A Life Of Privilege

I’ve been with my husband for 16 years. After 16 years, you know somebody. I know how he likes his underwear folded and how annoyed he gets that I don’t match socks.  I know he gets moody if he doesn’t get enough sleep and he absolutely can’t stand any kind of road noise. I know he’s a traditionalist that values family. He drinks his coffee black, likes his tea sweet and has mayo on his hamburger.

After sixteen years, I know him is at his very core.  Right?

I always thought so.

Until recently.

Until we had some disturbing conversations about white privilege.

White privilege that he doesn’t believe exists.

And I can’t, for the life of me, wrap my head around that.

He fully acknowledges racism exists, that racism is unfair. But he refuses to recognize the advantages being born a white male have afforded him.

And I kinda get where he’s coming from. He doesn’t feel like he’s had any advantages in life. Growing up the way he did, struggling to survive and literally clawing his way out of poverty with absolutely no support. There is a little part of me that can understand the thought process.  But even when I asked him to step outside of himself and to think in broader terms – not his specific life but in general – he couldn’t see it.

And it’s alarming.

What does that mean?

How can you believe racism exists but then not see how fortunate you are that you don’t encounter it on a regular basis? Or hardly at all? How can you look around at our world and discount the reassurance that is provided by seeing faces that look just like yours on the vast majority of tv shows, commercials, magazines and even toys. How can you discount the fact that you are inherently provided the benefit of the doubt, unchained by demoralizing stereotypes?

I just don’t get it.

And I care too much about social injustices to let it go. It’s something I’ve always been passionate about. When I was in Kindergarten we had a black boy in our class. It was the first time I recall hearing the term black used to describe someone’s race. I don’t remember what the kid said, I don’t even remember if it was a boy or a girl, one kid or more…but I know when I heard him being called black, it was in a mean, degrading, demeaning way that was meant to imply he was not equal. And I was immediately struck with concern. I couldn’t comprehend why that made him “bad”.

I also thought of my father who, as Lebanese, also had dark skin and coarse kinky hair. I thought he must be black too. And I loved my Dad. I was confused. And hurt. And angry. My Dad was not less than!

When I asked my Mom that night if Dad was black, she had a really good laugh and explained he was not. I’m sure we had a conversation about race, although I don’t remember it. What I do remember is feeling a sense of injustice for the boy in my class.

I really don’t remember anything about him except that he was small and always looked sad. He had such sad eyes.  I wanted to cheer him up so I did what any 6 year old girl would do – I ran up to him on the playground, gave him a big ol’ kiss on his forehead and ran off again. I have about five memories from Kindergarten and that’s one of them. Obviously it was significant because it was the very first time I "kissed" a boy. Also he didn’t react the way I expected him too as a vaguely remember him not being pleased about it. At all. 

As I’ve gotten older I’ve thought of that boy a lot. As an adult, I wonder if he was sad because he heard himself described in such a mean way.  If that sadness was born from learning that some thought he was not as good because the color of his skin. I don’t know anything about his life, what he encountered or if he was really even sad at all. But I wonder if, like me, he went home that day and had a conversation with his Mom.

That’s a conversation I won’t ever have to have with my children. I won’t ever have to explain that there are some in this world that will always see them as less than. I won’t ever have to look at my child’s sad eyes when they realize that someone could hate them just because the pigment of their skin.

And that, my friends, is a privilege I get because I’m white.