An examination of privilege
I don’t know who to credit the main image to, but I thank the creator for it. Variations have been making their way across social media, and they mean the world to me.
May has been a difficult month. This past week hasn’t helped.
I live an extremely privileged life in a quiet, shaded neighborhood in a Virginian exurb where I have a beautiful dance studio, a large yard with a budding garden, and work in a comfortable white collar job. In the past few months, while millions of people have been forced into unemployment or hazardous working conditions, I was able to not only work without fear in my existing job, but choose to seek out and secure a new job, all from my cozy home office.
I am a very political person by nature, and have been so since at least middle school. The last two years have been an anomaly because I’ve made a concerted effort not to closely follow the news, and to instead focus on my daily life and dance pursuits. That is also a privilege.
One of the privileges that I have is being a member of a “model minority.” (Hindu) immigrants from India are seen in a largely positive light and non-threatening ways here. I’ve had conservative people point to my parents’ and my journey as immigrants as “people who did it the right way,” never mind the toll it took on every one of us despite the advantages our background afforded us (which the desperate families camped on the Southern border could only dream of). We weren’t fleeing violence or oppression as we made our way to the United States. Instead, my parents dismantled a beautiful life as immigrants in another country and reassembled another fulfilling life here in the United States. And as painful as the upheaval would have felt, if we needed to “go back,” I would have more than likely been just fine.
Despite my many privileges, I have also lived a life of fear at times. I’ve spent a lifetime trying not to make people in rooms feel uncomfortable with my presence as an outsider. From a very young age (my early memories of this being from kindergarten), I got strong messages from peers and some people of authority that I’m too vocal, too hairy, too different looking, too different acting, and with ideas too radical. I’ve often had the impression that I’m ignorantly trampling on unspoken social norms of the spaces I’m in, and as a result, volleyed between avoiding such spaces or trying to shrink myself in those spaces. The first time I’ve experienced what it is like to walk into a space and not feel like I have to constantly modulate my presence was in my mid-20s, and man! Was it refreshing!
I bonded with my husband as 18-year-olds who both felt out of place, in our own racial communities and in the larger community. Early in our relationship, people hearing about him often assumed it was my version of a rebellion, chasing something exotic by falling in love with a black man. But our shared experiences bound us together, not our differences. Twelve years later, I think that is much more obvious to those who know us - our shared love for the arts, writing, politics, and board games, our shared approach to parenting, and our unflinching support of each other’s passions. Most days, we just are. For most of this past month, my worries for Bertel were limited to his health as he became our conduit to the larger world, bringing home groceries and masks, and driving trash to the dump. But during times like this week, old fears awaken about him and about my son, and whether they’ll just be seen as two expendable black bodies. It’s a recurring nightmare that has haunted me, and I imagine that nightmare will continue unless there is major systemic change.
The blatant disregard for human life on display in the past few months has been difficult to watch. Healthcare workers and other essential workers have been forced to work while risking their own lives and the lives of their loved ones, while the larger systems that could have been put in place to ensure that they have proper access to protective gear, supplies, and testing were not mobilized. The wave of protests that initially spread across the country was not against these serious lapses in leadership and the resulting 100,000+ lives that have been claimed by the virus. Instead, they were for the “right” to the service of haircuts and restaurant meals. I clutched my family closer, and said my prayers for being able to cloister in the comfortable confines of home.
Then, the case of the birdwatcher in Central Park emerged, which could have very easily escalated because of the actions of the woman who called the police. Her threats of calling the police and loaded display of hysteria on her phone call to the cops reminded me of an early lesson I learned after moving to the United States: Some times, white girls and women can either push on or mobilize systems of power (such as teachers, school administrators, and law enforcement) to their needs and conveniences, as many of these systems of power here have historically been built for the supposed protection of the white woman.
