White Privilege

With our nation's latest round of problems created by racial tensions, let's take a look at what the establishment says is to blame -

White privilege.

Only in America, a nation founded on the sole principles that what one person puts in he will get out, can this sort of rhetoric be sold to a mass of people who just doesn't want to put anything in. Lucky for them the rest of the population has already put something in and is still willing to put something in for them to be able to get something out, right? If not, then what? What if they lived somewhere else where their survival would depend on their own skill? Well, none of that matters because they live here and the reason they don't have isn't because they don't rely on their own skill, it's because "white privilege" has kept them from accomplishing anything.

I'm white and I want to tell you a summed up story of my privilege.

I was born to an 18 year old mother, and a 22 year old father, as an accident. Thank goodness abortion wasn't legal then, or I wouldn't be able to write this story. I guess that is the only privilege I really can speak of - LIFE.

My mother came from a broken home. Irish, Catholic and 7 kids. Her father killer himself when she was 12. And her mother, not taking the task of raising 7 kids on her own lightly, was horribly abusive. My mother left her house at 15 and took to taking care of herself. In my opinion, she never really did a good job of this. She met my father right away, at 15, and I guess they began dating? If that is the right word. My father was the polar opposite of my mother. He came from a somewhat healthy Jewish family. 3 kids, and they were well to do. My father was in college, and all kids were financially taken care of by their parents. I suppose my mother saw this as an opportunity to not have to take care of herself, on the street, so she married my father at 18. My grandparents bought my parents a house where the 3 of us lived for a short time. Until my mother decided the married, mother, suburb, normal life wasn't for her. I was about 2. I think? I don't exactly remember any of this. I just rely on stories I've been told over the decades by my family members, which all seem to match.

That's when my real privilege began. My mother took up with her first boyfriend, I guess? He was a cocaine dealer. I know this, because he eventually went to prison for dealing drugs. For about 20 years. I really don't know where my father went. I saw him sometimes when I was growing up, but not very often according to my memories. My father is schizophrenic. But that's besides the point and just a small part of my privilege.

My mother moved around a lot after the first boyfriend went to prison, and I imagine used a lot of different drugs. This I remember. I remember her passed out a lot. I remember her high a lot. And I remember a lot of different people. Mostly men. I remember driving from one state to the next, and sitting on suitcases in old cars. I remember a lot of motel rooms. I remember her crying a lot, screaming a lot and hitting me, a lot. I remember her stealing food for me from stores a lot, because she didn't have money to buy it. I also remember her stuffing meat down my jacket too, but not to feed me - to sell for $20 to buy a small tin foil packet of heroin. I remember her heating up a teaspoon with a Bic lighter and shooting heroin in her arm with a syringe, a lot. I remember her asking me to hold the belt on her arm, a lot. And I remember being left in motel rooms, a lot.

I also remember telling the police my grandparents phone number, and my grandparents always coming to get me. Sometimes it involved a plane ride from FL back to MA, but they always came through. Sometimes a day or two would pass, and I would spend it with other people, but I always ended up back with my grandparents. They were old at this point, and not really ready to raise a child, but they never turned their back on me. They never turned their back on anyone, including my mother. I remember going back to my mother and I remember her doing the same stuff over and over again, including marrying a guy who would put her in the hospital at least 3 times a year, because he thought she was a punching bag, for as long as they were together. 7 years. I remember my uncle, my mother's younger brother, shooting himself in the head in front of me, and surviving! He later overdosed on drugs.

I remember all of the times my mother overdosed on drugs, and survived! She survived because I was old enough and smart enough to dial 911. I think back about those decisions now, and wonder. I think about all of the times my mother sold our furniture, whatever we had, or the small pieces of jewelry my grandparents would buy me, for a couple hundred dollars to bail her then husband out of jail for beating her up. I remember her husband coming home from jail one time when I was 11 and my half sister was a year and a half, and attacking my mother again, almost immediately. I remember trying to defend her, so he decided to throw me into a wall. My tiny baby half sister got caught in the mess and a dislocated shoulder, too.

I remember all of the times my mother went to jail, too. Never for too long, but long enough for me to always go to my grandparents. I remember my mother collecting welfare all of my childhood. I remember when I was 10 years old waking up at 2 AM to feed my baby half sister when she was a new born, because my mother was too high to hear her crying, and her husband, the child's father, was passed out on the couch.

I don't know how long I can go on telling you about my privilege, but I have had so much white privilege, my head hurts, so I have to sip some tea.