infinite hope >>> finite disappointment

on the subtle glimmers shining through

Citational Ethics (Saidiya Hartman), Ja'Tovia Gary, 2017

A big goal of mine has always been to join a New York City run club. To be clear — I am the opposite of an actual runner. Sometimes I can do an awkward half jogging, half walking thing, but it is deeply uncomfortable for me (and anyone who has the unfortunate luck of seeing me). I have no stamina, I’m extremely flat-footed, and I start to overthink about what my arms are doing in relationship to my body. (Where are they supposed to go in space?! Someone please tell me.) But still: That has not deterred me from wanting to join one. They seem so joyful, and I’m always looking for social gatherings that don’t orient around drinking.

A few weeks ago, I realized there was a run club that meets regularly near my new house. I RSVP’D and invited a friend. The morning of the run, I woke up like a little kid on Christmas — so excited. A few minutes before we were supposed to meet, my friend texted me that she’d overslept, followed by a cryface emoji. Sounds like you needed it, I replied, with a kissface emoji. I decided to go anyway.

When I pulled up, the organizers were handing out colored wristbands to signal the types of interactions participant were open to — genius. They organized us into runners and fast walkers — heaven. I joined the second group, obvs. As we set off, I tried a few times to strike up conversations, but it seemed that most people were fairly settled in their own pods or just along for the ride. That was fine by me. It was one of those moody early summer mornings we’ve been having, where the sky can’t quite tell what it wants to do, and the temperature was perfectly crisp and not too humid. I relaxed into the deep and sheer pleasure of being in a large crowd of Black people, moving together in relative silence, embodied and breathing deeply.

As we got deeper into Prospect Park, I began to notice the effect we were having. Some people were annoyed (mostly bikers — you know the type — irritated that we were too numerous to stay contained to the skimpy lanes the city has assigned for non-bikers.) Black and brown people cheered on us, cranked up their speakers so we could dance as we passed, sometimes jogging alongside to flirt or chat with people they recognized. All of the white people we passed looked stunned. Some of them smiled. A few of them tried to ask what we were doing, but I didn’t hear anyone reply.

Five years ago, in June 2020, I traveled to Minneapolis to learn more about the organizers at the heart of the abolitionist movement there. I wanted to write about a local collective that had received $30 million in donations, sparking questions and tensions about fund distribution and explore whether money (and white guilt) was truly a reparative act for lasting, liberatory change. (To my knowledge, it was the first time the New York Times Magazine published a photo of an openly Black queer trans person on the cover.)

It was a surreal trip. I was the only person on my plane; They let me ride in first class. In Minneapolis, I had an intense fear of driving (and potentially having to engage with the police) so I took Ubers everywhere, but each time I got into a car, masked up and Purell’d down, I felt myself putting myself (and the driver) at another kind of risk. The hotel I stayed in was empty, with very few employees working. I got my own fresh towels from a closet on my floor. Panic attacks about coronavirus aside, it felt exhilarating to be there. The third police precedent was still smoldering after the initial demonstrations, and the George Floyd Square was in the midst of being erected. I sat in on charged community meetings where people spoke in heated tones about this crack in the status quo, this moment when the entire world seemed to be listening. At that time, it seemed like it go on last forever.

During one interview with an organizer, I asked them to reflect on the question that always comes up in conversations about abolition. What would it mean to change our relationship to the police? Who would “protect” us? As part of their response, they invited me to a freedom ride, a community bike tour of the city. On the appointed day, I showed up at the meeting point and we set off, flanked by dozens of guides in fluorescent vests with speakers, making sure we stayed on track and that no one got left behind.

There were hundreds of Black people, of all ages, including elders and small children in trailers. It was late afternoon, and the angle of the sun to the earth drenched everything in that molten golden hour glimmer. We rode through fragrant trees, alongside marshy bodies of water, alongside railroad tracks, past crowded wine bars. I had no idea the city was so lush.

We sailed past homes that had built mini storefronts, stocked with clothing, toiletries, cleaning supplies and food that anyone could take for free as needed. Full wardrobes of clothing and toys outside, also for free. Signs everywhere mourning Mr. Floyd’s life and declaring that justice would be served. The ride felt like a glimpse of that. There were a few moments the ride got held up, but at the time I was told we were just making sure the group didn’t get too spread out, that no one was lost or left behind. I noticed a few cars pulling up alongside us, but I thought they were curious passerbys. Later, I learned that they contained white men shouting epithets and threatening to disrupt the ride with violence, but in the moment, the bumping music and bodies of the ride guides completely blocked them out. It was idyllic and blissful.

that’s me! in the front

Afterwards, some of us gathered for a potluck in a backyard where most of the food served had been grown nearby. The organizer that invited me to the ride told me that the exercise is a practice in self-policing, in showing people what it feels like to keep each other safe. That they knew they needed many solutions, and this was one of them. (This anecdote didn’t make it into the final story, btw.)

I’m reminded of that ride when I open my phone and see a solidarity march of thousands of people from Algeria, Egypt, Morocco and more heading for Gaza. When I see people dancing during the anti-ICE protests in Los Angeles. Unexpected solidarity from designers delighted to see their work used against the police. Queen Doechii’s acceptance speech at the BET Awards. The way I felt seeing the Madleen streaming through international waters, before they got intercepted. When I see that an upstart mayoral candidate is polling higher than an incumbent candidate in New York. That landlords here now have to cover broker fees. Being at the Liberty game when Coco Gauff got a standing ovation after winning the French Open (and her opponent making fucked up remarks trying to downplay her victory.) That perhaps some of the untenable chaos of this administration and the world, which we have endured for so long, is finally tipping a bit in our favor. And naturally, the stars are supporting this alignment — “either we say everyone is our family, or we are out here alone.” And as the poet Saretta Morgan reminds us in “Feeling Upon Arrival,” “we thought our strength was in numbers, as opposed to geography. distribution of feeling.” (Thank you Jah for sending me that!)

Earlier this week, I was sharing my exuberance over these accumulations with an artist friend over lunch, and then I got embarrassed, like I was somehow erasing the very real horrors of this world by allowing myself a little joy about these collective refusals that are gathering steam. He gently put his hand on mine and reminded me that it is not a political act to live in despair. This is maybe the most hopeful I’ve felt in the last few years.

Onward.

Dear readers! Is anything bringing you hope these days? No victory too small to triumph! Please share in the comments below and keep me from going back into my depression spiral!