White. Straight. Cis-gender female. These are just a few of the words that factor into my identity. Until recently, I only understood what two of those meant and until very recently I didn’t understand what privileges came with each. I vaguely realized that some things were easier for me because of who I was or how I was born. I never stepped back to reflect on what that meant, how it factored into my life or, more importantly, what the repercussions were, in the lives of others.
Then, 49 people were killed and nearly 60 others were wounded—without factoring in those whose lives were forever altered—in an Orlando night club, by a man who knew nothing more about them than they chose to spend a night in a gay bar. For those individuals, their identity factored into someone else’s hatred of them, into systematic discrimination and into a lifetime of worries, that those who do not similarly identify would never know.
I stepped back that day. I reflected on what it meant that some things were easier for me because of who I am.
I am white. I am not “suspicious” looking to most individuals, regardless of what neighborhood I am walking through. I’ve never been ignored, rejected or passed over because my name doesn’t sound European-enough. No one has ever given me special attention in a store, where I am the minority.
I am straight. No one questions my right to hold my boyfriend’s hand in public. In fact, people regularly tell me how “adorable” we look. I have never felt unsafe because of who I love, nor unwelcome for showing that affection. I have never been targeted for what I feel, nor for how I express it.
I am cis-gender. This term was new to me a few years ago, but it simply means I ascribe to the gender denoted by my biological sex. I have never been questioned about whether I am a boy or a girl, even though I don’t wear overtly feminine attire. And you may think that sounds ridiculous, but I promise it happens and it sucks. I have watched people stare at someone, attempting to make that decision, though the answer means nothing to their lives. I will never be concerned about public facilities. I will never have to be scared that I will be denied service because of my sex, gender or expression.
I stepped back that day. I reflected on what it meant that some things would always be easier for me because of who I am.
I stepped back that day. I acknowledged that I have made my fair share of unfair judgments and I vowed to be considerate, fair and non-judgmental.
I stepped back that day. I decided that I would no longer ignore these privileges, but rather use the voice that comes with them.
Privilege in this country comes in all shapes and sizes—being white, having money, growing up Christian, being able-bodied and so many others—and looks different on every person. For each of us, privilege is a concept we must come to terms with on our own, which poses unique challenges for every person. So I challenge you to step back and reflect on your privilege and plan to do good with it. I am making it a goal of mine to keep my privilege in check and when given the opportunity, raise my voice against a system that helps some at the demise of others. Scratch that, I’ll make the opportunity and I hope you will do the same.
