Last week, I wrote an article about the controversy surrounding Harley Quinn’s role in “Suicide Squad” in which some considered it a fair portrayal and others considered it to play into comic books’ and their associated films’ tendency to skew toward sexist depictions of female characters; I didn’t say whether the film was or wasn’t sexist in its treatment of the character, but I did say that we should wait until more films starring Harley Quinn have been released before jumping to judgment about her treatment, as her character has a very distinct arc and she is presently in the earlier stages of said arc. At the end of the article, I had a throwaway disclaimed about how I genuinely and un-ironically recognized that my own privilege enabled me to say that I said. In essence, it got me thinking about privilege and perspective.

I’ll be blunt: I’m a straight, white, cisgender male from an upper-middle-class family. I am the textbook definition of privilege – in fact, a dictionary of social terms might as well define the word “privilege” with a picture of me. That’s how privileged I am. Really, the only way I’m not privileged is that I wear glasses. I’m very, almost painfully, cognizant of how I lucked into being what society likes or prefers or doesn’t take issue with. No one follows me around when I walk in a store. People aren’t surprised when I say something intelligent because of my gender (even though I look like an idiot). I don’t want to worry about bills or payments or tuition because, if I need it, I have parents who can and will assist me; if that doesn’t work, I know that banks won’t treat me with suspicions because of what I look like. I don’t have to worry that certain states will forbid or disregard my right to marry whom I want to marry or that other states won’t allow me to use the bathroom I want because of whatever asinine reason they’ve thought of this time. The point is: I’m aware. I know. I get it.

Except, do I really get it? Sure, I talk a big game about being aware of my privilege, and I am, and I try my darnedest to incorporate that cognizance into my daily life and ideals – I mean, I’m writing an Honors thesis on sexism in comic books and did a presentation on it at a student conference – but that doesn’t mean I can put myself in those shoes. I don’t know what it’s like to be black in America, gay in America, female in America, etc. As aware as I am of intolerance, bigotry, and maltreatment in our culture, I can’t ever truly understand how sects that aren’t my own have it simply because I’m not that thing.

And, sure, maybe trying is what matters… but is it? When I wrote my Harley Quinn piece, I knew that I could say the things I said because of where I am in society. I can think the things I think and feel the things I feel because of my privilege. I can talk about, for example, how Harley Quinn's portrayal in "Suicide Squad" isn't sexist because, at the end of the day, it doesn't affect me; other than sexism offending my sensibilities and hurting the parts of me that strive for equality and fairness, I can carry on with my merry, privileged life. I'm not adversely impacted by unfairness and inequality. Bad stereotypes in a movie or TV show don't make other people treat or look at me differently.

Now, I'm not saying privileged people can't talk about privilege, nor am I saying that those who have privilege can't be advocates for the less fortunate. What I am saying, however, is that I know I'm privileged and struggle with it. I'm not afraid to talk about it, but I am afraid that my privilege inadvertently enables me to contribute things to the conversation that are borne out of my privilege, things that might prevent the conversation from going where it needs to or being contributed to by people who should. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm very aware of my privilege and I'm concerned that, despite my best efforts, my awareness doesn't help anything or anyone.