I have struggled these past few days to figure out what my response to the current shitshow should be, both in terms of the horrific murder of George Floyd and the resulting protests sweeping the nation. What do I have to constructively offer the broader conversation? What can I say that others haven’t already said, and better, and more appropriately than I have the ability to.
I want to be a participant in the solution, but I know my limitations. I’m not an expert on race relations. I can speak neither authoritatively nor conscientiously on the historical or modern plight of people of color in this country. I am the beneficiary of a system that advantages me at the expense of others, so what am I morally qualified to say on this matter?
I can’t talk about what it means to be black. I can’t even talk about what it means to be mistreated or oppressed. Not really, not in any way comparable to the suffering of the millions of lives lost to cause of white supremacy.
I’ve struggled with this, because I so desperately want to contribute to the solution in what ways I can. And while I can’t talk about what it means to be oppressed in America, I can sure as hell talk about what it means to be privileged. So here we go…
***
I am white. I am cisgender. I am heterosexual. I am male. Through no act of will or agency on my part, I am the beneficiary of a societal system that disproportionately advantages me and disadvantages others. I did not—indeed, I could not—have chosen to be straight, white, or male, but here I am.
I grew up in white, rural America. I grew up a religious conservative. I grew up in an insular echo chamber, where all my primary social circles were comprised of folks in the same demographic as that to which I belonged.
My family adopted my little sister from China when I was thirteen, and she was the first person of color to become a part of my daily life. I didn’t have any people of color as friends or acquaintances until my early twenties. And this was not the result of a conscious decision on my part, but rather the consequence of growing up and living in places that were almost exclusively white.
This lack of exposure inevitably informed my early existence. I earnestly and naively believed that racism ended in the civil rights era. I genuinely thought it was a thing of the past. Once I learned about Martin Luther King Jr., there wasn’t further education on race in any of the curricula I encountered growing up.
So until police shootings and brutality against people of color started making the all-too-frequent rounds on social media, I was entirely clueless and blind to just how deeply America’s original sin permeates the very fabric of our modern lives.
That blindness was not my fault, but it’s also the first perfect demonstration of my privilege. I didn’t know about the plight facing people of color across the nation because it didn’t touch me personally in my every day life. I didn’t know how dangerous contact with the police could be for a black man because I was never at risk of such lethal encounters that routinely happen for people of color from sea to bloodstained sea.
That’s privilege.
***
When I moved to larger cities, I was exposed to broader diversity. I met folks of different backgrounds, skin pigmentation, and sexual preferences and identities. I started hearing stories that diverged greatly from mine. As I took those stories in, I gradually began to understand how very different my experience was when compared to any marginalized demographic.
Growing up, my problems were always relatively high on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. I never feared for my life, for my sustenance, for my shelter, and the like. Because my problems have so often been what are derisively referred to as “first world problems,” and because I didn’t personally know people who were openly struggling with problems of a more fundamental nature, I thought I had it rough.
I grew up religious. I prayed more frequently than most. I was fervent in my prayerful repetition, interceding with the faith of a man who believes God is on his side. More often than not, my prayers were answered. At the time, I thought this was the Spirit of God moving and granting my petitions and supplications.
I now realize it wasn’t any god; privilege answered my prayers.
***
And here’s where so many folks like me—and by that, I mean, white folks—get tripped up. We hear about our privilege, and yet our lives still feel hard, so it sounds to our underexposed ears like the world is telling us, “Your problems are fake and don’t matter. You don’t matter.”
And basic human evolution drives us to reject that messaging. If you go to a predominantly white town in poor, rural America and proceed to talk about their white privilege, they’ll look around at the ramshackle houses and buildings, the decrepit and crumbling infrastructure, the casualties of the opioid crisis, and they’ll look back to you and ask, “What privilege?”
And it’s this disconnect that we white folks seem to struggle with the most. Just because I’m privileged in one area, doesn’t mean my life is easy. All it means is my skin color is not one of those things holding me back in addition to any other struggles I may face. I’ve wrestled with mental health and depression for the better part of the past decade. I’ve dealt with suicidal ideation more often than I sometimes let on.
