WHITENESS
The Privilege Of Being Entitled Yet Feeling Aggrieved
What must it feel like to feel white?
I’ve visited the Capitol. My invitation didn’t quite require an act of Congress however it did require an act from a Congressman. How exciting it was for my family to leave our house in Atlanta to tour everyone’s house in DC.
As I recently turned on my TV and watched Trump’s repugnant traitors tour everyone’s House, I did so not so much with shock as I did so with awe. I can only imagine their exuberance. I can only imagine their freedom. They stormed the US Capitol…in broad daylight…while defacing and taking property…while facing cameras and taking pictures? Imagine, I only must.
What must it feel like to fear not?
I’m not asking for a friend. I’m asking for myself. What must it feel like to fear no authority? What must it feel like to fear no consequence? What must it feel like to feel so entitled?
What must it feel like to feel white?
I thought about the time a white man unlawfully entered my home and unlawfully took my things and yet he somehow felt entitled enough to call the police…on me. His exuberance, his freedom, his nerve were tied inextricably to his fair skin. Upon seeing the police enter my home, my anxiety, my fear, my nervousness were tied inextricably to my unfair skin.
Some say that those who’ve done nothing wrong, have nothing to fear from the police. Breonna Taylor sleeping in her home would probably disagree. Botham Jean eating ice cream in his home would probably disagree. Atatiana Jefferson playing video games in her home would probably disagree.
Having unfair skin means always feeling like you’ve done something wrong.
I therefore calmly, humbly, with as little bass in my voice as possible, and with my hands always visible in as nonthreatening a manner as my 6’4” frame would allow, explained to the officer that I’d recently purchased the home and that the man, the husband of the seller’s agent, had no right to enter it after closing, much less take my things.
The officer seemed confused. He said he knew nothing about real estate law.
I therefore calmly, humbly, with as little bass in my voce as possible, and with my hands always visible in as nonthreatening a manner as my 6’4” frame would allow, explained to the officer that I wasn’t requesting that he referee a real estate dispute. I was requesting that he enforce criminal law.
Eventually the officer relented and instructed my repugnant intruder to return my things. He even gave me the option of having him arrested or allowing him to remain free. Regretfully, I chose the latter. I should’ve done my part to strip him of some of his entitlement. I should’ve done my part to strip him of some of his whiteness.
He stormed my house…in broad daylight…defacing it with his presence…taking my things…and he called the police…ON ME.
As I watched Trump’s repugnant traitors intrude on America’s House, I heard the common refrain from white people that the departure from civility was not the America they knew. I’m sorry for their loss. They had a fair skin perspective. I have an unfair skin perspective. I saw the manifestation of entitlement. I saw the manifestation of what it must feel like to fear not.
I saw the manifestation of whiteness.
I’m not angry at my fair skin friends. I’m envious. Growing up, I sang the same songs. I recited the same pledge. I’m equally American born but I’m separately and unequally American bred. I never had the privilege of visiting that sweet land of liberty that God shed his grace on in that land of the free and home of the brave. That land is their land. That land is not my land.
I wish I were raised to view America as the land of great hope. It sounds lovely. Instead, America raised me to view it as the land of great hype. I viewed America as the land of slavery and the land of indentured servitude and the land of Jim Crow and the land of pretending to vaccinate me while watching me die and the land of redlining my neighborhoods while watching them perish and the land of klansmen lynching me and watching them cheered and the land of police killing me and watching them freed.
While they sang and recited those words with great fervor, I mumbled them. The words mocked me. The words angered me. For them, America earned their pledge of allegiance. For me, America earned my duty of defiance.
America taught me to fear. It taught my fair skin friends to fear not.
That became abundantly clear as I watched one of Trump’s repugnant traitors lean back comfortably and put his feet on Speaker Pelosi’s desk in America’s house. If only I felt that comfortable in my own house when that white man unlawfully entered it and unlawfully took my things and called the police on me.
What must it feel like to be so privileged?
Is it like winning a lottery and having so much money you spend it carelessly knowing your reserve is endless? Is that why they stormed the Capitol? Is that why he stormed my house? Is that what that sweet land of liberty song actually about?
What must it feel like to feel so aggrieved?
Is it like winning the 100 million dollar lottery and feeling discriminated against because you didn’t win 200 million? Is that why some flew on private planes to protest their unfair lives? Is that why he called the police on me? Is that what that this land is their land song actually about?
I want to know what must it feel like to walk the streets of my neighborhood wearing a hoodie with the freedom and exuberance they felt when they roamed the halls of the Capitol wearing MAGA hats. I have no interest in beating an officer’s head with a flagpole or bashing his head with an extinguisher or bending his head between doors. I only want to feel the freedom and exuberance of being approached by a police officer and feeling no fear.
I want to know what must it feel like to fear not. I want to know what must it feel like to be so entitled as to believe they could violently overturn a free and fair election? I want to know what must it feel like to feel so aggrieved that peaceful protests for yet another black man who couldn’t breathe is thuggery and violently storming the capitol for a white man who couldn’t concede is patriotism? I’m not asking for a friend. I’m asking for myself.
What must it feel like to feel white?