I had watched in awe as some classmates flouted the dress code regulations, talked openly (and shopped for shoes!) during class, while others (often boys of color) were harshly disciplined by the very same teachers for similarly mild infractions. What stood out to me, both in those early lessons and in the fallout of the Central Park incident, is that those “getting away with it” are often unaware of this power that they wield, or that it is not available to everyone.
On the heels of that, George Floyd’s murder occurred. I do not care what crime he was accused of, or whether or not he was guilty. I do not care whether he was a model citizen or not (and that is true of all of the many, many, many slain people of color whose names we’ve learned over the past few years). Law enforcement does not get to be judge, jury, and executioner. The Charleston church shooter, the Pittsburgh synagogue shooter, the Stoneman Douglas High School shooter, and many others were afforded the right to a trial and due process (as they should’ve been, regardless of the heinousness of their crimes). If law enforcement has the capacity to safely bring armed mass killers into custody, why have they failed again and again and again when it comes to black boys and black men? This is not simply a case of “a few bad apples”. There is a systemic problem.
For what it’s worth, just in the placid suburbs of Richmond where I’ve lived most of my life, most people I know have shared at least one personal experience of law enforcement overreach - though with much less disastrous outcomes - regardless of their race. If that isn’t an indication of a systemic problem, I don’t know what is.
There is a systemic problem when police are better equipped with militarized gear in a largely peaceful nation, as opposed to healthcare workers and other essential workers who are waging war against a pandemic with homemade cloth masks and garbage bags for protective gear.
There is a systemic problem when shareholders’ and billionaires’ bottom lines are valued higher within the economic system than human life, and elected officials feel compelled to openly speak about sacrificing the lives of elderly and vulnerable constituents for “a stronger economy”.
There is a voice cautioning me against even typing these words up, even considering to publicly share these thoughts. This voice says that as a first generation immigrant, I should just be grateful that I get to be here, and I should spend my lifetime demonstrating my gratitude to my home by assimilating and accepting all things American. Because if I don’t like something, I should “go back to where I came from.” At least, that’s the message I’ve always received, both from the larger community and within my own immigrant community. I reject that message. I truly belong here, and I have earned my right as a voting, tax-paying American who has grown deep roots in this community over two thirds of my life. The best way I can fulfill my rights and responsibilities is to fully embrace America as she is - good, bad, and ugly - and help pave a part to a brighter future for all who live here.
For now, I’m using the privilege of my position in life to safely work from home and for my family to be cloistered with me. It’s my version of “put your own oxygen mask before helping others with theirs.” My four-year-old is already known for “talking proper” and I hope that as he grows, his mannerisms and speech will afford him some shield from the crueler aspects of how systems of power in America work against people of color, just as “talking proper” and “dressing proper” have been a lifelong amulet for my husband. In a just society, that should not be necessary. I pray, as a son of America, he has the ability to walk into a space without worrying about putting people at ease about his existence - that every son and daughter of this nation have that right.
Through my words, my actions, and where I spend my money, I will do my best to support systems that allow people to fully live their lives without fear - equitable and just access to healthcare, criminal justice, and education. And this fall, I will vote for the people up and down the ballot who will hopefully bring us closer to that vision. I hope you will join me.
A final note - As artists, we are not in ivory towers above the fray. Art is a powerful medium to both be the voice of the oppressed and the tool of the oppressor. If we are not using our art for the cause of justice and righteousness, we are acquiescing to the systems that are hurting our global family. I have not yet figured out how to navigate this through my dance, but at least my words can be a start. The song I’ve been carrying with me right now is the benediction Maithreem Bhajatha, which M. S. Subbalakshmi sang at the United Nations during another era of upheaval and unrest (just two years before the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr.) I offer it to you. As you listen to it and watch the dance below, please remember - peace is a radical, subversive act, for which many have given their lives. Peace does not mean being quiet and acquiescing to systems of power so as to not to rock the boat. Peace means lifting up your voice and acting to bring change in your community. And in our country today, an equitable, and just pursuit of peace means systemic change to healthcare, criminal justice, education, environment, immigration, and the larger economic system, which requires us to collectively work together.
