To celebrate Black History Month we’ve rounded up some of our favorite stories that highlight diverse voices.

Historically, skiing has been a predominantly white sport, which makes it more important than ever to highlight new faces in the industry. Through perseverance and passion, these individuals are breaking barriers on the slopes and helping to foster a more inclusive and welcoming environment within the skiing community.

I met Stan Evans in the winter of 1998 when we were on one of our first feature assignments for a new ski magazine devoted to the wild and aberrant freeskiing movement that was taking off as a ski subculture. This made us misfits by choice, and while I wasn’t aware of any other Black ski photographers, it didn’t occur to me that there was anything historic about our assignment. The following winter, Stan organized and produced the first snowboard magazine story featuring all Black riders, shot by a Black photographer. That this had never been done makes it objectively historic, and it stands as a benchmark of winter sports diversity. At the time, however, very little mainstream attention was paid to the quantum gap jump that Stan had just helped the sport clear.

, a Bend, Ore.–based skier, and filmmaker, decided to throw out the rulebook with “The Blackcountry Journal,” a short film that mixes backcountry freeskiing with his lifelong passion for jazz. Beneath the smooth soundtrack and savory facade is a complex story about race in skiing, although the nuance may take a few views to rise to the surface. Shot in monochrome and structured in three parts, the film abstractly follows Duncan’s story as a black man trying to find his place in the white ski industry.

We sat down with Duncan upon his return from the Banff screening to learn about the making of “The Blackcountry Journal.” Be sure to  when it’s released to the public on Nov. 8.

On a spring morning at Vail, laughter fills the entire dining room of a restaurant lounge as a group of people gather around a stone fireplace. They clap one another on the back, cackling to inside jokes and generally enjoying each other’s company. At first glance, you might think you’ve stumbled into a reunion of some sort.

The truth is, most of us have just met each other this morning, brought together by an organization whose mission is to encourage, teach, and inspire Black, Indigenous, and people of color to participate in mountain sports by creating spaces for enjoying the outdoors. This convivial group is here for a ski day with the Denver-based Ìę(”țČŃ°ä).

An Oral History of the National Brotherhood of Skiers

The nation’s first Black ski group, the Jim Dandy Ski Club (named after an R&B song by LaVern Baker), formed in Detroit in 1958. By the early 1960s, a handful of U.S. cities had similar clubs, like the Snow Rovers in Boston and the Chicago Ski Twisters. In New York, there was the Four Seasons Ski Club, run by an NBC cameraman named Dick Martin, who owned a ski shop in Harlem and often played ski evangelist to his peers, screening films and proclaiming that a skier need not be a “blond-haired, blue-eyed Norse god.” Martin organized weekend ski buses that rolled out of Manhattan at oh-dark-thirty to wend their way north to the mountains of upstate New York. In 1964, a 25-year-old New York University graduate student named Ben Finley climbed on board.

Read the rest here.

Soft Life Ski, has a unique mission built on a combination of unlikely passions: skiing and Afrobeat music. The UK-based group hopes to increase inclusion and diversity in the winter sports space by organizing music-themed trips to ski resorts. “Soft life,” a term for an easygoing and relaxing lifestyle, is the feeling the group hopes to bring to the slopes. In short, SLS is a traveling music and ski festival aiming to introduce the joys of winter to its Black and African audience.

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Though he’s just 24 years old, Kai Lightner has been a kitchen-table name in the rock climbing world for more than a decade. After years of steady performance in the competitive youth circuit, Lightner took the outdoor world by storm in the spring of 2013, when during a four-week period he sent his first four 5.14s—including Southern Smoke (5.14c). He’s been in and out of the headlines ever since, climbing other hard 5.14s, winning a Youth World Lead Championship, and taking multiple golds at both Youth and Open Lead Nationals.

But talent wasn’t the only thing that set Lightner apart: he’s also Black. And as one of the first African American climbers to reach such a high level in the sport, Lightner found himself something of a poster-child for diversity in the climbing world, and the outdoors more generally. Yet while he won comps and acquired sponsors, appeared in Reel Rock segments and major corporate ad slots, Lightner’s experience with the wider climbing community was
 complicated.

In straight terms: “We encountered a lot of bullshit,” Lightner remembers.

Meanwhile, members of the climbing world used him and his accomplishments as evidence that climbing didn’t have a diversity problem—something that does justice to neither the demographic facts nor Lightner’s experiences in the sport. “There were multiple points in my career where I was like, ‘Well, we’ve reached the end of the road,’” he told me in an interview in March 2023, “but then, miraculously, something would come up and it would help me push through. So I find it funny when people use me as an example of diversity in the sport. Because I am not the rule, I am an exception—and I barely got here.”

While in college, Lightner chose to step away from competitive climbing, at least temporarily. “I’ve always wanted to look at how I could impact the community in a more holistic way, but when you’re in the grind training for competitions, you’ve got to have your head down. College gave me the opportunity to lift my head up a little bit, see what I could offer the climbing community.”

Then, in the summer of 2020, while Lightner was still a student at Babson College, George Floyd was murdered. Suddenly Lightner found himself the corporate climbing world’s “go-to person” for anything pertaining to race in the outdoor industry. “There I was behind the scenes,” Lightner remembers, “helping [companies] craft their DEI statements
 and I realized I could be more effective if I organized this work under an organization like .”

We about Lightner when he launched Climbing for Change, a 501c3 nonprofit devoted to expanding diversity across all levels of the climbing community, in late July, 2020. But that was a long time ago. So we thought it was time for a catch up. In our conversation, which has been condensed and edited, Lightner talked about his own experiences with racism in the climbing world, blew apart some common misconceptions about how climbing is accessible for people of color, and, in spite of it all, expressed a real and honest optimism about the future of diversity in the outdoor industry. We also talked about how Climbing for Change has evolved over the last two and half years and—of course—about his current climbing and training goals. (Hint: no comps!)

INTERVIEW

Climbing: Let’s start with your early years: What was it like to be not just a very good rock climber at a very young age, but a very good rock climber in a sport where there really weren’t many other Black athletes?

