Run

The morning started calm and serene, as I savored momentary peace before my family awakened from their slumber to populate the house with lively sounds only West Indian families can muster well before noon. When the silence is suddenly broken, without regard, by creaky footsteps coming down the stairs and, soon after, music playing with a grainy sound coming from what I presume is my sister’s iPhone, my spine becomes slightly concave and a tiny spark of rage forms in my belly, but dissipates rather quickly when I remember love is sometimes loud and proud. We are in quarantine, so I am allowed to make up such delusions to get me through the day.

As I sit at my desk, working from home and accepting the inevitability of disruption, I ponder going for a jog, since work has been slow and will still be here when I get back, donning the judgmental look of a stern teacher when a student’s homework isn’t handed in on time, as if the mounting pile of papers in the corner of my office had piercing eyes and round glasses sliding down the bridge of its nose.

A boisterous conversation starts in the kitchen, with the ladies of the house discussing a recent African American jogger hunted down and shot in broad day light, in Brunswick, Georgia. I could feel rage starting to rise in my belly again. This rage eclipses the tiny rage I felt just moments ago, which now seems like a luxury. This rage is different. This rage summons the pain and struggle of our ancestors who have fought tirelessly to stop these unconscious acts of violence on the black body. This rage subsides on the surface, but never truly leaves the body, wreaking havoc on the muscles and the mind for years to come.

As I gather myself and take a deep breath, I walk slowly from my desk, and straighten my spine, to grab my sneakers and a bottled water.

I am going for a jog.