A Reminder About How Little I Matter

Last Wednesday I wrote about attempting to keep my distance from Laz and the Barkley Marathons. After I posted that, I came across a social media post from a news account that presented a sanitized version of Laz and Barkley’s. I considered not saying anything, but decided to point out that the photo that was being presented as new had been edited. I said something because nobody else was going to. The timing of my second post coincided with the New York Times publishing a tribute to Laz in which writer/ultrarunner/Laz fanboy Jared Beasley gave Laz an opportunity to recount his inaccurate version of what he did to me while omitting my name. I reached out to Beasley and the New York Times, offering to speak to them about the inaccuracies of their single source article that uncritically regurgitates one white man’s version of events about a racist incident. Beasley blocked me, and the Times has not responded. 

It feels like the Times article is a reminder that Laz and Laz’s lemmings can fuck with me whenever they want. They have access to mediums and media where my perspective, my voice, and even my name don’t matter. Wherever I go, inside or outside of running, they will rub in my face that Laz has earned the right to do and say whatever he wants, and because I dared to tug on the white supremacist’s robe, I am worth nothing.

This week has also reminded me of how lonely all of this is. It feels like people are talking about me while nobody is talking to me. There’s no refuge for me outside of my home, which I’ve been holed up in this week. There’s nobody to talk to privately because I don’t know anyone who has experienced the kinds of vitriol and violence that I have stretching back to my childhood. There’s nobody to talk to publicly because people are understandably weary of challenging Laz, the New York Times, the running industrial complex, and the sizable contingent of white supremacist runners. Some of those who run ultra courses, are the same that burn crosses.

Also, I have a nagging paranoid belief that even some of those who agree with me are repulsed by who or what I am, and don’t want to be associated with me. My therapist might counter that what I interpret as disgust is just apathy. People view things differently and don’t want to or can’t put themselves in my shoes because that would make them uncomfortable.

During one of my first conversations with my therapist, after I’d recounted to him what happened to me at Hobart and William Smith Colleges and then what Laz and his community did to me, my therapist remarked, “I don’t know how you keep it together.” Sometimes, I’m not sure either. My therapist is really good about helping me unpack the racism I’ve experienced, and guiding me towards figuring out how to move on even though the people that defecated on my door, threatened to kill me, told me that I don’t belong in there space, and have used a variety of tools to cut me down and demonstrate how little I matter- those people will never acknowledge what they’ve done. They will never attempt to understand me. I offended them, so they needed to set things right and put me in my place.

Last week I told someone that I suspect that my 8-month old baby will want to run someday, and that’s something I’d like to share with her. This week running, everything else, and everybody else feels very far away.