2.23 Miles — How J.Cole’s 2014 Forest Hills Drive Helped Me Find Healing

2.23 Miles — How J.Cole’s 2014 Forest Hills Drive Helped Me Find Healing 

So, I’ve never liked running. Ok, I loathe running, but when the call was given to run 2.23 miles for Ahmaud Arbery, my body attached itself to the cause. It was as if every ancestor whose blood cried for justice spoke to my soul. Hundreds of years of running came together in one moment. Running from slave catchers, running from lynch mobs, running from lies and hate and racism.

Running: It’s something built into the souls of Black folks, whether we like it or not. I have never liked it but on that day, it called to me. It just made sense.

2.23 miles

Miles that represented the date of Ahmaud’s death. Running on his birthday seemed like the perfect way to push past my comfort. Only, May 8th came and went and the run never happened. I was still processing so much that I wasn’t ready for it. But as I went to bed that night, one thing was on my mind: I needed to do something. The call that resonated in my soul overwhelmed my emotions and physical needs.

So, morning came and when the beat of my heart felt as loud as the beat of drums in the motherland, I grabbed my stuff and took off on our neighborhood trail, basking in the warmth of the sun and the perfect coolness of 62°.

For me, life needs a soundtrack, and this moment was no different. Without much thought, I put on J.Cole’s 2014 Forest Hills Drive. An album that I regard as one of my favorites of all time, but haven’t listened to in the past two years. I pop in my earbuds, hit play, and attack the trail, but as the first waves of lyrics hit, they wash over me like a tsunami.

“Do you want to be happy? Do you want to be free?”

The tears instantly rise to the surface and try to spill out. I take a deep breath and drop into a stride. The trail leaves my neighborhood and empties into the main street as I simply put right foot in front of left and left foot in front of right.

The album flows from one track to another and each one speaks to me in a way that I could have never imagined. The thought of sacred vs secular enters my mind and I realize that this is what so many theologians talk about: There is no secular in this moment, only sacred, only spiritual. This is God speaking to my soul through Jermaine Cole.

I move past a few songs and flip the order of G.O.M.D. and St Tropez. Deep down I know G.O.M.D. is the perfect song for this stretch of the run and I let the anger out. The anger that has lasted from Trayvon to Ahmaud. The anger of Tamir Rice and Philando Castile. The anger of John Crawford III and Eric Garner.

Interrupting my anger, I feel someone pass me and it’s a Black guy on a bike. He says something to me but my music is too loud, and by the time I focus my ears on his words, all I hear is the word, “brotha”. But that’s enough, because he then puts his fist in the air and his solidarity is all I need for this entire run to be worth it.

Emotions swirl in my chest and the anger becomes pride but then I’m overwhelmed. I feel the tears coming on and I’m prepared to let them flow but the sweat pouring down my face seems to plug my tear ducts. I don’t truly know which liquid is covering my face but it doesn’t matter, in this pause of time and space, I feel every emotion possible. St. Tropez pushes its way into my brain and the lyrics are more than I can take,

“Lord knows I’m torn, so I–I cry. From the corner of my eye, baby. It’s been hard for me to smile. Lately, it’s been hard for me to smile.”

As I look at my progress, I’ve just hit 1.23 miles and I know what has to happen next. I pause, pull out my phone, and navigate to the one place my fingers haven’t been able to take me for the past 72 hours: the video of the shooting.

Just hours before, I had debated watching the video with one of my best friends. I told him I didn’t need to. A few years back, I decided that I no longer needed to watch these lynchings. I didn’t need any more trauma. I didn’t need anymore pictures of these travesties… The images burned into my brain — burned into my soul, each time. He argued that I must watch and watch each one. He argued that hearing and seeing are two different things. And, as it goes with best friends, we disagreed and moved on. But now, in this moment, one mile from completion, there was nothing else I could do.

So, there on the sidewalk, I watched the horror of two white men chasing down, trapping, fighting, shooting and killing an innocent Black man in a modern day lynching. The sickening display of evil forever seared onto my amygdala.

Yet, I push on. I run, because Ahmaud will never run again. As fate would have it, I immediately pass a Karen on the sidewalk — she moves out my way. I wonder if it’s from coronavirus fears or Black man fears, but I see the look in her eyes as she refuses to turn her gaze towards me. I see her body language as she moves as close as she can to the nearest wall. I watch as she clutches the hard surface like it’s a life raft in the middle of the ocean, and I’m sure that the score is Black man fear — 1, coronavirus fear — 0.

I cross the street to make my way back home and an older Black woman waves and smiles as I pass in front of her on the crosswalk. Something about her smile gives me peace in the midst of Karen’s fear. I head back home on the opposite side of the street, passing up Karen from a safe distance this time. I look at her and pity her seconds before God speaks through the voice of Cole and sings,

“Don’t save her, she don’t wanna be saved.”

I chuckle and move on.

As “Hello” comes on, I imagine a different version to the lyrics. A version straight to Ahmaud himself.

“And I thought about you today. And I thought about the things you’ll never say. And I thought about the games you’ll never play.”

I break into a jog until “Apparently” plays and the lyrics hit a little harder than normal

“I keep my head high, I got my wings to carry me, I don’t know freedom, I want my dreams to rescue me, I keep my faith strong, I ask the Lord to follow me, I’ve been unfaithful, I don’t know why you call on me”

I lift my head. I gotta keep my faith strong. I look at my phone and see that I’m approaching the mark. The emotions start to flare once again and as I cross 2.23 miles, I immediately hear,

“No such thing as a life that’s better than yours. No such thing, no such thing” The moment is magical, spiritual, emotional, physical… all at the same time.

If you had talked to me just days before, I would have told you that runs aren’t spiritual, but now they hold a deeper meaning than ever before.

As I approach the final stretch, the outro, “Note to Self”, comes on and it couldn’t be a more perfect conclusion to this experience that is much more than a simple run. It’s healing. It’s a balm on the wound of racism and white supremacy that has torn at my skin for decades. It’s relief, anger, grief, joy, sadness, frustration, and hope, all rolled into one. It’s a reminder that no matter what happens, there is one binding force for all of us in the end.

If we can just keep hold of that, if we can just grasp it — even barely, it can be the spark that keeps the flame going. It can be an ember that fans the flame. It can be the will to keep moving forward, no matter what.

And wherever we go
And whatever we do
And whatever we see
And whoever we be
It don’t matter, it don’t matter
I don’t mind cause you don’t matter
I don’t mind cause I don’t matter
(And don’t shit matter)
You’ll see in the end

I’ve got a feeling that there’s something more
Something that holds us together
Something that holds us together
The strangest feeling but I can’t be sure
Something that’s old as forever
Something that’s old as forever

Love, love, love, love