Finding Privilege in Hidden Places

My wife is currently studying Education Policy at the University of Pennsylvania. Like many other graduate students, she lives in a big house with lots of people. Also like many other graduate programs, she is a Black face is a sea of whiteness. Recently, she had a few of her friends over to her house to chill and relax after class. All of who were Black.

You may be wondering, “What’s the significance of them all being Black?”, don’t worry, I’ll explain:

If you’ve read Beverly D. Tatum’s Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria: And Other Conversations About Race (which I’m sure you have) then you’ll understand this “phenomenon” of people of color congregating towards one another.

Essentially, Tatum explains that when Blacks (and other people of color) are constantly in White spaces, those Black faces are hyper aware of their position as a minority. They are hyper aware of what they say and how they interact with those around them — quite frankly, it’s exhausting. Tatum goes on to explain that while externally, people of color gathering with each other might look exclusionary, it is simply a necessary practice of removing ourselves from the hyper aware state that we spend most of our lives in.

In other words, sometimes we Black folk just need to recharge our batteries.

This self-segregated period of relaxation my wife and her friends were experiencing was an important and rare occasion for them to lower their guard and set down the heavy title of “minority”. For the moment, they were simply people.

Her housemate, a White male, walked by the living room and poked his head in to speak. Jokingly he said, “What are you doing with all of these Black people in my house?”

*sigh* *roll eyes* (I know, right?)

She explained that the joke was not funny, and that it was offensive. He left the room.

And just like that, they were reminded that they were outsiders. Even in her own house she was a Black face occupying a White space at their benevolence. What was so damaging about the remarks, was not simply their offensiveness or the fact that it was flat out lame, but that they completely violated that safe-space.

But it didn’t stop there. Text messages began to role in: “I’m sorry if what I said offended you”. She replied, “I don’t want to talk about it”. Text messages continued, “I thought we were both intellectual enough to have a conversation about it”. She replied, “I don’t want to talk about it”. The texts kept coming.

This brings us to a larger issue: In addition to not having the right to exist in their own spaces, Black Americans must also authenticate the intentions and actions of Whites who desire to be seen as “non-racist”.

Her housemate’s apology was not wrong. In fact, if you say something racist, it’s good practice to apologize. It is not, however, the burden of the offended person to accept and validate you as a good person. In fact, the last person who should have to accept your apology is the person you’ve directly assaulted.

The housemate brought to light a privilege that often times goes un-noted: the Right to Comfort.

The Right to Comfort explains that we are conditioned to prioritize the emotional and psychological comfort of the oppressor over that of the oppressed. It is why we blame victims and contribute structural racism to the actions of lone individuals.

The Right to Comfort is why the effects of “Don’t ask, don’t tell” still plague LBGT service members today. The Right to Comfort is why we make villains of rape victims, like Stacey Dash did in calling them “Naughty Girls”. The Right to Comfort is why we demand that Muslims publicly denounce the actions of ISIS in order to prove their loyalty to the United States. The Right to Comfort is why we blame rouge individuals for acts of racism, ignoring systemic issues that are perpetuated and enabled by White complacency.

To release that Right to Comfort you must be willing to be uncomfortable.

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Therefore, trust the physician and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility.

— Huey Freeman

I catch myself between two thoughts. My Barack Obama voice tells me that White allies are vital and that the only way to dismantle racist structures is an inclusive coalition. But then my young Malcolm X voice simply says, “fuck ‘em”. At the end of the day, I find myself painfully straddling the fence between the two. In one hand, I’m left with a dream, half-filled with hope, and an exhausting, corrosive anger in the other.