Checking My Privilege

I think befriending people who’s parents come from different income sets can be eye-opening in some ways. However, it’s not really something I thought about until I came home from school. In college, all of my friends seemed the same. We all lived on campus or in apartments, we all struggled to find food by the end of the week. We all hated our jobs but we all hated not having money. We didn’t care about wearing designer items, we just wanted to be unique and well-dressed. Food stamps didn’t have a stigma. Sometimes you paid for your friends food, sometimes they paid for yours. You would give your friend money to buy alcohol for a party. All of these things were normal, because we were broke college kids. We weren’t “rich,” like “White” Greek life. We knew what it was like to not have Daddy give you his credit card.

But then I started dating someone in a different situation than mine, and I realized I’m a lot like White Greek life. Actually, I’m pretty much exactly like White Greek life except for the fact that I’m not White.

I think that Black people who come from an Upper Middle Class background, are often in an interesting situation. This generation of Black young adults in general, are in an interesting situation. We come from a generation where it’s not as odd to have two Black parents, who went to college. With education, we are granted more opportunities. With more opportunities, comes more money. Sorry, this sounds a little bit like the “pick yourself up by the bootstraps” model, but bear with me.

What I’m trying to get at, is I’m not like all of my friends. When they can’t call home to their parents to ask for large sums of money, it’s because their parents are not able to give them large sums of money. When I can’t call home to my parents for large sums of money, it’s because my parents refuse to give me large sums of money. When they can’t ask their parents for a brand new car, it’s because their parents are not able to give them a brand new car. When I can’t ask my parents for a car in general, it’s because my parents refuse to give me a car in general. When they call home asking to go out for an expensive meal, it’s because their parents cannot afford for them to go out for an expensive meal. When I call home.. you get the idea.

My parents don’t refuse to give me these things because they cannot afford it. They refuse to give me these things because I grow up in a Black household. In Black culture, things are not usually given freely, they are earned. Your parents raise you to know that not everything will be handed to you. Spoiling your child, is usually not a bragging point. This probably isn’t the case when it comes to “White” Greek life. 

This is why, at school it was easy to forget about my parents. It was easy to forget about my privilege. Especially in the town that I grew up in. I would never be considered “rich.” I grew up with people who asked when the last time I visited the Dominican Republic was, and people who were confused by my parents not even considering paying for me to go to Auburn after I got accepted. I wasn’t like those people. If you’ve ever been to Kennesaw, you will quickly realize that the people there are out of touch with reality. In Kennesaw, a 3.5 GPA is bad, and not being able to go to the Dominican Republic is the equivalent of living in a homeless shelter. 

Both of my parents grew up relatively poor. My dad wasn’t poor by Nigerian standards, but he would be by American. He moved here when he was 18. My mom grew up in a country town with 10 siblings, who were all extremely skinny due to undernourishment. She went to an HBCU, and joined ROTC to pay for college. From then on, my mother’s life became a series of lucky events. She got the right job, at the right time. She moved to the right place, at the right time. She worked at a Fortune 500 company for 16 years that gave her the resume boost she needed, and now she works at another Fortune 500 company (Coke.) 

My parents are the exception, not the rule. They both have their Master’s degrees, and got them at a young age. The amount of money they make disqualifies me from any form of financial aid. My dad owns two luxury cars (one is collector), and I live in a house where we frequently text each other because we can go a whole day without hearing/seeing each other. My closet is walk-in, and I do have designer handbags in it. We never have to worry about our next meal, or worry about financial security.

But I also live in a household where my parent’s money, is not my money. I’ve been reminded that from an early age. Money and shopping are reserved for holidays. Designer clothes, all come from an Aunt with bad shopping habits. My friends who’s parents have lower incomes are more likely to get money from their parents, and get a car, than I ever am. In fact, it’s exactly what happened. My dad has the spending habits of someone who never left Nigeria. Both of his cars are paid off, and the non collector one is nearing it’s 20th birthday. You don’t throw anything away, and you don’t waste money on anything. Anytime my mom goes shopping she is met with strict interrogation when she comes home. I have a strong work ethic that all of my classmates can notice. I don’t expect things to be handed to me academically, or socially, and I’m able to work hard to get the things I want. 

But now that I’m older, I also need to recognize my privilege. Having both parents that went to college, is a privilege. Having food on the table every night, is a privilege. Not having to work my whole life, is a privilege. Not having to take out student loans, is a privilege. Being able to take a break from school, is a privilege. All of these things are a privilege and me being a Black woman in America does not negate the fact that I live a very good life. It’s okay, it’s not my fault. But I do need to use, and constantly check, this class privilege that I have. Which I feel as though I don’t need to check often, because being in Statesboro afforded me the luxury of pretending I didn’t have it.

After my significant other/friend/what the hell are we calling ourselves these days, entered my home, she spoke to me in hushed tones. She looked around in amazement, and called my home “extra.” She looked in my closet, and she looked in my room, and I couldn’t help but feel like a fraud. A social justice warrior that lived in a neighborhood full of rich Republicans. An activist who never had to struggle a day in her life.

But remember how I said that my parents were the exception, not the rule? That this wasn’t normal? That still rings true. The fact that my mom had access to all of these opportunities was sheer luck. With White privilege, it doesn’t work like that. If you have your Masters, you are guaranteed to go far. Hell, you are guaranteed to go far without it. You are afforded all of the things my family has, and THEN some. In my family’s case, hard work+education did equal success, but in most Black families it does not, and will not. Both of my parents are significantly underpaid compared to their White counterparts and they KNOW it. Had they not been Black, my life would’ve been even better than this. So yes, I do have privilege, but I am also able to acknowledge that all of the things that are happening to my family, technically should not be happening due to the way our society is built.

