Unconscious Privilege
About two years ago, I drove home from a Friday afternoon appointment with my chiropractor/ acupuncturist. Traveling from her office in Newton to my house in Woburn, during rush hour, never delights me; however, if I trek the cross-town streets of Watertown, Belmont, Arlington, and Winchester, rather than attempting the Mass Pike and Rt. 128, the pain ebbs slightly.
There is a part of Pleasant Street in Arlington, where three lanes of traffic, on the overpass above Rt. 2, become a single lane. The first lane is exclusively for left turns, but the other two simply merge, with no signage or visual cues. Usually, a natural pattern emerges. As the vehicles march along, the one with a slight lead takes the first spot, followed by the adjacent car, drifting just a nose length behind; and one by one the drivers play follow the leader in this leap-frog manner, until all the cars form a single, slow moving train.
On this particular Friday night, I drove in the right lane, and secured a spot with the back quarter panel of one car to my left, logically giving me the next place in line. However, there was another car in the lane to the left of me, that kept crowding in. As the road narrowed, I expected the driver at my back, left quarter panel, to yield, just as I had done with the car in front of us. She didn't. Instead, the Toyota Camry, very gently, scraped along the left rear of my beloved Mini Cooper.
Up ahead, there was a slight bump out, creating a couple of street parking spaces. Before we even pulled over, I was on the phone with the police, because I was taught, whenever there is a motor vehicle accident, that's what I'm supposed to do. Once we emerged from our cars, and the woman and I had a few words about who was in the wrong here (again, I thought I was right, because the person behind has the better view), I looked at my car and hers. I couldn't actually tell if her car sustained any damage. It was a bit older, and nothing was immediately evident to me. But Adelaide, my little convertible, had a couple of long white scrape marks. Only months before, I'd paid off my auto loan early, and now my poor girl sustained an injury!
When the officer arrived, he had each of us stand by our own vehicles. He spoke with us separately, in a calm, respectful manner, but I noticed the spark of the other driver dim. Her body took on a submissive posture. She didn't look him in the eye. And I suddenly felt the guilt and weight of my white privilege.
The other driver was black. Her accent suggested she might have been Haitian, but I don't know. She appeared to be tired, after a day of work, but I don't know that either. Based on her attire, I suspect she might have been a healthcare professional, because she was dressed in a flowery smock and scrub-style pants, but our only conversation related to our minor accident.
I found myself battling an internal dilemma. I was pissed, because my car had these scrapes. And I judged myself for calling the police, as I watched her starch melt - she disappeared under cloak of invisibility. I carefully studied how the officer treated her, because, despite feeling angry, I was simultaneously ready to step in to defend her. I found the entire incident to be terribly confusing. I didn't start off thinking of her as a black woman. I just perceived her as the driver who didn't follow the natural pattern of merging. But when the officer asked both of us, if we'd used a turn signal to indicate an intention to merge, neither of us could claim we had, and I worried that I might have unintentionally put this woman at risk. Fuck!
Maybe a year later, I listened to a novel by Jodi Piccoult. As I gave my attention to "Small Great Things," I heard, from the perspective of one of the lead characters, an African-American labor and delivery nurse, how many ways I've been unintentionally treating black people differently. Things like, compensating by being nicer to folks with skin darker than my own, or not realizing that color blindness is a product of my white privilege. When Piccoult conducted her research for the book, she met with a myriad of gracious women, willing to openly share their personal experiences of being black in America. Despite realizing that "peppering women of color is not the best way to educate oneself," she explains they gave her a gift, for which she remains truly grateful. For me, the resulting novel, titled with three words spoken by Martin Luther King Jr., was powerful! It started me on a path of questioning how I might be participating in systemic racism.
I sought a way to relate - an analogy I could identify with. As a woman, I know what it is to be treated differently, as less than, not as valuable, with a voice that doesn't always count, to experience sexual objectification and physical boundaries being crossed, "deserving" of less pay, or viewed as hysterical for assertively expressing any opinion, or standing against sexual predators, and carrying a legacy of being the chattel of the men who fathered, married, or otherwise had power over a lineage of women. I have experienced this as an infuriating uphill battle - difficult to explain to most men (including my husband) and even some women. I can't hide that I am female, just as a black or brown person cannot pretend to have a skin color other than his/her own. And still, I don't know what it is to live with a darker complexion. While sexism is real, it is different from racism, and I'll never live that experience.
I'm beginning to comprehend my privilege, and yet, it's just a start. Knowing this, I choose to educate myself. I believe that's a good place to wade in. Maybe, I too, can become an agent of change - a stone tossed in the pond that ripples an unwinding of harmful, antiquated beliefs. Through my actions and responses, perhaps I might add my voice to support and lift up the oppressed. But I need to begin with understanding what's been happening for generations, and how the current system is designed to ensure white supremacy continues forevermore.
I'm committed to learning. To altering my behavior in ways I cannot yet foresee, because I am absolutely NOT okay with any group of people living in fear, or having to compensate to be accepted, or for dimming their light when the police arrive. Below, I've included a handful of links to voices I found valuable. I have to start with me. I believe that is true for each of us. And, if we choose this moment in time to change - together - we empower the world to shift paradigms. I'd like to be a part of that. I invite you to join me.
A thoughtful message from Trevor Noah (shared in the June 1st newsletter)
Kimberly Jones offers a monopoly metaphor and asks, "How can we win?"
With love and compassion,
Joanne Lutz
