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Today I read a powerful post about white privilege, about a man recognizing it and trying to figure out how to explain it to his son, in the context of the shooting of Michael Brown. (The issue is yet another black teenager murdered by police. His name was Mike Brown.)
I haven't said anything about Ferguson here--I've shared a few links and comments on FB--partly because it's hard to say anything that isn't making it about me. It isn't about me, it's about Mike Brown and all the other young black men whose parents teach them how to minimize their chances of being murdered by police.
But in my life, like everything else that happens, it is about me. And now it's about Alice. It's about trying to openly confront the issues that I could easily shield her from. It's about honestly discussing issues of race and class and sexuality and gender as they come up, in the news, in conversation, in her books, on our television. It's about facing my own staggering levels of privilege and unpacking them, trying to see how I can ally myself in any effective way. How can I send the elevator down, past the lobby where I got on, to people for whom even the stairs are blocked by the structure of our society?
I said to someone recently that the one bright spot in any of this is that we're actually talking about it. We're not agreeing, by any means, but we are not ignoring another young black man murdered by police. We are trying to get an accounting. We are sharing the links and having the conversations and watching the news like we do in times of disaster and war. Because this is a disaster, slow moving and life threatening and overwhelming in its scale. But like any disaster, we bear witness, we re-check our own survival kits and donate to the rebuilding.
Sadly, this is all about us. Despite their growing demographic and political clout, people of color still do not have the power to command answers and make changes. We do. Privilege is a bully pulpit and what we preach from it is what matters. Let the word go forth.
I haven't said anything about Ferguson here--I've shared a few links and comments on FB--partly because it's hard to say anything that isn't making it about me. It isn't about me, it's about Mike Brown and all the other young black men whose parents teach them how to minimize their chances of being murdered by police.
But in my life, like everything else that happens, it is about me. And now it's about Alice. It's about trying to openly confront the issues that I could easily shield her from. It's about honestly discussing issues of race and class and sexuality and gender as they come up, in the news, in conversation, in her books, on our television. It's about facing my own staggering levels of privilege and unpacking them, trying to see how I can ally myself in any effective way. How can I send the elevator down, past the lobby where I got on, to people for whom even the stairs are blocked by the structure of our society?
I said to someone recently that the one bright spot in any of this is that we're actually talking about it. We're not agreeing, by any means, but we are not ignoring another young black man murdered by police. We are trying to get an accounting. We are sharing the links and having the conversations and watching the news like we do in times of disaster and war. Because this is a disaster, slow moving and life threatening and overwhelming in its scale. But like any disaster, we bear witness, we re-check our own survival kits and donate to the rebuilding.
Sadly, this is all about us. Despite their growing demographic and political clout, people of color still do not have the power to command answers and make changes. We do. Privilege is a bully pulpit and what we preach from it is what matters. Let the word go forth.