Now that I’m home, I’m more aware. I wake up every morning and I look around my big room, and I remember that it is a big-ass room. I look at my makeup collection and I remember, that it is a big-ass makeup collection. I eat my mother’s food with a little more gratefulness. I stop to take in my surroundings when I leave my home. I remind myself that I am well-off, Kennesaw is weird, and that there’s a lot more work to be done. 

I trusted you.

For people who do not suffer from mental illness, it is something they just simply won't understand 100%. Just like I don't know what anyone who suffers with any other illness goes through. However, I would like to feel as though I could empathize with people who's bodies are working against them in ways that inhibit their daily life.

However, this goes out to all of my able-minded allies. The ones that talk about removing the stigma that surrounds mental illness, yet engage in behavior that is problematic and does nothing but furthers the stigma that surrounds mental illness.

Your mental health is not less important than, nor different than, your physical health.

We all know that our brains are extremely important. They help us get through our day, they help us make decisions, they literally help our bodies operate. So why would the Brain (one of THE most important organs,) be less important, or different than our physical health? Why? Why would someone ask me why my mental health was more important than their feelings? When they would never ask me that about my physical health?

Because society still has this idea that if you work hard enough, mental illnesses will go away. Society still has this bootstraps mentality. Society still has this mentality that mental health is just a buzzword, it doesn't mean anything.

No one would ever ask me to sacrifice or injure a limb for their feelings. No one would ever ask me to spike my blood sugar, or induce an asthma attack for their feelings. So why would someone ask me to engage in a behavior or conversation that is detrimental to my mental health for their feelings? How is me, saying I don't want to workout because I have asthma, any different than me saying I don't want to argue because I have anxiety?

How is you, asking me to sacrifice myself physically less bad and selfish than you asking me to sacrifice myself mentally?

It is not. You see, I've had depression for 7-8 years. I know how it works. I know what triggers it, I know how to cope, I know what I should and shouldn't do. You know who also knows? The multiple therapists and psychologists I have seen. The ones that have told me to make my mental health my first priority.

Do Not. Ever. Ask me to sacrifice my mental health for you. Because I won't. Not now, not ever, for no one. I will not. Because I would never ask you to damage yourself physically.

Saying I'm triggered by something, isn't an avoidance tactic.

If you had a major traumatic injury to your knee, you would probably not be able to do some things that other people were able to do right? You would probably know that other people could run for long periods of time, and you would be unable to. You would probably know that you used to be able to do those things, but now you cant. So imagine, if you had a friend, who knew about your knee injury, and they just kept asking you to run a 5K with them.

Even after you explained, that running a 5K would cause short-term, or long-term damage to your already fragile knee. Imagine if the friend, implied that they were hurt, or that you were being selfish, because of your inability to run a 5K. A 5K that you said you would run eventually, just not at that moment. Wouldn't that be pretty messed up? Wouldn't you be confused? Wouldn't you want your friend to understand that no matter how hard you tried to run that dang 5K, it wasn't going to be finished today. And IF it was finished today, your knee would be in terrible shape.

This is how it feels when you ask someone with a mental illness to engage in conversations or behavior that they have already deemed triggering, and detrimental to their mental state at the moment. This is how invalidated, ignored, and angry we feel when people decide that we are making our triggers up, and we must do whatever activity they want us to do.

This is how hurtful and insensitive you are being.

Do not ever reduce my mental health to a joke, for your comfort.

It may seem like I am comfortable sharing large portions of my life with people, but sometimes I am not. Sometimes it is triggering, sometimes it is traumatic, sometimes it is uncomfortable. Sometimes I want to do it, sometimes I dont. So if I trust you enough, to let you know about my mental state at the time, and you make it into a joke, that is very hurtful to me. It is the equivalent of someone in a wheelchair, telling you why they are in a wheelchair, and you making a joke about their inability to walk.

Does that make you happy? Does that make things less awkward for you? To lack empathy?

You do not understand.

As much as you've followed me on this journey, as much as you've experienced, you will never understand how I feel. Ever. Even two people with the same illness will never completely understand how the other feels because it manifests itself in different ways.

A couple of weeks ago, while going through a crying spell, I explained to my mom that I was in so much pain, that I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I would not wish it on my worst enemy. Eventually, your brain literally begins to feel weak. You can feel it giving out on you. Just like any other body part.

I have had to give up the things that I hold dear, my clubs, my friends, my school, I have had to give that up. I have had to give up the things that make me happy. I have had to give up the things that define me, and have defined me for the past 2.5 years. All of it has been taken from me in the matter of a month.

If you expect me to be the slightest bit over that, you must be very confused. 

Depression can either make you hyper-sensitive, or numb. You can't access the emotions you need to react appropriately to a situation. It's confusing. It's tiring. You feel hopeless. You want to die. Sometimes, not because you're super sad. Sometimes, you want to die because depression is just plain annoying. It's annoying anticipating having to feel this way for the rest of your life.

So. If I am expressing myself because I am upset over something, it is not your duty, it is not your right, to tell me what I CAN and CAN'T be mad over, and what I SHOULD, and SHOULD not care about. It is not your place to tell me that I care too much about xyz. It is not your place at all to tell a 20 year old women how she should, and should not react to things. However, it is definitely not your place when this woman did not have access to her emotions for 6 years and one of her coping mechanisms IS expressing herself, and is one of the things that was stressed upon in therapy with a licensed medical professional.

I am hurt.

I am hurt by the fact that I have to write this out. I am hurt by the fact that I have to explain things to you that I feel should be known by now. I am hurt by your apparent lack of empathy. I feel guilty. I feel guilty for being upset, and I feel as though I "owe" you something so I shouldn't be able to call you out. But this was not, and will never be okay. 

This goes to everyone.