Confessions of a Privileged, Out of Touch White Guy

You’re a “privileged, out of touch, white man.”

That’s what she said. No really, a friend’s co-worker said that in jest to him. It wasn't spoken to me, but I've wondered since then — If I, and people that were of my class, gender and race, were out of touch, who was in touch? And how do we become more like them?

I check “Caucasian” in the box, but I rarely think about my color or race or ethnicity aside from activities that require me to do so — I’m told this is indicative of us out of touch sorts.

Our type, who “just don’t get it” and “can’t understand,” suffer (I hear sometimes) from the phenomenon of not living in the “real world.”

And it’s this real world that’s enigmatically eluded us most of our lives. It’s in sight all around us, but it’s obnoxiously out of reach.

And so, I’ve wondered if I am capable of living “in touch” with it. How should I respond to accusations that the world I’m living in isn’t real? What sort of reaction should I serve up to the idea that my life is less real than somebody else’s?

Here’s why I ask.

My parents are immigrants from Western Europe. My mom left “the old country” in the 60's. At 10, she was the youngest of 12. She spoke no English. Her parents were poor and her dad, a farmer in his country, had few profitable skills to offer employers in America. But he worked hard as a carpenter and scraped by. My mom’s mom had 12 kids, lost 1, and adopted 2 more who’d been orphaned in World War II. She was a beautiful person. She, and my opa, rarely took anything for granted and wasted little. And yet offered all of themselves to others.

Their hospitality was very real to us.

After coming to the States, my mom learned English, went to college and got a teaching degree. She taught ESL night classes while I was growing up and then got a job teaching ESL at a public elementary school where she’s been for almost 20 years. Her classroom has included students from all over the world. She learned Spanish in her 40's to connect better with some of the parents whose children she educates.

She cries when she reads the Bible or talks about inspiring things — it’s a family joke that mom is going to lose it if we let her read after dinner. But her tears give life texture and fill it with soul. Her compassion has made all of her 3 kids and her husband more human.

And her wet face always seems very real to us.

My dad left his European home when he was 19. His parents, devastated by his departure, had known struggle their entire lives. They lived in an occupied country during World War II. Both had their education terminated during the war—apparently school isn't as important as not dying. My grandma’s mom came into existence because her mom’s boss raped her. And my grandpa’s dad died when he was 4. Emotionally, their parents were distant in their lives. They moved to the States in their 50's and are still (in their 80's) working on their English — little things like tennis games on tv and tea bring them great comfort, though they’re aging and that process is tough. My grandma has an amazing laugh and my grandpa gives her plenty to laugh about. They are one of a kind.

And their uniqueness seems very real to us.

My dad, the golden child, has slugged out a living since stepping off the plane. He learned English at 19, while hanging dry wall and pouring concrete and, at 56, now owns his own construction company. He recently started a farm. He’s an entrepreneur and storyteller and the hardest worker I know. He tells it like it is…or maybe more like he wished it was. He’s a larger than life personality whose excessive generosity leaves others dazzled and hungry for more.

I can hear his stories and laughter piercing the humdrum world of adolescence that my friends and I occupied. It all seems very real.

I have 44 cousins and hundreds of 1st cousins-once-removed. Yup. Hundreds. Most live in the same small town in Michigan. I don’t live there anymore because my wife and I felt called to experience the real world—which everyone knows is unfolding in California. The last 10 years have been pretty great, but I do often find myself thinking about those “out of touch” folks that I grew up with. Memories of sledding, swimming in watering holes, and eating sandwiches on Sunday nights after church are nostalgic.

Those wild people and all their zest for life seems so very real to me.

Like I said, I’m white…err kind of. My wife is white. And our kids are white.

But my skin is dark for a white person. My 5 yr. old stops to change markers when she draws me using black and not the yellow she uses for the other members of my family (see family portrait above). I’ve been accused of “fake baking” for much of my life (I don’t, except for the time I did in high school before a trip to Florida). When I worked construction in the summer time, one of my nick names was Kunta Kinte. So I’m not really a white white, but I still check that box since I am Caucasian.

My other half and I both speak Spanish (and English) and understand a little of the tongue from the old country. We have both spent time outside the U.S. and dreamed about teaching English abroad when we were first married. This was discouraged by the agency we were in conversation with because our student loan debt was too great. But we both grew up in families that appreciated cultural diversity and were taught to live curiously in relationship to the other.

Our dream to explore was real. And the disappointment of not being able to pursue it was real too. But other doors have opened and the experiences we’ve had since have been incredibly fulfilling.

They have all seemed very real to us.

We have a rabbit. It’s our second. The first one died slowly in our kids’ arms one Tuesday afternoon. We watched them care for it and bury it with more compassion than I knew was possible. Their grief was raw. I was awed by them.

And their innocent tenderness seemed so, so real. I will never forget it.

For 7 years, our family rented the same 2 bedroom 1 room duplex. When the housing bubble burst we were finally able to afford a home, even while we both worked. We love our hood. We share meals and have happy hour with neighbors. We pet sit. We cry about cancer, cheer on our kids together, and long for more life. We recently learned a little more about some of the real challenges of aging and the unknowns that surround becoming a widow in your 80's.

Those relationships seem so real.

We’re madly in love, even though we have only been married for 11 years. We both had good examples of what a healthy marriage looks like and both of our parents and all our siblings are still married. This, I’m told, upsets a lot of marriage trends, which puts me even more out of touch with the “real world.”

But our love, which is constantly expanding, seems very real.

We have more inside jokes than I dare admit. They encompass our relationships, our kids, our work, our church, our anatomies, our romance, our hopelessly annoying habit of analyzing people, and our history together.

That history and those memories seems very real.

So what would you do? What would you say?

I’m thinking that whatever my friend’s co-worker meant by “out of touch” must be true. I have no idea what her reality is. I don’t know where her people are from. I don’t know what box she checks or why she checks it. I don’t know what she dreams about or what stands in the way of those dreams. I don’t know what pets she’s lost or what she reminisces about with her friends. I don’t know what she hopes for for her kids or what prevents her from hoping any more. I’ve never been to her hood, haven’t laughed at her jokes, and have 0 idea about what she loves.

I don’t know her world. It is not real to me. And I am out of touch with it.

Because I don’t know her.

But I’m open. And some times, I’m even available for people like her. And I wonder if she would be those things.

What do you do when someone says that you’re “out of touch” or not a part of the “real world?”

Do you shrug your shoulders and move on? Do you dismiss them as being ignorant or judgmental? Do you become threatened and defensive?

Or do you seek to understand them? Do you hear their stories and share your own? Do you discover their humanity and likeness and seek to expand your real world?

I think I’m going to try to do that more. Because that seems like the way most worthy of being called real.

Would love to be less out of touch by hearing from you.