That Girl on White Privilege

It seems necessary to follow yesterday's blog titled "Black Lives Matter" with one that discusses how easy it is to be white. It isn't always easy to be female - just look at how rich those who own Tampax, Kotex, and Midol are - and it is rarely easy to be fat - just walk into a room full of chairs with arms - and it isn't ever easy to struggle with money. But it is always, ALWAYS easy to be white.

Despite the fact that I choose colorful, glittery, princess themed band-aids for my own "boo boos," there is no flesh tone band-aid available for someone of color. But that is a rather simple example. How about not ever being followed in a store? Or by a police officer as I drive? Stereotypes benefit assumptions about me, they don't work against me. And really, they shouldn't, I don't actually deserve that. I work on a team at work of 4 women. I am the only one that is white. I am also the only one with a criminal record. And the only one who smoked crack. And I am the least educated. But given the facts, I am probably not the first one who would be assumed to be any of those things. And that is pretty sad. No, very wrong!

Jesus looks like me. Santa Claus looks like me. Angels and elves and historical heroes look like me. If Black History Month hadn't come around every February I wouldn't know about the contributions of Blacks to life as I know it (where would our bodies and lives be without the contributions of Drs. Drew and Williams?). But that isn't as easily spewed from the mouths of elementary school students as Thomas Edison's achievements. And it seems the only Black we learned about faithfully, Martin Luther King, Jr, had to go so far as dying to make it into history books.

I am not discounting all that White authors, crusaders, and inventors have given us. I am not arguing that Blacks are more important than Whites. That they are brighter, more talented, more deserving of recognition or thanks in any way. I am merely stating that they are no less bright, no less talented, no less deserving because they have more (beautiful!) melanin in their skin. And being white shouldn't mean I am safer, more trustworthy, or chosen in any way. Being white should only mean I need a higher SPF sunscreen!

* special thanks to the fabulous Substantia Jones whose comments about White Privilege got me thinking and writing.

That Girl Knows Black Lives Matter

Loaded title, I know. And the topic is, too. It is sure to make some people angry. But I am angry. I am confused and scared and... angry. Why is a 12-year-old boy dead in Cleveland for playing with a fake gun? Even if it had been a real gun, couldn't a veteran police office (one had 10+ years) control a situation better than having to shoot a young boy twice? Why - again! - is Trayvon Martin dead? Why are so many black bodies dying violently? Many at the hands of law enforcement? And why oh why oh WHY is Officer Wilson NOT culpable in the death of Michael Brown? WHY NOT?

And what can I do? I don't believe I fall into the group of whites considered to be in denial of the racial state in our country. And I would adamantly declare I am not a white supremacist. But... I don't know how it feels to lose a child to violence, I don't know how it feels to have everyone in a room have an opinion about me before I even arrive because I have a "black" sounding name, I don't know what it is like to have to question everything I say, do and think because someone may take umbrage or feel I haven't hit the right balance of gratitude and respect.

I do know that there is white privilege, I have benefitted from it without even knowing it was happening. I encourage my son to seek help from those in uniform if there is an emergency, it would never occur to me that he needs to fear a police officer or deputy sheriff. My worrying and helicopter parenting doesn't include the fear the my son will be in the wrong place at the wrong time or that he would be judged on his brown eyes and brown curls - because his skin isn't brown. Not to say we haven't encountered racism; his last name is as Latino sounding as his heritage is, and that has caused judgment. But it isn't life threatening. I take it as an opportunity to educate, not as something to fear.

All well-intended but it doesn't really help. I am afraid of doing the wrong things so I don't do brave things (it is very easy and anonymous to make a donation to an organization that supports your beliefs, really it is). I am afraid of not being educated enough or perceived as having the wrong motivation, so I don't act. But I need to. And so does everyone I know. We need to advocate for what we know is right, despite our fears. We need to take risks - to be brave - in ways that Black people are every day by necessity, not choice. When we see bigotry, discrimination, blatant racism, we need to take control of that moment and not allow it to happen.

If we do nothing, nothing will change. And that would be a horrible travesty.

That Girl on Money

Well, not on it, because there isn't really enough to create a seat, but about it. That Girl ABOUT money. Or, even more correctly, on the lack of money.

Like Spkie Milligan once said "All I ask is the chance to prove that money can't make me happy." I, too, would love that chance. Would love the opportunity to show that the things in which I fiercely believe - gratitude, loyalty, humor, love - are more powerful than the amount of money in my bank account. But it is getting harder and harder to do that. My frivolous spending has dwindled to almost nothing; Starbucks isn't an occasional treat now but only a special occasion. I am constantly robbing Peter to pay Paul as the saying goes and it is getting harder and harder to stretch my pennies from one paycheck to the next.

The worst part of this is how it affects my son. He doesn't ask for things he needs (like new socks) and is very cautious about how he handles his money, squirreling away money from dog walking jobs and the like because he is afraid there won't be enough. While I admire his ability to save and his appreciation for the value of hard earned money, I am saddened that this is something my son has to live. Even as a little boy he had the same attitude; in the drugstore, holding a Spiderman coloring book, asking me if the piggy bank was hungry or full.

I cannot afford to live alone (without roommates) because it is too expensive to afford a 2 bedroom apartment. I know the number of the company who financed my car loan and dread seeing it on my phone - an all too frequent occurrence. I juggle the weeks I get gas and buy groceries because I can't do both. I listen patiently as my father reminds me of my age and that I am "too old for this."

I go to work every day, to a job I love and into which I put a lot of enthusiasm. I make - on paper - a decent salary. But each and every day is a struggle. And it wears on me, bit by bit, especially when I found out my son needs socks.