The Privilege of Having Been Born White

My first memory of having heard of the concept “white privilege” happened after a wealthy, white politician was blatantly guilty of having committed a crime, but rubbed elbows with the right person and was barely slapped on the wrist. I couldn’t tell you who it was or what he had done (a white politician doing something scandalous is beyond commonplace), but I remember the response of those around me. There was an ardent rebuke over being placed in the same category. He was being given a right that was not owed him because of his position and this was simply not something that we could claim as our own personal life experience. He was ‘the other’, and not one of ‘us’.

This initial memory became the staple example of white privilege, with small variations. It wasn’t always a politician and it wasn’t always a public scandal, but it was always a white man with more resources. More power, more status, more money…. more privilege. While my life had it’s own share of trials, the same as everyone, I had a great childhood by all accounts; but this was not due to access to lofty monetary funds. By technical standards, I was raised in poverty, with my parents having 5 children in California on a pastor’s salary (I use the term ‘salary’ loosely). I had 3 part-time jobs in high school (only two at a time), and the same in college. If I were to have ‘trouble with the law’, throwing my father’s name around or using the phrase, “Do you know who my family is?” would not hold any meaning.

The Wealthy Among Us

I remember during the last election, Beto made the claim that he self-identifies as Hispanic, because he relates with the struggle of the minority. However, this claim conflicts with the fact the in his youth, he was arrested for a DUI, which was immediately dropped when his father, the Senator, called the judge’s home phone. The notion that Beto is in any way experiencing life in the same way as a minority seemed an insult. With what was he relating?

To acknowledge white privilege was to negate that I had worked for what I received. It would be to identify myself as being in the same group as the spoiled white elitists of the world. This could not be. All of that hard work, only to admit that the luxuries of life could have been handed to me, as I watched the minorities of the world grasp for what was beyond their reach. That was not the life I lived, even had I wished.

I, the Other

As with many things in life, I’ve found that what I thought I knew was…. dare I say, wrong? My view was not necessarily incorrect, but it was certainly incomplete. The examples I’ve described are not truly depictions of mere white privilege, but also of the discrepancy between the poor and the wealthy… a sort of double-dipping into the pool of privilege. But, is it possible that my position on the lower end of the socioeconomic status did not equate a complete absence of racial privilege? Could I have inaccurately perceived my own life experiences? My position in society?

The wealthy so often receive additional opportunities, because their wealth has included a free-of-purchase piece of the power pie. They can ‘pull strings’, call up the right people, and ‘have a guy for that’. But perhaps my status in one area is completely separate of my status in another area. Perhaps my fork also has a bite of pie on it, albeit not a whole piece on my plate, but enough to get a taste… a taste of agentic power. More ‘say so’ in society than another. Perhaps, there are some who see me as ‘the other’.

My White Privilege

I have come to realize that while the wealthy may receive more, perhaps this has misled me in being able to see my own privilege. Perhaps white privilege is not what you’re given, but rather what you are not given. It’s the experiences you don’t have. All the times someone hasn’t walked across the street to avoid walking past me on the sidewalk. All of the times my resume wasn’t thrown in the trash for sounding ‘ethnic’. All of the times someone didn’t scrounge for their car keys in the parking lot because I was the only other person they could see. All the times the old woman didn’t clutch her bag when she saw me walking in her direction. All the times someone didn’t grab their child by the arm, because a group of my white friends and I were at the park.

All the times I’ve gone running with only a fear of a lose dog chasing after me as the worst possible thing that could happen.

Perhaps, just perhaps, that could be white privilege at it’s finest. Not receiving what I haven’t earned, but rather receiving what everyone has earned: The privilege of being ‘us’, rather than ‘other’.