I really should be doing my Analytics homework. In fact, the assignment is currently sitting on the second monitor, staring solemnly back in my direction. My eyes dart to the monitor anxiously, worried my professor is somehow watching me choose blogging over his assignment. But, so be it. I learned a long time ago there are some nights I have to write, and nothing else will help.
So, for the first time in a long time, I’d like to tell you a story. This story is about a bike ride.
I walk through the house, Bonnie close to my heels. The “clop, clop, clop” of her nails on the hardwood floors is like a heartbeat, and it’s getting faster and faster. She thinks I’m going outside to play with her in the yard.
But I can’t play right now. I need to leave the computer. I need to go for a ride on my new bike. I strap my helmet onto my head, remind myself to tighten it later, and grab the bike. Bonnie looks at me with a sigh, her eyes giving away her disappointment. I’m sorry, baby. Mommy will be back soon.
The interesting thing about our town is that we live on top of one of the several hills that hold neighborhoods. Ours is most prominent, though. Our hill is called Northwood. I’ve been told that the house diagonal from ours is the Judge’s house. When people from the NRV find out we live in Pulaski, they normally grimace. Once Nick and I reassure them that we live off of Prospect Avenue, they normally breathe a sigh of relief and remind us that we live near a judge, so we are safe from the problems that plague the “other side of the railroad track.”
On that Judge’s property, allegedly, is the old town well. One for white people and one for black people. An interesting fact I learned somewhere this past year. The well was divided, and though the same water flowed out into pails, one was better and one was less.
I think about this well sometimes. I think especially about the exhausting walk all the way up the hill to get the water. I wonder about the glares of white eyes as black hands reach for water. I wonder if their eyes met at all.
The descent from the top is the best. I’m flying, and the sounds of the neighborhood become white noise in my ear. The drowning out I craved. My pullover is gently billowing, and I can feel the breath in my lungs, strong and steady. This cycling thing is a piece of cake. There’s no car coming up or down Jefferson, so I feel safe, also. A bonus I didn’t expect. I cross the railroad tracks, still thinking about the fun descent.
At the stop sign across from the train station, things head south: there are cars coming and I have to put my feet down on the ground. For some, this wouldn’t be a big deal. I’m awkward and new to biking, though, so my full stop can’t possibly be gracious, and my restart is even worse. I fumble with the peddles, and finally heave myself forward through the intersection.
As is common, I scan the park in front of me. Kids, a few women walking on the shabby track, and a few co-ed adults near the parking lot. They all look at me with disinterest, so I keep peddling. I nod to the older woman watching her grandson ride his bike. I’m on the trail now. About 2 more miles and I’ll start the return trip.
I passed a gravel parking lot, but slow down as movement catches my attention. I almost missed the flailing, flapping, dying bird. No animal or other bird nearby. No sign of a struggle. Just the end for that little bird. I keep peddling. Dogs bark at me as I pass, but I try to maintain a steady pace.
I’m a firm believer in bad omens. I also tend to believe innocent animal deaths affect me most because they’re helpless. I’ve always been a helper. Maybe I made that bird’s death about me, but I knew something might happen on my ride because of that bird. I’m selfish, and I want to help, and I believe in bad signs. I have no other explanation for this string of thoughts. It’s all just very raw, and how I felt.
I keep peddling.
Eventually, I make my way back toward the train station. There are still a few kids playing on the playground – all boys, I notice. I’m not sure why I notice things like that. Where are the little girls?
“Hey, baby! Heyyyy”
My insides convulse, and I fight the cognitive urge to look towards the sound. Out of the corner of my eyes I see a man. He might be 18, he might be 28. Who knows. Who cares?
“What’s up. Come here! Heyyyy!”
I’m wearing a bike helmet. Baggy pants. Mom socks. A large rain jacket. It doesn’t matter. It never matters.
The whole bike ride is ruined. I am angry and that doesn’t explain the avalanche of emotions that hit me as I leave the parking lot. I see two police cars to my left and far, far right. White faces.
I keep peddling, but faster than I was before. And then I hit the hill. The ascent causes an understandable slowness of peddling, but I’m still so angry.
Then a voice in my head: “it obviously could be so, so much worse. You’re lucky this is your burden.”
A breath out of my mouth, faster, faster.
I can’t breathe.
I’m thinking of Ahmaud and George as I hear a car creep up behind me. I start feeling paranoid and panicked. I keep peddling. Was this the fear that Ahmaud felt. Did he look behind to see a truck creeping up on him? Was he totally ambushed? I’m not sure, because I refuse to watch that horrible video. I don’t need to see a video to believe a man was lynched in broad daylight in 2020. I hear how some people still talk. I remember and I can’t forget.
The car passes by. Two white women and a golden retriever. I’m safe. But would Tamir be safe? I glare at the “Neighborhood Watch” signs and keep struggling up the hill.
I keep peddling.
I’m feeling a million emotions and none at all. I can’t breathe, but I have to breathe. In the distance, I hear a church tower, and I think with bitter sarcasm:
“Well, that’s the most I’ve heard from the Church in two weeks.”
There’s a time for silence and there’s a time for speaking – screaming if you have to.
That guy at the railroad station? Your calls steal my joy. When I try to joke about the encounter with Nick later, my voice falters as he asks “Did you really get cat called?” His face is twisted with concern, and the concern initially makes me want to roll my eyes. Of course I got cat called. This is my reality and my existence. I don’t roll my eyes because I remember he’s good to his core. He just can’t comprehend an ugly truth: people who look like him don’t always act with his goodness and gentleness. I love him when he reminds me that not all men would make a woman feel uncomfortable.
I wonder why my white brothers and sisters can’t react like Nick did when they hear about being black in America. I wonder why they can’t be appalled. I wonder why they can’t acknowledge something is seriously broken. I wonder why we won’t fix it.
I hear more these days from my friends and family when voices are silent, than when they’re posting and tweeting and screaming. The masks I wear muffle my voice a little bit, but I still put that mask on. I’d rather do my part in making sure others are safe. The masks might also be an excellent tool of well-timed-silence: Will people listen quicker than they used to? The muffled speech is necessary as the white “we’s” learn to listen urgently, act in response to a need of a community, and condemn swiftly those who cannot decipher which is more important: breath in lungs or fake harmony in the name of comfort and privilege.
I am so tired, but to rest is to use my privilege. To delete Facebook is to use my privilege. This is not the world I want to bring children into. And so… I’ll keep peddling for by black brothers and sisters.
Be safe and well,
Halie
haliewanders 