Lightner: It was difficult in a lot of ways. I did a lot of questioning of my identity. On the one hand I enjoyed this sport so much, but on the other hand, it was a sport that had made itself pretty exclusive to people who looked like me. When I told people that I liked to go rock climbing, people questioned my Blackness, people questioned my sanity, and my family questioned my safety. So it was scary in the beginning. And we encountered a lot of bullshit that made me question whether I belonged. 

One thing that people don’t always appreciate is that, sure, there are plenty of people without jobs or a steady income who make climbing and travel work on a shoestring budget—but doing that requires community, it requires access, it requires knowing people who also do the sport. But if you don’t know anyone, and you don’t know the gear, and you don’t know where to camp, and you have no history of entering communities like this, it’s really difficult to piece things together enough to get started in sports like climbing. 

The only way I made it in the beginning was that people saw my talent as an athlete and helped me along the way. There were multiple points in my career where I was like, “Well, we’ve reached the end of the road. We can’t afford to do more. This is it.” But then miraculously something would come up and it would help me push through. So I find it funny when people use me as an example of diversity in the sport. Because I am not the rule, I am an exception—and I barely got here. So I understand fully why there are not enough people of color in the sport, and that’s why I’m trying to close those gaps and give opportunities to people like me.

That actually reminds me of the book publishing industry in the 1970s, 80s, and 90s: it was wildly undiverse back then (and still has work to do) but people kept saying that this lack of diversity wasn’t a problem because Black writers like Toni Morrison and James Baldwin and Jamaica Kincaid were getting published and winning prizes. Do you feel like that’s something the climbing community has done with you—like: “Of course we’re a diverse sport. We’ve got Kai Lightner”?

I think history repeats itself. And I definitely think that I’ve been used to promote the message that the sport is diversified despite the underlying lack of diversity. As one of the only professional African American climbers, when people are trying to promote that message, my literal image gets used—but it’s just not telling the whole story. 

This is not solely a climbing world problem. People use Barack Obama to say that the country is no longer racist. People use singular examples of Black excellence as examples that the whole system is changing, just because that one person made it through. I mean, we hope that that person opens doors in the future, but these people are the exceptions, not the rule. And the fact that nearly every one of them has a ridiculous story of extreme tenacity shows that the barriers are still hella high. They’re getting attention because they are exceptional, but why are they exceptional? Because they stand alone. We have a lot of work to do to make success like that more consistent.

Have you seen significant DEI change since you started climbing or is the record more mixed? 

I think that there’s been good work done, but I also think that there’s continued work that needs to be done to make it sustainable and fully impactful. We’re seeing more marketing and ad campaigns featuring diversity, but it would be nice to see more people of color in positions of leadership and power where their voices can be a little louder. So there’s work to be done. But the initiative and conversation is there. I mean, ten years ago this wouldn’t even have been a conversation. So there’s been progress in that respect.

What have you identified as some of the biggest barriers that our community faces when trying to make the sport more diverse?

The big ones we’ve tried to hop over at Climbing for Change are cost, access, and stigma. It’s expensive to participate in these sports. And not everyone can visit these areas or feel safe when they do. A lot of the outdoor areas that climbers celebrate have deep histories of racism that have steered people of color away from wanting to recreate there. So I think the work isn’t just to make the sport more accessible but also to make the wider environment more accepting of people who look like us. And that’s a big job. I don’t think in my lifetime I’ll see that fully worked through. But it’s got to be chipped away at somehow. And that’s the job I’m taking on at the moment.

When did you first decide to start Climbing for Change: it was in 2020 right?

All through my career I’ve done grass-roots community work, trying to make outdoor recreation more popular and available to communities of color, but in 2020, when the Black Lives Matter movement was going on and there were all these tensions, I became everyone’s go-to person for PR statements or business advice. Companies were asking me “What have we done wrong” or “What can we do better? How can we help?” and there I was, behind the scenes, consulting with companies, helping them craft their DEI statements or allocate funding. And I realized I could be more effective if I organized this work under an organization like Climbing for Change.

What were the organization’s early days like?

So in July 2020 we got a 501c3 and hit the ground running. We launched a few grant programs and our first physical program, in Atlanta, working with the local government and Stone Summit Climbing gym to create a sustainable access point to climbing for local communities of color. We used city resources to provide free transportation to the gym, and we partnered with Kevin Jorgeson and to build a climbing wall at a recreation center in College Park. We were able to do that within six months of launching. Which was God’s work, trust me. It was a lot of effort. 

How have things gone since then?

Since January 2021, we’ve been able to work with our high profile donors like Clif Bar, Adidas, and Black Diamond to offer 10 different grant programs, each of them targeting different aspects of diversity in climbing. We’ve awarded over $136,00 in grants to 87 different individuals and organizations. And we’ve consulted with countless small businesses in the outdoor industry. We want people of color to look at this space and not just see themselves in the people climbing or skiing or hiking with them; we want them to be greeted at the door by people who look like them, see ad placements featuring people who look like them, and see people at the top making the decisions who look like them. 

What are some of those grants like?

Our mission statement, our goal, is to diversify the outdoors from top to bottom. targets a different part of that mission statement, but I’ll highlight three of them. The first is the , where we aim to encourage BIPOC individuals to become leaders in the outdoor industry. In doing that, we’ve been able to help 31 people get route setter certificiations, single pitch instructor certifications, wilderness first responder certifications, and so on. These certifications help them become leaders and guides who can help others get outside. Through that grant, we’ve also funded some big projects like the Black Out Fest, which is the only festival in the United States that focuses on celebrating Black people in rock climbing, and the FAMU , which is the first outdoor club at a Historically Black College or University. 

We also have our , which helps individuals move from indoor to outdoor climbing—something that I know from experience is a big leap. In that process we were able to fund 14 people to attend the at Ouray earlier this year. And we sponsor groups from places like to do outdoor bouldering trips outside.

