The Privilege of Walking in Solidarity

I’m not a runner. Not remotely. In fact, I absolutely hate running unless there’s another sport or purpose attached to it. 

But last week, on May 8, I joined scores of people across the United States in walking for 2.23 miles. 

It was an act of solidarity. On February 23 (2/23), Amaud Arbery was jogging through a neighborhood when he was confronted by two white men. Believing him to be a robber, they cut off his running path with their truck, jumped out with a gun, and confronted him. Seemingly afraid for his life (who wouldn’t be), Arbery is seen on camera lunging toward the gunman to disarm him. 

Two gunshots later, Arbery staggered to his death. 

Speculation about his death has run rampant as apologists for the gunmen scramble to come up with a justification for the murder. 

“Arbery was seen snooping at a construction site.” 

“Arbery should have just complied with the gunmen.” 

“Arbery shouldn’t have been running in that neighborhood.”

When justification cannot be found, apologists are quick to argue that “race had nothing to do with it”, as if history and geography are irrelevant. 

One of the more compelling defenses appeals not to the righteousness of the two gunmen, but to the righteousness of the law. 

“Wait until all the evidence comes in and the justice system is allowed to work before coming to conclusions.” 

Such a line of thinking makes sense in a vacuum, but in the world of systemic injustice against black communities, it rings hollow. Where, after all, is the justice for the families of Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, Sandra Bland, and Breonna Taylor?

Where was the justice for all those other victims of lynching in the 19th and 20th centuries?

Why are we in the position of having to keep seeking justice in the first place?  Yes, we pray for justice. No, we are not convinced that it will always come. 

We are particularly wary in the case of Amaud Arbery because injustice has already been done. 

Arbery died in February. His murder was filmed. The police knew who pulled the trigger. 

Yet no one was arrested, much less indicted, until after a public outcry. 

How is this not the very definition of injustice?

So we ran (or in my case, walked). May 8. Ahmaud’s birthday, one he didn’t live to see. 

I live on a busy highway and so, to make sure I didn’t get clipped by a passing truck, I drove to a nearby neighborhood for my 2.23 mile walk. It’s a nice neighborhood. There are no sidewalks, but it’s quiet. Rain was coming down so I was the only one out at the time, except for the nice man who waved at me while cleaning up after his dog. 

A nice neighborhood not my own. Just like Ahmaud Arbery. 

Unlike Ahmaud Arbery, I walked unafraid. I knew that I would go home, kiss my wife and kids, put dinner together, and apologize to my mom for not mailing her Mother’s Day card out in time. 

Things Arbery would never do. 

While I was walking through that neighborhood, my privilege rang loudly with every step. 

Yes, I am Latino. I have my struggles in this country. But I present as white. I have no accent. My skin is lighter than most of my Mexican brethren (and “sisthren”, as P.O.D. so eloquently put it). I was not at risk in that neighborhood. 

To be fair, it is also true that most often African-Americans are not at risk as they jog in public. Black men and women run through cities all the time without incident. 

But they are more at risk than me. They are more likely to be targeted by racists than me. They are more likely to be killed than me and their blood is more likely to go unaccounted by the halls of justice than me.

When I walked on Friday, I did not walk in my own pain. I walked in solidarity with the pain of others. 

We who have privilege must recognize it and acknowledge it. We cannot pretend that our walk/jog/run on Friday was enough. We went home. Ahmaud didn’t. Our black brothers and sisters are afraid that they might not either. 

So more must be done. 

With the outcry about Ahmaud Arbery—and now Breonna Taylor—filling social media feeds, churches are once again considering what it means to love communities that have so long been the subject of discrimination and hatred. 

Once again, buzzwords like “diversity” and “reconciliation” are floating in the air. But if this is unaccompanied by action, it’s nothing more than virtue signaling. 

We can see right through it.

Dr. Christina Edmonson tweeted in this regard yesterday:

“In Christian spaces, the pursuit of diversity apart from empathy, equity, and accountability produces 1) a false sense of progress/obedience (arrogance), and 2) more opportunities for harm and minimization (cultural and racial trauma). We don’t ‘do’ diversity. We do justice.”

What did I do last Friday? I went for a walk. 

And if I don’t accompany that walk with consistent and insistent calls for justice and equality for my black brothers, sisters, and neighbors… 

If I don’t work toward greater inclusion and opportunity for those too often ignored and oppressed…

If I don’t give my life to the Gospel work of justice…

…then what I really did was nothing.