mozo, a man-servant, had followed her into the garden, and satat a distance on his heels, under a tree, with his back to thetrunk, like a crouching shadow clothed in white. His toes spreaddark and hard, in his open huaraches, and the black braid of hishat-string hung against his dark cheek. For the rest he was purewhite, the white cotton tight on his thighs.
When the singing had finished above, and the drum was silent, andeven the voices speaking in low tones were silent, her mozo lookedup at Kate, with his black hat-string dangling at his chin, hisblack eyes shining, and a timid sort of smile on his face.
She wiped her face, suddenly calm. Then she looked with wet eyesat Cipriano. He was standing erect and alert, like a littlefighting male, and his eyes glowed black and uncannily as he mether wet, limpid glance.
I know women who can kick my ass at the computer keyboard, in writing, or in coaching others. I know black people, men and women, who can do the same. I know people from Japan, from China, from Mexico, from India, from Pakistan, from Iran, all over the world, who are better than I am at the things I do best. 2ff7e9595c
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