The third one I want to highlight is our Project Based Opportunity Grants, sponsored by Adidas, which provide a conduit for corporate organizations to get talent from diverse pools of people. One of the big complaints we heard in 2020 was companies saying that they didn’t know where to find more diverse employees. But if you’re still pulling talent from Primarily White Institutions or spaces that don’t have any history of diversity, you’re not going to have a large pool of people to pull from. You need to be looking at HBCUs, or career fairs in diverse communities, places where intellectuals of color congregate. So with the Project Based Opportunity Grants we’ve tried to help bridge that gap, working  with HBCUs and other diverse organizations to create job opportunities.

You’ve devoted a lot of your life to being a great climber and expanding that sport for other members of your community. How do you pitch climbing to non-climbing communities who might be distrustful of it for those reasons you mentioned above?

Climbing is a lifelong relationship, not just with themselves and the sport but with nature in general. And it teaches so many fundamental lessons. Even as a kid I had to learn important adult lessons through climbing, such as how to transfer your failures into learning experiences, or how to slowly chip away at a goal that is too big to fathom at the moment but will slowly become possible as you improve. 

It also teaches you a lot about community. At every level you’re relying on someone else. When they belay you or spot you, your life is in their hands, and that helps develop a level of trust that can break down certain barriers. When you’re putting your life in someone’s hands, it doesn’t matter what color their skin is or what kind of background they have. Instead you see them for who they are. And I think that’s not something that a lot of other sports give you.

Climbing also gives you a level of physical and mental focus that really helps with self esteem. A lot of the grants we give out with Climbing For Change are to people with PTSD or ADHD, and for some of these people, climbing is the only thing that helps them focus and center themselves in life. Because not only do you need to be physically engaged while climbing, you’re constantly also problem-solving in real time. 

Lastly, I just think that climbing is a super holistic, lifelong, special sport. You know, it’s crazy: I’m not competing anymore, but I feel like my work is just beginning. There are so many genres of the sport. You’re never finished with climbing. And as you get older, you develop newer skills and can lean on different aspects of your physicality and mental game; you become mentally stronger and technically sounder. A lot of the best climbers I have been in the sport for decades and have so much to give to the next generation.

What’s your climbing like these days? Are you training for comps or for outdoor goals?

I’m not currently training for comps. I’m old. [Laughs]. But seriously, if I stepped back into competitions, I’d be one of the oldest in the room. So my calling and focus has been outdoor climbing. I graduated from college in May of last year, and I spent the summer and fall focusing on Climbing for Change. But I’ve been training all through the winter, and now that spring is coming I’m really excited to test myself outside in a way that I haven’t been able to before. Most of my outdoor climbing before now has been in short windows of time, during spring break or fall break, in between school and competitions. But now I have the time, so I’m going to do a trip to Spain, and I’ll do some trips to Colorado to try some multi-pitch climbing. But I also just want to climb outside more often and get used to regularly being in the dirt, because I’m not used to it at all.

Has your training changed with that new focus?

Funnily enough, it’s changed quite a bit. With comps, you’re really training all different types of skill sets. You basically have to walk into a competition with a full toolbox even though you know that you will only need to use two or three items in it. Whereas if you have an outdoor project, you can study that project, train for that project, and come prepared for what you need. That’s a very different mindset for me, but it’s been very fun. Outdoor climbing also puts more emphasis on muscle memory and learned movement rather than walking into a comp over-prepared and super strong and hoping that it works out. It’s a bit more predictable, which I can appreciate.

Anything you want to add?

Climbing for Change also accepts through their links. No donation is too small. One dollar, five dollars, ten dollars. The only way that we can provide the grants that we give is through the money we get through donations. It’s accessible on the website.  

Steven Potter is a digital editor at Climbing. He’s been flailing on rocks since 2004, has successfully injured (and unsuccessfully rehabbed) nearly every one of his fingers, and holds an MFA in creative writing from New York University.

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Let’s be honest: There’s a tried-and-true formula that most ski movies follow. A group of heroes is on an all-too-familiar quest, then cue the slow-mo slashes, steep spines, and stylized shots 
 and repeat until the end. It can all blur into one long segment at times. And that isn’t necessarily a bad thing—we love a shreddy stoke film as much as the next person—but we can all agree that it gets repetitive at times.

, a Bend, Ore.–based skier and filmmaker, decided to throw out the rulebook with The Blackcountry Journal, a short film that mixes backcountry freeskiing with his lifelong passion for jazz. Beneath the smooth soundtrack and savory facade is a complex story about race in skiing, although the nuance may take a few views to rise to the surface. Shot in monochrome and structured in three parts, the film abstractly follows Duncan’s story as black man trying to find his place in the white ski industry.

We sat down with Duncan upon his return from the Banff screening to learn about the making of The Blackcountry Journal. Be sure to when it’s released to the public on Nov. 8.

SKI: Welcome home! How are you?

Mallory Duncan (MD): I’m doin’ alright. Life is chaos right now. I’m juggling a lot, getting ready for the digital launch. I’ve been handling all the post production, from festivals to distribution. It’s been a huge learning experience, but also exhausting. I just got back from screening it at Banff this weekend, along with a bunch of films from CK9 and Level 1, and that contrast certainly made the film stand out.

SKI: What are a few of the recent lessons?

MD: The biggest one is how to say no. I need some time at my house to regroup. I was gone for three weeks and have more travel coming up, so I’m grateful for time at home. It’s all a balance. Also, it feels uncomfortable to promote something this much. That’s not me. I know it’s important for the film’s success and I only get to release my first ski film once, but it feels weird to be posting about it everyday. But, I am proud of what we made and want people to watch it, so I’m just going for it.

Also Read:

SKI: What’s the theme of the film?

MD: I have been processing this a lot so I appreciate you asking. It’s about “artistic” expression. Skiing doesn’t need to be the gnarliest line or raddest thing. It doesn’t need to be big, unattainable tricks. Instead of pushing limits, it’s about expressing myself on a slope. Looking up and seeing art. Developing my own style of skiing. I wanted to make the skiing relatable and focus on the creative aspects of filmmaking. Below that is a story about finding my place in the ski industry as a black man, but I didn’t want the race part to be heavy handed. You’ll either pick it up or you won’t, and either is okay with me.

