Privilege as a Non-Black Woman of Color

This is (slightly late) Essay #45 of The 52 Essay Challenge, a series in which I write a new (unpolished & messy) essay each week during 2017.

It’s ten-thirty on a Monday night. I’m driving home from hip-hop dance class. I am thinking about a million things –the choreography I just learned, the emotional weight of the song that just came on, the stack of ungraded papers that keeps growing, my schedule for tomorrow. The residual vibrational energy from Kundalini teacher training this past weekend is humming. (Trust me, it’s not the afterglow of dancing – that’s an entirely different sensation. I’d try to describe it but the humming is overpowering my muscle memory right now.) The road is pitch black (I live in the country where streetlights are sparse, even on main roads, and full of deer. Okay, I don’t live in the actual countryside, but I’m not lying about the streetlights or the deer.) There’s a car behind me driving a little too close. I try to ignore it.

Then the blue lights start flashing.

I’m getting pulled over.

For what? I have no idea. I was going the speed limit. I wondered if my tail lights were broken. Why on earth was I getting pulled over? I start a small panic: I noticed this morning that my registration wasn’t the current card & I couldn’t find the current one at the time. He (because I know it’s going to be a “he”) is going to ticket me for that. Shit.

At this point of waiting for him to approach, I notice that I am not my usual panicky self. My palms are not sweating; my heart is not racing like it usually does. Maybe this pranayama and meditation stuff does kick in automatically after all.

The officer comes to the passenger side and signals for me the open the window. I am startled because I was expecting him at my side of the car. He is polite and introduces himself. Then, he asks my to turn down my music (which wasn’t loud to begin with but probably just to make it easier for us to have a conversation) and asks to see me license and registration. As I am getting those things out, I ask him what the problem was. I don’t usually do this; I usually wait for the officer to inform me of my transgression. But I knew I did nothing wrong. He tells me that he will let me know as soon as he looks at my credentials (translation: who are you? And do you live around here?).

“Where are you coming from?” he asks.

“Dance class – over at [the dance studio nearby].”

“Good class?” He’s making chitchat.

“Yes. And exhausting,” I reply.

“So a good workout.”

“Yes.”

He is looking at my information during our verbal volley. Please don’t look at the date on my registration, I plead in my head. I’m watching him. I don’t think he’s really seeing the documents in his hands. He’s just staring at them.

“The reason I pulled you over was because you took that curve back there really wide. If it wasn’t so egregious [yes, he used that word], I would’ve let it go.”

“Which curve?”

“The one by the elementary school.”

“Oh.” Honestly, I don’t recall if I did that or not. It’s possible, but I was so inside my head that I can’t remember if that happened or not.

“I just wanted to check in with you.”

“Okay.”

“Well, get home safe.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Why the hell was I saying thank you??

I take my time putting away my documents, hoping that he will drive away first. But no such luck. So I practice extra-careful by-the-book driving. I put on my turn signal, check for traffic (the streets are empty at this hour, so I have no idea why I’m surprised to see no cars in that moment), and pull out onto the road to continue my journey home.

And then I lose it.

I burst out weeping. There’s a heaviness in my chest, like stones gathered beneath my ribs. I don’t know what this is. At first I think it’s the emotions triggered by the song that was playing before I got pulled over. But the tears keep coming. I keep asking: what is this? What is this? Then, I realize that it is something else.

I have come to experience firsthand the level of privilege I carry. While it’s not white privilege, it’s privilege just the same. It’s not that I was unaware of my privilege, but I really got to see it in action. Often, it is me seeing how I am oppressed.

I was crying for my black sisters and brothers who cannot be at a peace when an officer pulls them over. Who must always be on alert, always “on”, always at the ready. Who fear for their safety, for their very lives.

*

Earlier that day, a student was talking about some of the things she, a young white woman, notices when she is out with her best friend who is black. She didn’t mention any specific incident, but talked about how she would speak up to defend her friend, how her friend would usually refrain from defending herself. I asked her if she understood why. Why her friend had to make these choices to stay silent in certain moments. Actually, in many moments.

Yes, my student said. She understood that it was because she was white and her friend was black. I pressed her further. What does that really mean, the difference in race? She said it was because of white privilege. And then quickly added: “And I feel bad about it.” There is it: white guilt.

I took this opportunity to tell my students to get over it. White guilt does not help anyone. Yes, you didn’t ask for white privilege, but you got it. So what are you going to do with it? Own your privilege. Wield that power for good. Speak up for your black friend. Declare that it’s an injustice that black bodies are deemed disposable to white police officers. And then do something about it. The more white voices we have in this fight, the louder and more effective we can be.

*

I don’t know what else to say. Getting pulled over really did something to me and I can’t quite articulate it yet.

For now, for my part, I will say this: I am doing what I can as a woman of color in a position of authority as an educator to develop critical thinking in these young people. To challenge the system. To incite change.

Yeah, I’m trying to create an army of rabble rousers. Hah!