Privilege in Stride
By Andrew Dendy
I’m flustered. From a day of working in the comfort of my own home. A salaried, steady job in a field that is not going away.
My brain is seething, though. I need to meditate.
My normal run route takes me from my apartment, out onto a windy North Carolinian County road. I cut through the parking lot of a popular tire shop and a gyro stand whose cracked pavement invites post-private-school carpool posses in for afterschool snacks.
I end up in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Asheville, which lies in the most expensive county in North Carolina.
All the while, residents smile and wave as I run by. Even if I flash a tattoo or three, they still see me as one of the neighbors. I look like them, it’s normal. They probably think I live in one of the craftsman homes with an electric SUV in the driveway.
Coasting my way towards the small university in town, I indulge in its quiet, creekside greenway. Faculty and their families meet me with similar reactions as recent passerbys. I am a student to them, another young professor, I belong even though i live 5 miles away.
I envision the students forming their opinions of the world, as I did not too long ago, in the residences sitting atop Asheville’s notorious hills. I wonder how many see what I see, think what I think.
Campus is traversed by a frequently used, 4-lane road which is the gateway from suburbia to downtown. Pedestrian friendly with well established sidewalks, I pass young and old, homeowners and homeless—the melting pot of this mountain town.
I’m reminded of the discourse I see scattered across the Twitter pages for local news sources. Calls to action, and little action taken.
I think the minor league baseball stadium got approved for a four-million-dollar renovation this week.
But onward, over the hill, and downtown emerges. My scenery changes to expensive apartments and craft cocktail bars in renovated, rustic buildings.
There’s still hope here—the town keeps its archaic cloak even as it collects more means for commerce. The parked cars sport bumper stickers inspiring change, acceptance, love.
Passing the same two homeless men I see in a crowded gas station storefront every time I run this way, they shout remarks about how much leg I’m showing. We laugh together, I think.
My quads burn as I climb and descend through the hills of downtown. Artisans’ and vendors’ merchandise teem out of their doors and into the sidewalk, forcing my focus to dodging a wind chime for sale. Am I allowed to be doing this here?
A group of people come into vision, led by a sash-bearing woman. She seems to be glowing, possibly wearing a tiara. Bachelor and bachelorette parties alike plague our streets.
I get closer and judge their expensive bags, distressed sneakers—just for a split second. I’m quick to realize I’m not so different than them, in my nylon-plated shoes and 2-in-1 shorts. I am allowed to be doing this here.
My run is a luxury, and it is a luxury to live where I do. Folks from up and down the Eastern Seaboard flock here to retire and increase the real estate value, building a utopia.
I am still a stranger to this town, less than a year I’ve been here. A fit, seemingly liberal and artsy community has made it easy for me to fit the bill. I look like I belong, and I guess that has a lot to do with my choice to be here.
I move from bubble to bubble, across state lines living my fortunate life. My recognition of it is sobering, even saddening. Grappling with gratitude and guilt.
I have never had to run out of necessity.
I have never had to run to school, run to the store, run for my life.
Andrew Dendy is a young professional balancing an active lifestyle with his work-from-home career. He enjoys running, weight training, playing the drums, the outdoors, and the company of friends.