SKI: The film is based around a couple poems you wrote; what are the most important lines?

MD: The first poem I wrote in late 2020 and it was the catalyst for the film. The second poem, the one that the film ends with, has been more impactful recently. One of my favorites I thought of while skiing Mount Jefferson. “Did you feel the rhythm of the wilderness, while you rested on a rocky shoulder, the beat of rock fall reverberating off the canyon walls.” It was a beautiful moment and it needed to be in the film.

Another is about appreciating the art left on the slope. “When you look back, didn’t you see the piece you played, improvised on the peaks’ paper flanks.” I love the alliteration of it. Making the film based on the poems helped me connect to skiing in a new way. I hope that it inspires others to express themselves too.

SKI: What other films did you use as inspiration?

MD: One in the ski world and one is not. The first is . It’s an experience just watching it. You can feel that energy without any words. I wanted to do that with The Blackcountry Journal. The second is by Topaz Jones. He’s a hip-hop artist and calling it a visual album doesn’t do it justice. It’s powerful because it can be interpreted in so many different ways. It’s a form of black art, by a black filmmaker, about black identity without putting it right in your face. I appreciate the subtly.

SKI: How does race play into your film?

MD: I wanted to show that black people have a place in skiing, not tell people how they do. I like to be about things, not talk about them. I live a black experience, but that doesn’t define me as a skier. While I will never deny my blackness, I don’t have to force it into conversations either. Just by existing in these spaces I am part of the movement for more representation in snow sports. It’s better to show, not tell.

SKI: Is there anything would you have done differently?

MD: There’s a lot of small tweaks and edits that I could obsess over for the rest of time, but generally speaking I’m really stoked on where it landed. Honestly. Sometimes I wish we added some of the bigger lines we skied in Alaska, but our goal was about the expression of the sport, not proving I’m a good skier. The open, mellow glacier skiing is where you really get to improvise and I’m happy we stuck to that.

SKI: Are you inspired to do more filming after this is behind you?

MD: Absolutely. I want to continue telling stories about skiing in a unique way, drawing connections to urban culture, music, and hip hop culture. We’re throwing around a lot of ideas right now and I can’t speak directly to them yet, but as someone who grew up in the city, I see an opportunity to make more ski films relatable to urban folks. I want to talk about skiing in a way that brings more people into the sport.

Watch The Blackcountry Journal on YouTube

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Kriste Peoples told her story to producer Tunvi Kumar for an episode of The Daily Rally podcast. It has been edited for length and clarity.

So around that time, I’m running through the neighborhood, and I have these events on my mind, these murders. I’m running through my wealthy neighborhood, and it occurs to me that I can’t run on the sidewalk, because if I run up on a white woman with the stroller, or carrying a purse, or just walking, then that could seem threatening. Somebody can look out their window and call the police on me. And if I go into the street, then I can’t run near the driver’s side door, lest somebody think I’m trying to break into their car.

It’s not safe to be anywhere in this Black body in America.

I am a trail runner. I am a writer. I am a program director at Women’s Wilderness, which is a nonprofit based in Boulder, Colorado.

When I moved to Boulder, where there are mountains all around, it was a brand new world to me, because I had grown up on the east coast, where we had beaches and flat land. I felt like some of what I was reaching for was kind of hard to find, it was like hunting around in the dark. Being able to demystify the process of getting outdoors and finding people to go with was huge.

Finding running brought me so much relief and release. Simply running. In the backcountry or running trails, sometimes people would say, Black people more often than not, “Aren’t you afraid out there of the wild animals?” And, “Black people don’t do that.”

Then came 2020. There was a mandate called Safer at Home, which said to stay within 10 miles of your home. At the time I was living just beyond 10 miles from the mountains. So that meant rather than going to the trails to run, I was going to be running through my neighborhood, which was wealthy and white. Around this time, we’d experienced the upheaval from the Ahmaud Arbery murder. This was a young Black man who was running in Georgia, and was targeted and gunned down by some people who thought he shouldn’t be there. We’d also had Breonna Taylor’s murder. She was asleep at home in her bed. And the so-called authorities busted in and shot her to death in her sleep.

And I’m running through my neighborhood, and it occurs to me, I can’t run too fast, that might draw suspicion because perhaps someone thinks I’m fleeing the scene. If I run too slow, perhaps they think I’m casing the neighborhood, looking to come back and do some harm or steal or whatever. And so it’s really top of mind for me.

A lot of the benefit that I get from running is clearing my head, helping to make sense of the world around me. So, it was a really challenging time, because it made me feel like, Well, there is no safe place.

Among our trail running group, we were having a Zoom conversation about running, coaching, what’s going on with us. We have somebody talking about nutrition, somebody else talking about gear, and then I say, “You know what? Hey everybody, I gotta say that this is a really hard time for me right now, because this Black man has been murdered. He was in a part of town people didn’t think he should be in.” And I am a Black person running on the streets, even though it’s my neighborhood, and I feel very vulnerable right now.” So, it was really emotional the more that I talked about it. And I said, “It is just very hard right now, and I am needing some support.

Our trail running group shared that they too were upset by it and didn’t know what to do. And so being able to have those kinds of conversations was huge, because how often are we really talking to each other about issues that make us feel very uncomfortable? Talking about issues that don’t have easy solutions, and realizing that we don’t know what to do, but being able to even say, “We don’t know what to do and we are upset.” Being able to say that and hear each other is actually a way to bond, and to at least become more aware of what’s at stake and how we might try to take care of each other even if we can’t solve the bigger issue.

As we talked, people started offering to run in solidarity and to share about it. And they came forward and supported me by doing some honorary runs to really commemorate the life of Ahmaud Arbery.

What helped me get through that was reaching out to my communities and letting people know if I’m struggling or if I need support. Another big part of this is, I can ask for that support, but I also need to let myself receive it. And receive it in whatever form people are able to give, because we don’t always know how to handle each others’ pain and confusion.

