I am a Black Woman Who Grew Up Around White Privilege. Trust Me, It’s Real.
I moved around a lot as a kid, but ultimately, I came to settle in a tiny suburb in central Florida. We weren’t anywhere near the only family of color in town, but I can’t say the same for our neighborhood: save for one East Indian family who eventually moved out, I was the only chocolate chip in that cookie for years.
On the outside, things were fine. I had friends, I played regularly with White classmates, and my White teachers adored me and fostered my love for writing as they would in any other child. I was always either the only person of color, or one of maybe two people, but I never felt alone. That whole “I don’t see color” thing? I lived it. And it seemed pretty damned Utopian on the surface.
Here’s the thing though: we all saw color. All of us. And ignoring that fact allowed white privilege to thrive like none other.
Before I get into what I mean, I know some feathers are probably ruffled. I know there are people muttering to themselves that I don’t know what I’m talking about, because their family had to work for every little thing they had. Their first cars were junkers. Their dad worked long hours. Their mom was single and on assistance and they ate sugar sandwiches for dinner sometimes. That all sounds rough, no question, but that is not what we mean…
