white privilege

I feel a gentle conflict as I sit to put these thoughts on the page. On one hand, it’s not my voice that is needed right now. I’d rather give space for the voices of those who have long been silenced, ignored. But I also feel this stirring. I feel my story – a confession of sorts – might help open eyes and hearts to the inequality that has been in front of our faces, yet invisible for so long.

Years ago, when I first heard the term, “white privilege” I didn’t get it. Sure, I knew lots of white folks who were privileged. Lots. But they weren’t me, really. I never considered myself privileged. I grew up without extras – buying second-hand clothes, sharing a bedroom with siblings, working a paper route for spending money. I knew lots of people who were privileged, but me? I hadn’t had it easy. I worked minimum wage jobs and paid for everything without the advantages of “family money” or inheritances. For these reasons and more,  I just couldn’t seem to take the “white privilege” label and apply it to myself.

Thankfully, I didn’t get vocal or oppositional about it. I kept these thoughts inside and tried to listen anyway. I wanted to hear the voices of those who were fighting for equality, I just didn’t want to be put in a box – a box that wasn’t true about me. Ironic, isn’t it?

As recent world events have brought the truth of racism to the stage of our collective awareness, I’ve begun to truly understand the meaning of the term “white privilege.” It’s no privilege, as I would have defined it. It’s just the ability to live without hate or unfair personal attacks. How bad has the world become that living without unfair pre-judgements is a privilege? And yet, that’s what it is. I am truly privileged. And I’m privileged in this way, solely based on the colour of my skin.

As soon as I grasped this concept, an “innocent” incident came to mind. A couple of years ago, I walked into a grocery store in my city. It was late morning and I was in a hurry – trying to pick up some fresh berries on my way to work. A young man was walking just ahead of me. He was Black. He was carrying a plastic bag from another store nearby, where he had obviously been shopping. What I remember about this young man is that he was clean, well dressed, and carrying himself with confidence and respect. As we both walked through the automatic doors, the grocery store security guard stopped this man, telling him that he was required to leave his plastic bag at the courtesy desk while he shopped. He told him he could pick it up on the way out. This struck me as odd. Without consciously being aware of these thoughts at the time, I considered the large canvas bag slung over my own shoulder. I’d been trying to avoid plastic bags and had taken to bringing cloth or canvas bags when I shopped. I also wondered why I had never heard of this “rule” before, and wondered how many times I had been missed by the security guard and broken the rule myself. Then I dismissed this thought because I literally shop at this particular grocery store multiple times a month and I had never heard such a rule before. At this point, still all at a subconscious level, I jumped to the only logical explanation that a regular white shopper could conceive of: this nice looking young man must be a shoplifter. The security guard must have had multiple previous run-ins with him so that he recognizes his face.

In retrospect, this is a ridiculous conclusion. But for someone with white privilege, it is logical. I have never been profiled before. The assumption that I am coming into a store to steal something is not something I have had to deal with. And, honestly, how do you prove that you’re not intending to steal? I can prove I haven’t stolen something by letting you look in my bags as I leave, but I cannot prove to anyone that I have no intention of stealing. No one can prove that.

When I think back on this incident, I am sad. I’m sad that I didn’t say, “Hey, do you need to take my bag too?” I’m sad that I found it easier to believe a tenuous, imaginary story about this young man than to believe that racism was actively playing out before my eyes. Most of all, I’m sad that I just kept walking. I was too busy to bother checking into things further. I was too willfully blind to open my eyes to what was right in front of me.

As I recall this story, and my four decades of life experiences, I’m also sad that it took the ugly, brazen, and unjustifiable killing of George Floyd to get my attention. Racism has been happening right in front of me my whole life. Hidden just out of sight by my willful blindness. I’m too busy trying to succeed at this life “rigged against me” to bother acknowledging raging injustice against the “other.” Honestly. I have no excuse. I am guilty of choosing not to see.

So, what now? I must go back to the beginning and seek out the education I denied myself. I must humbly walk back to kindergarten and take my seat. I must choose to educate myself – reading books by Black authors, listening to what many have been trying to tell me (and all of us) all along. I am grateful for their patience and humbled by their grace.

Join me, friends. Open your eyes. Pause in your hurried mission and ask the questions your inner self knows need to be asked.