Running together will not cure racism, and will not keep people from thinking that I do or don’t belong in certain places. But being able to share with people means that I don’t have to hold the pain alone. That empowers me. That fuels me, because I know I’m not just one lonely powerless person out here just trying to live a life with some modicum of happiness.

A lot of people do have the experience of feeling like they’re not qualified to be outside, or that they don’t belong outside, or that there’s no room for them, or they don’t see themselves represented outside. And up until very recently, the media wasn’t showing people of color in the outdoors. So, I’m still very much running a lot, and I’m out in nature a lot, and I’m still taking people out, and I’m talking about it. I’m very much engaged, and so wherever I go, I go with the understanding that I belong, that I have a right to show up, that I have a right to my dignity. And I also go with the understanding that it might make people very uncomfortable that I show up, but I can’t live my life in response to the potential that someone’s not going to like me showing up in a particular place.

I know that generations of people before me have fought and died for my right to show up in these places. That empowers me. I know that I am somebody’s dream, I am a great many peoples’ dream, and it’s important to remember that, and to lean into that whenever I’m feeling a bit tentative. If I’m going, I need to go with pride, because I don’t come from nothing. I come from strength.

Kriste Peoples is an outdoor enthusiast, guide, runner, writer, and mindfulness meditation teacher. She serves on the board of the and . When she’s not adventuring in Colorado’s Front Range, Kriste is likely recovering with carbs in a local eatery. You can find her at her website and on Instagram .

You can follow The Daily RallyÌęŽÇČÔÌę,Ìę,Ìę, or wherever you like to listen. and to be featured on the show.

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Anyone who has regularly consumed running media over the last couple of years is undoubtedly familiar with the work of activist, advocate, and self-avowed “disruptor” . In addition to founding New York City club and the movement supporting women’s reproductive rights, and serving as co-chair of the , DĂ©sir has published her highly anticipated memoir, , which will be released Oct. 18. DĂ©sir sat down with Women’s Running to discuss the inspiration behind the book, how her personal running story is intertwined in it, and her hopes for the future of the sport with regard to inclusivity among people of all marginalized groups and genders.

Women’s Running: Congratulations on the release of Running While Black. I feel like I’ve known you and followed your story for such a long time, yet still learned so much about you as I read through it. Can you share how the book came to be? 

Alison Mariella DĂ©sir: I’ve always wanted to write a book and had made many previous attempts at writing manuscripts over the years. Many of them are very difficult for me to even look at now because they were focused on mental health and the period of depression I experienced, which I also discuss in this book. I was attempting to write all those manuscripts while I thought I was better, but I still was very much in a dark place. Once you start feeling better and start taking care of yourself, you can’t even believe that that was once who you were. 

This particular book came about in 2020, after I had an op-ed published by șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű titled “Ahmaud Arbery and Whiteness in the Running World.” What was really unique and what made this book so important to me was having a Black son (Kouri, who was nearly 10 months old when I learned about Arbery’s murder) and then living through the COVID-19 pandemic. It wasn’t that police murders of Black men had necessarily increased, but we were in this moment where there was a lot less chatter happening and these murders and vigilante killings were more visible. Thinking about that and thinking about how my son will one day be a Black man compelled me to write this. I had to share that moving through space as a Black body is different from moving through space as a white body and that historically and presently, we have never had access to freedom of movement. I just had to tell that story because it also creates a possibility for change and a new world where my son could be free to run, and free to show up as his full self.

You share so much of your personal story in this book, which resonated with me as a peer to you both in age and as a fellow runner and a woman of color working in this industry. But obviously, this book isn’t just important for people like you and me to consume. Who would you say this book is for, and who do you hope to see choosing to read it?

There are two audiences for this book and they’re both big. I, for sure, hope that Black people and other people of color read this and say, “Finally, my experience is represented in a book.” The complete experience is the joy, but also the pain, the fear, and the “otherness.” 

But then what’s also important is white folks reading this book and recognizing that a world exists beyond their own, which is difficult in a world that’s rooted in white supremacy and that intentionally centers white people in every situation. It is by design that white people are unaware that Black people and people of color move through the world differently, despite the fact that it has been white people and white supremacy who created the laws and environment and maintained that. So I hope that for white people, it humanizes our experiences without shaming them, and while still offering them ways to take action to do better.

When you first announced that you were writing this book, it had the working title The Unbearable Whiteness of Running. I never thought about it until I took note of the change, but to me, Running While Black is 100% the perfect name for this book because it immediately speaks to and centers your experience, which is one that will resonate with a lot of runners from marginalized groups. How did you settle on the final title? 

With the original title, the book was more sort of a manifesto and in the category of anti-racist books, which are more instructional and intended solely for a white audience. It was my editor, who is a white woman, who said “What’s missing here is you.” That made me realize that what’s always been powerful for me in books is when you can go on a journey with the author when you can understand their worldview and what made them who they are, and then you get on board with their struggles and their way of seeing the world. However, that required me to be a lot more vulnerable than I had ever intended to be, and that’s where you get these stories from my childhood that build an understanding of who I am.

It almost feels like an honor to be able to have the title Running While Black because that is an experience that Black people and people of color (and white people, too) understand in some way. The name is provocative, and so it’ll get people interested in the book. The harder part was actually coming up with the subtitle, “Finding Freedom in a Sport That Wasn’t Built For Us,” because we wanted to make it clear and make sure that people understand using the word “us” also lets you know that this is Black-centered, that the “us” is me and my people. The whole title allowed me to reconcile the fact that running has brought me so much freedom and joy, but it was never intended with somebody like me in mind. 

I’ve heard you comment about how one of the biggest challenges you expect in getting white people to read this book or even having these conversations in general, will be getting them to see that this isn’t about hating white people; it’s about hating white supremacy. Were you worried the original title might immediately make people defensive and opt not to pick up and read the book?