To say my life has been easy would be untrue. And yet, I know for an absolute fact that if everything about my life were the same, but my skin tone were several shades darker, I would retain all my existing problems and add an even more fundamental and dangerous stressor on top of everything else.
White privilege doesn’t mean your life was easy or that everything was handed to you, it means you, like me, are the beneficiary of a system that is generally on your side, or at the very least, not explicitly organized to harass you at every turn.
***
Here’s another example of my privilege.
At one of my first jobs, I had more female coworkers than male coworkers. Prior to this, my social circles had been predominantly male. But as I spent more and more time around my female peers, I would hear stories of the various and sundry harassment they have endured regularly on account of their gender. These stories were not uncommon for them. I have never been harassed in my life.
That is privilege.
I don’t need to think about what I’m wearing, or how assertive I should be, or whether my verbiage or tone might give someone the wrong idea, or if by speaking up about my mistreatment I might put myself at greater risk of worse mistreatment or retaliation.
Again, this doesn’t mean my life is easy or that my mental health struggles are invalid. All it means is I don’t have external compounding factors adding to my internal issues. Nobody mistreats me, not in meaningful ways. And this is because I’m a white dude.
***
A few years ago, I was up late and I wasn’t tired so I decided to take a walk. It was well past midnight and it was rather cold. I threw on a hoodie and left my apartment to walk around the neighborhood. As I wandered around the area, taking in the crisp night air and clear sky and the serenity of a city asleep, I was struck with a sudden and profound realization.
“I am completely unafraid right now,” I thought. And I stopped for a moment to really let that sink in. I was alone, in a random neighborhood, in the middle of the night, wearing a hoodie, and I was entirely confident that no harm would come to me. And in that moment, the gravity of my privilege really set in.
If I belonged to literally any other demographic, I would have thought twice about taking this walk. And even if I opted to go out, I would have been nervous and more acutely aware of my surroundings.
If I were black, I’d be afraid of getting stopped by the cops or some racist vigilante looking for a fight. If I were a woman, I’d be afraid of lurking men hiding in shadowy alleyways just out of reach of the streetlamps. If I were trans or gay, I’d be afraid of stumbling across bigots who might be emboldened by the cover of darkness. If I were Muslim, I’d be afraid some xenophobic patriot would try to be a hero.
But because I was white, I got to walk around without looking over my shoulder. If I passed anyone, I could confidently ignore them, resting assured in quiet confidence that they wouldn’t mess with me. I had no reason to fear for my life or wellbeing on this walk. And when I understood that, I simultaneously realized how that was completely not the case for so many people.
***
I have been pulled over on more than one occasion. Never in my life have I been afraid for my life in such situations. A few times, I fully deserved and expected a ticket. On one such occasion, I was so clearly in the wrong that I didn’t even try to offer an excuse or explain myself. I accepted my fate, and fully anticipated a speeding fine. I got off with a warning.
My life may be hard. I may struggle with depression on a daily basis. There may have been times in my past when death seemed preferable to my miserable existence. And I’m not making light of any of that when I say this: In spite of every hardship I’ve ever encountered, I am still the beneficiary of a system that is generally on my side at the expense of millions of others.
And that needs to change.
***
White folks, we need to recognize our privilege. We need to listen to the voices of folks in marginalized groups. We need to recognize that privilege doesn’t mean we had it easy, only that we aren’t also fighting against myriad external factors stacked against us. We’re not dealing with a system that’s out for blood. And this is especially the case for we men of a heterosexual bent.
We need to listen with empathy. We need to listen with humility. We need to be allies. The American system is unsustainable, and that has always been the case, but now we’re reaching a climax, a breaking point. We can either reform and work towards equality and healing, or we can watch as the very fabric of this nation is irreparably torn asunder by the sins of our fathers, which are now our sins, both of omission and commission.
The choice is ours, and by all appearances, we don’t have many chances left to get this right.