I think that because white people don’t learn this concept of white supremacy or whiteness, they’re not forced to think critically about their identity because they’re seen as a default. Therefore, something like that simple title is seen as an attack. While I wanted my title to be provocative and confrontational, I didn’t want people to bristle so much and feel so hateful for the title alone without getting into the meat of what I’m actually talking about. What I hope I do well through the book is take people on that journey of me asking the questions, “Do I hate white people? Or do I hate white supremacy? What does that mean, and what are the ways white supremacy and this concept of whiteness actually harm white people too?” I hope this will be a lightbulb moment for folks recognizing that we are all harmed in this system, obviously to different degrees, but it is in our own best interest for all of us to want to rethink how this society, and then on a more narrow level, how our running industry and community function.

I loved reading about how you started Harlem Run. You talked about how in the beginning, you stood alone on a New York City street corner for weeks before people finally started showing up. Most people would easily give up too soon because they would feel like their big idea was a failure. It’s easy to picture you as the resilient Alison I know now and assume that you were just that determined to make it happen. But I did read the book and I also know that you’re human and that did leave you feeling somewhat defeated. So what was it that motivated you to keep showing up?

I think it was just that finding long-distance running had been such a pivotal piece of my life. As you said, I think people see me now and it’s consistent with my life that I am bold and disruptive. But I was also coming from a place where I would stay in my house for weeks, with no reason to even leave the couch. Yes, I had just run this marathon and started to feel good about myself and had gone to counseling, but I was not this person who was taking all of these risks and feeling like certainly it’ll happen. But the fact that running had done so much for me, I just felt like it was my calling. I’m not a religious person, but perhaps someone who is would say that it was fate or some kind of divine message and I really just felt like I had to do this. 

A part of my own mental health was also hinging on building this community because I had loved the running experience, but I hadn’t seen a lot of people like me. So I thought, if only I can create this space, then I can have the best of both worlds. I can have the thing that is keeping me alive, happy, and functional with people who look like me. So there was a lot at stake. 

Seeing how Harlem Run started from you just wanting people like you to run with, to showing Black people the physical and emotional benefits of running, and eventually, being centered as a vehicle for inclusion and social change, how does it feel to see how much it’s grown and how much of an impact it’s had on the running community, now on a national level, over the years?

Yeah, talk about the unexpected, right? Harlem Run has very much followed my own personal growth in terms of recognizing, “Okay, first, I want to do this to bring other people into the sport like me.” Then recognizing, “Oh, the impact of seeing Black people running through a neighborhood of mostly Black people and how our community was not just our run community of people who show up, our community was this larger community of Harlem.” And then recognizing that the media were interested in this story because I am a Black woman leading this group that centers Black and Brown people, recognizing, “Oh, we are actually tapping into this narrative of who moves and who leads movements.” 

As my own development happened, Harlem Run sort of came with me. I think another critical piece of this is recognizing that there was this industry and that these messages weren’t just falling from the sky; that there is an industry that perpetuates and fuels these messages, whether it’s magazines, podcasts, retailers or brands saying, “Oh, there are people who are creating this, and sometimes we fit into the narrative that they want and sometimes we don’t.” But what if we were able to actually take control and be part of creating a new narrative? There’s so much I didn’t know was possible and I’m really proud of it. I love seeing the ways that other groups borrow from what we’re doing and find us to be an inspiration or a source of hope for their own communities.

In the book, you also talk about some of the challenges you faced in the beginning of getting Harlem Run off the ground, such as when male leaders and other run groups expected you to run your event plans by them before finalizing anything and making any decisions. Would you say experiences like that prepared you for some of the challenges you’ve faced as a woman of color leading the charge on inclusivity in the running industry?

Absolutely. I wish I could say that a lot has changed, but the New York City running community remains a very male-dominated space. You’d like to think that other Black and Brown men will be in support of Black women, but we know that patriarchy is also a strong force. That’s why in this book, I try to be sure that I’m talking through an intersectional lens. What I found was that, as a Black woman, I was coming up against patriarchy and these men were looking out for each other and their own interests, and they were fine having a Black woman or another woman of color being second in command, or the one who’s doing the logistical support. And this idea of the frontrunner, the front-show person being a Black or Brown man was really hard for me.

So that’s what I just started focusing on, on creating my own space. I realized collaboration is what I would’ve loved and I would’ve loved the support of these folks, but I’m just going to build something that authentically feels good to me. But this is, once again, where everything about our existence is political. The running community, of course, has the influence of white supremacy, of patriarchy. I was coming up against those same issues that I would when I go into rooms, and I’m also one of the only Black people and the only Black woman in a room in this male-dominated space, recognizing that I’ve been here before. This has always been my existence; it’s just a matter of context.

As someone who spent more than a decade working to qualify for Boston and who has actually never experienced the event in person, much of the chapter about your experience running the 2017 race was eye-opening and admittedly a little hard for me to read.

But at the same time, even before reading your book, I grappled with similar feelings when I was struggling with , and had moments when I had to ask myself “Why exactly is this goal so important to me?” I’ve realized in recent years that a lot of it did come from being a minority in these spaces and how the majority of runners who pursue a Boston qualifier and eventually make it to Boston don’t look like me. 

Having people express overt skepticism when I’d share this goal fed into all kinds of feelings of imposter syndrome as I pursued it, which is what motivated me to share my training and goal – I don’t want to just send the message that we as runners of color deserve to be here on the starting line. I wanted to show everyone, white people and BIPOC runners alike, that we’re capable and deserving of pursuing and achieving these lofty goals, too. How have your feelings and relationship with events like the Boston Marathon shifted over the years?

I appreciate you sharing that. Whether it’s the Boston Marathon or the Abbott World Majors, I’m always sitting here just thinking critically, “Well, what is this goal about and what is the reason you’re pursuing it? What does this actually mean to you?” I’ve run some of them myself, and, yes, they’re amazing marathons. But the Abbott World Marathon Majors challenge was created, at least from my understanding, in order to create incentives around bringing people to these races and creating this hype, that completing the six of them was this monumental achievement.

Now, in my opinion, there are so many amazing races and marathons across the country that you could complete six of them and also feel that sense of accomplishment, right? So what is it about the World Marathon Majors? What is it about the Boston Marathon that you’re actually invested in and excited about? And when you start to think about that, if it’s just this idea that those particular six events mean something more than any other events, well, why? What is it that you’re chasing? And if the pinnacle of this sport that’s supposed to be for all people, is to get into this race that is extremely exclusive, whether you qualify or whether you fundraise sometimes $10,000, then there’s a real mismatch here in terms of what we’re saying running is about and what the pinnacle running experience is supposed to be or mean. And as you shared, there are obviously important reasons why people would see Boston or the Majors as meaningful for them. But I hope through what I say here in the book, whether you agree with me or not, you start to question why something is of value to you. And if the value comes from other people just saying, “Hey, this is valuable,” then maybe you should rethink it.

After that first, not-great experience running Boston, you returned last spring for the 2022 race, this time collaborating with , which is known to be Boston’s first Black- and Brown-led running club, in holding pre-race events and spectating the race. What was the experience this year like in comparison? Was it somewhat of a full-circle moment to be there in such a different capacity?

Yes; I think what I was able to experience this year was what the Boston Marathon could be like, if Black and Brown people were centered and given space to be ourselves. So I credit that to PIONEERS Run Crew and the , who have really taken back this idea that Boston is only for a certain type of people and brought in just joy and our culture and our spirit. Part of that is , which is an unsanctioned marathon that takes place the day before the Boston Marathon and takes you through towns in Boston, such as Jamaica Plain and Roxbury, that are mostly Black, mostly immigrant communities. This challenges the idea that the Boston Marathon is actually a Boston Marathon, since it starts in the small town of Hopkinton and goes through mostly white suburbs before finishing in Boston itself. And believe it or not, I later found out that the police were called because our cheer station at 26.True was too loud and disruptive. Isn’t it literally the point of a cheer station to be loud and disruptive? But this man in this small, white town felt the need to protect his “space.” This just emphasized the juxtaposition of the 26.True, like, “OK, that’s your version of the Boston Marathon. Well, we will show you the real Boston Marathon the day before.” This isn’t just something that is happening in Boston; it’s happening all over the country. My message in that really, is it’s important and we, as Black people, are creating our own stuff. And we will continue to do that whether you get on board or not.

Will you be back in Boston for part of your book tour this spring?

It’s not on the schedule right now; I have not been invited in any particular way. I would love to be there because Kara Goucher, Des Linden, and Lauren Fleshman also have books coming out before the race, and I think this is the most books being published by women in running ever. So, if I could put that into the universe, I would love to see all of us on a panel together, talking about our books, all of which are critical of the industry.

You recently about meeting a woman during one of your book tour stops who shared that she never knew our national parks were once segregated. Did you expect to hear comments like that and was that why you chose to include the timeline of key moments in both American Black history and running history even though this book is largely a memoir of your own experiences?

Yes, absolutely. This woman also had no knowledge that there was a point where Black people could not go to public pools, that they shut down rather than let Black people swim there. That wasn’t her history; that was her upbringing and her experience. But these were contemporary laws, and for many white folks, it is that intentional erasure and miseducation that leads people to just live in isolation of anybody else’s experience.

The people in power are the ones who create the narrative, the histories and the stories that we learn and it’s by design that white people don’t know their own history. Slavery is as much, if not more white history than it is Black history because white people designed and perpetuated the system. So contextualizing what this world actually looked like during this period of running and what our experience as Black people was, was essential to help white people and all people really understand. I’m not just saying I felt this way; I’m actually showing the conditions that create the environment such that I would feel a lack of belonging, when that’s not what I want to feel. This is the society and industry and community that I inherited.

And in the book you also talk about the initial meetings with the Running Industry Diversity Coalition, before it was officially launched with you as co-chair, and how those meetings were particularly tense, to put it mildly. But you’ve also talked about how you do your best to avoid goading white people into guilt and shame when it comes to carrying out RIDC’s mission, while also emphasizing that it’s important for white people to acknowledge the role they’ve played in marginalizing minority groups. What would you say are some other key components in keeping these conversations going and getting brands and industry leaders to take real action toward inclusivity and racial justice?

Something that I’ve become accustomed to doing is to show how I, as a Black woman, also have privilege, and that this is not something that is exclusive to white people. Often what happens when you talk to white people is that they say, “But I grew up in poverty,” or “I’m an immigrant,” Or “I’m a first-generation American and I’ve struggled, too.” But being white has never been a point of struggle for them. 

I say this because I think it’s important to mirror and be instructional. And I say, “I’m a Black woman who is able-bodied. I’m a Black woman who is cisgender. I’m a Black woman who isn’t neurodivergent.” All of those things gave me privilege to be able to write this book, to be able to show up in spaces and move my body. And so I also have to be a disability activist, I have to be championing trans and non-binary folks. It’s not just white people; each of us has our role. I hope that helps people see “Oh, she doesn’t hate me. She’s talking about these systems that are set up to prioritize certain people and even she exists within it.” It’s really a call to action to get on board like, “Oh, you have only had this blissful experience while running. Guess what? I want that, too. Let’s work together.”

You’ve shared that you expect to get “hate mail” about some of the book’s chapters, but say that’s a good thing because it means people are talking. But do you typically engage with those people? How do you navigate figuring out where it can actually be productive, especially when you hear the same tired comments like, “Stick to running” and “keep politics out of running?”

Honestly, it depends on where I’m at and how I’m feeling. Sometimes a comment lands for me in a way that I feel like I’m in the right frame of mind where I can answer it and don’t feel personally attacked. Other times, it is exhausting and I will not engage. But people who have genuine questions like, “I’ve never seen the world that way. I can’t even understand. Can you explain it further?” Folks who come from a place of curiosity, I am interested in engaging with because we have to remain curious. That’s really the only way that we build empathy and then we can make change. I think I have a good feeling at this point in my life to see when there’s a genuine conversation, and when somebody just wants to incite a feeling or troll me, and that will be my guide.

You’ve also shouted out athletes like Alysia Montaño and Mirna Valerio for being unapologetically themselves in sharing their experiences and navigating the running world as Black athletes and how that has helped to validate your own experiences. Who are some other women in the running scene who you think are changing the game or have had a significant impact on your running journey?

, co-founder of (CSRD). The more I get to know her, the more I’m blown away by how honest, intentional and just brave she is. Also, , who is not somebody whose role is to talk about anti-racism. There should not be the expectation that every Black and Brown person is talking about racial equity. Does every Black and Brown person want equity? Of course. But our sole role on this Earth is not to talk about and try to deconstruct systems. For me, this is my passion and racial justice and equity is actually the work that I do. But India is a Black woman, this work isn’t what lights her up. She’s a coach who is the voice of a lot of races and does a lot of content focused on getting beginners into running, which is a beautiful thing. She is taking up space and showing her joyful, lived experience. Another one is , who served as one of the original leadership partners of RIDC and who I’ve heard say, “I’m not a runner-runner.” But she runs, she moves, and she is also somebody who’s always speaking unapologetically and has just done an incredible amount of good in the running industry.

You’ve talked openly about how, as a Black woman, you’ve always needed to be cognizant of your personal safety and just watch your back when you’re out for a run. The recent tragic murder of Eliza Fletcher re-bubbled up some of this discussion about how these cases usually don’t get as much attention when they involve women of color. You’ve been asked before if women’s safety concerns affect you differently as a Black person, which has made you see how even womanhood is typically reserved for white people. How would you like to see the running industry improve when it comes to prioritizing and centering our safety and truly making this sport open to all?

Damn, good question. I mean, the murder of Eliza Fletcher absolutely was tragic and traumatic, but what it also showed me is that representation does in fact matter. Because when it’s a white woman who’s murdered, other white women and other white people feel like that could be them, so it matters to them. But when it’s a Black person, when it’s a Black woman or Black man, the response is not the same because they don’t relate to that story. And that’s where the problem is, that there is a sense of humanity and a sense of womanness or a sense of being centered, that is coupled with whiteness. Obviously, I don’t want anyone to be murdered while doing anything. But I want the same outrage, I want the same outpouring of support and demand for resources to come when our lives are taken. It’s even been reported that several months earlier, reporting that she had been attacked by Fletcher’s killer, but her account was not taken seriously. The way our lives are valued is not the same, which is why we say “Black Lives Matter.”

You’re juggling so much now between writing and now promoting this book and everything else you’ve got going on in your career. The first thing you have listed in bios such as your LinkedIn headline is “disruptor,” which I think is awesome. Is that how you want to be known and remembered?

Yes, absolutely. I do a lot of things and that’s also just who I am. My nickname that my father gave me from a very young age, “Powdered Feet,” speaks to that. I think that it’s really led by my curiosity of saying, “Are we doing this just because things have always been done this way? Is there a better way of doing this? Are we doing this and leaving people out?” That doesn’t mean that I always have the answers or even the resources to address the system or the story or the place that I’ve disrupted. It is powerful when somebody says something that causes you to pause and rethink the way you do something, rethink why you do the thing that you do. That’s what I hope my legacy is.

You recently held your first for women of color in the running industry. What was your vision for the event? Do you plan to make it an annual tradition?

Yes; we will absolutely be doing it next year. We say this is for women, femme and non-binary folks of color, and we had all of those people attend. But there were probably over 65 women of color who were there. And I was just looking around, “I know there are more women of color in this industry, why aren’t they here?” The goal for the retreat was, on one hand, simply just to provide a space where these folks could feel seen. We wanted to affirm, “You are not the only. Look at how many of us there are.” We wanted to create networking opportunities, so that somebody who maybe is junior level could find mentorship and support that they may not have internally. Our goal for Year 2 is to be even more intentional with creating tracks for people who are entrepreneurs, as well as for people working for brands, retailers, and events. Our goal is to really shift the industry and ensure that more women, femme, and non-binary folks are in it and can see what it means to have a career in the industry.

How has your trajectory in your running journey and doing so much work in the industry impacted your identity as a runner? What have you learned about yourself both as a woman and as a runner?

As a runner, I’ve learned that I really don’t care about accolades. Medals don’t matter to me. Particular races don’t matter to me. And maybe that’s because I’ve been there, done that. That doesn’t mean that I won’t ever get excited about or train for a race. But running is just something that’s an important practice in my life and an important teacher in my life. And then as a human being, it’s taught me that you can really love something and also want to change it. Something can be transformational for you and still not be accessible for other people, and you can and should pursue that. 

What other projects do you have going on in the coming months?

I have a PBS show that’s coming out in December that is very much about Black, Indigenous and People of Color who are reclaiming their space in the outdoors. Through that, I’ve been able to kayak, fly fish, hike and more. So when I think about running or movement, I think about it in terms of the places that I want to see and the communities that I want to connect with.

I’m also planning a retreat for BIPOC of all genders in Alaska next summer, which I am super excited about. I was presented with the opportunity to create this retreat with , where they handle all the logistics, and I provide the experience of going to places that probably were not on our radar, and also have conversations about belonging, safety, and joy while running incredible trails and learning about the Indigenous land that we’re running on. I’m really grateful that I can curate these types of trips that typically don’t have somebody like me leading them and I invite everyone to check it out.

Even though it’s still being fleshed out, you already have quite the book tour planned out going into 2023. What are you most looking forward to about it?

I am excited to be disruptive in new places, to say things that make people really grapple with and rethink what they thought they’ve known, whether about running or about history. I’ll be in communities where I won’t know most of the people who show up, which will be new for me. Some of these are spaces where I don’t imagine that conversations around racial equity are happening a lot. I’ll feel safe, since I’ll be with folks who I love, including Chris Lampen-Crowell and John Benedict, who are with RIDC and who have gone through some difficult conversations with me. Many of the stops will include a 5K run and a conversation, and people are welcome to join for either or both.

What do you hope readers, both white runners and runners of color, ultimately take away from this book when they finish reading it?

I hope they leave feeling empowered to run, take action, question their beliefs, and learn true stories, not just what is taught in history. 

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity. 

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