The Price of Privilege

Anna Dai-Liu

I’m not black.

There, I’ve said it. I’m not black.

I’m not a black person. I am Asian. More specifically, American-born Chinese. I am a person of color, sure, but I am not black.

I am not.

What does that mean? It means I’ve never experienced the discrimination and the racism and the disgusting remarks and above all, the fear that the black community in America—well, really, all around the world—faces every day. I’ve never come close, really. We talk about generalized discrimination against POCs, but in reality, it’s unfair to do so when the levels from one end of the spectrum to the other are so far apart.

So yes, I am not black. My opinions are biased, seen through a lens that is different from that of someone who is black. My perspective of the world is one seen through the lens of privilege.

If that means you consider my thoughts to be invalidated, so be it. I don’t hold a grudge. I know that coming from a wealthier region with a better education system and a shockingly low African-American population means my thoughts are...maybe not necessarily wrong, but incomplete. If the world is the entire scope of what can be seen, my world is telescoped, showing only a microcosm of nicer America in comparison to the less pleasant version outside my field of view.

And I agree that now, more than ever, we need to focus on listening to black voices. I’ve worked in the last few days to read op-eds and articles from black authors, explore work from black artists, and try to fill in the blanks of black history that are often omitted in the eurocentric retelling of history that we are presented with in America. I’m still working, in fact. This isn’t just a done and go type of thing—this is about reforming ingrained perceptions and breaking stereotypes concerning the world that I’ve been conditioned into.

But that doesn’t mean that non-black people aren’t a part of this—I believe that now more than ever, as the Black Lives Matter movements and protests against institutionalized racism in the police force and beyond explode onto the global scale, that the rest of us have an important role to play because we are privileged. We are privileged in the fact that the world is willing to listen to us and hand us the microphone because our skin is lighter than those of our black friends’. But that doesn’t mean we should speak over them, I think; rather, in this article and through all the little steps in activism I’ve been taking, my goal is to hand over the microphone I’ve been given to amplify the black voice rather than my own.

This article is titled “The Price of Privilege”. It’s a book that essentially states that privileged teenagers, unfortunately, often suffer more from psychological issues. But this is a different price, I think, that I’m aiming to discuss here. Privilege, in the context of race, is something we are born with, and thus we have to pay for it somehow; so the question is, how?

I should step back and rephrase some of these previous statements. “Price” is the easiest word I can think of—it’s something we are obligated to do in return for a gift we have received. However, not everyone sees it as an obligation. I do. 

I think it’s a, to use an Americanism, a “no-brainer” that we should use our privilege to help those who do not have it. Why is it controversial to fight for basic human rights? Why does that need debate? Isn’t it obvious that if someone doesn’t have fair and equitable treatment we should fight to ensure they do? Isn’t that just the morally right thing to do? I hope it seems so to you.

But talking isn’t enough. Performative activism (the “tag 10 friends!” chain and many more trends that I don’t care to address) isn’t enough. In fact, it’s essentially pointless. Sure, it helps to get things trending on social media, but ultimately it isn’t enough. That’s awareness, but it’s not active, it’s passive. There is no change that results.

So then the question becomes, what can we do to seek that change? What, as privileged teenagers with access to technology and information, can we do to help our black peers and black community to help them come onto the same level that we were born into?

I still have mixed thoughts about this article. I’ve seen posts from prominent black activists saying that their job is not to educate those of us who are unaware. And I agree, that that is not their job. They should not be forced to answer our self-centered questions about what we can do to be better allies. This fight is not about us, it is about the black community. 

But there is still a need to fill that gap of information about what we can do. So if the black community should not have to bear the responsibility, who does? We need to be educated to understand the past, the present, and to define the future. So whose responsibility is it to take the initiative in that education?

The answer lies in the individual. Yes, you. It is your job to use your privilege, your access to all this information to find the answers yourself. That’s how we begin to use our privilege in the right way. It’s the first step.

Not everyone, unfortunately, is as energized to do so. That’s what this article is about. This article will be by no means comprehensive. It contains too few perspectives, minimal amounts of information, and a lot of rambling from someone, otherwise known as me, who is not black. This is a kickstart, not an answer. This is just to get you going. 

My goal is that after reading this, you will be inspired to take those steps forward yourself, and be willing to pay the price for the privilege that you have.

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“I think one of the earliest things I’ve experienced was when I was in primary school and the lights turned off and a white kid went around asking where the black students had disappeared to.”

That’s what Najla (pronounced with “the j like the j in jam!”) Omar tells me when I ask her about her personal experiences with discrimination. She’s 14, Somali, and living in the UK. “It definitely opened up my eyes even at a young age and taught me a lot of things and that I should speak up.”

It’s no secret that from a young age, children begin picking up notions of race. A recent study I read mentioned that even starting from as young as the age of two, children begin to pick their friends by who looks similar to them. Racial differences are ingrained in us. And that’s not necessarily bad, because most people take pride in their ethnicity—I know I do!—but it becomes problematic when we selectively discriminate against those who do not look like us.

In theory, we’re taught in American schools, these divisions ended after the civil rights movements of the 60s. Now we are all happy Americans, living together, all friends.

(Catch the sarcasm?)

“I think one of the reasons why America is struggling to change is because their mind set is still stuck in the days of slavery and segregation,” Najla says. She adds on that “they do not like the fact that black people and POC are living and they want to to stop that.”

“Living” might be extreme, but I definitely agree with her on the point that parts of America, especially conservative older...and yes, white, generations, are still heavily rooted in historical division and they most definitely do not want POCs, but black people specifically, receiving the same opportunities that they may have. Of course, one of those conservative, older, and yes, white, people happens to be the president of the United States. “I believe that everything got 100 [times] worse after him,” she says firmly. (I’m not exactly disposed to disagree with her, either, considering the US’s current state of affairs and the fact that both pandemic and protest continue to rage on while he golfs and takes photo ops with a Bible.)

But I digress. It’s become clear that racism, in all its forms, is not just a problem in the United States. But more importantly, the topic has also begun to shift to police brutality and the institutionalized racism encouraged in that profession. We’ve seen footage of Japanese protesters marching in support of a man who was brutally killed by officers because he “looked different.” One of the first videos of a “kneel-in” I saw came from the UK, where thousands knelt in Trafalgar Square. We’ve seen people of all kinds of colors and races and sexualities and genders come together.

That’s big change. That’s calling for massive federal reform of the police system in America. And I agree, that needs to happen. I’ve seen petitions calling for a “Hands Up” act that would criminalize shooting at anyone who has their hands up in the air, as many of the black men and women whose names are shouted at these protests did.

But there will be no point in change if we cannot change things at the lowest level, not only in ourselves, but in our families and communities. Making the world safer and more equitable for black people is not just removing the police, because systemic racism has contaminated every single aspect of our lives, in our perceptions of beauty (when you search “unprofessional hairstyles” on Google, it’s black hairstyles that come up) and offerings of education. 

So, I asked Najla these questions. Not that exact question of “how do I be a better ally”, but the more specific questions I’ve been holding in for a while, not wanting to burden people but also not being able to find answers myself. (While we’re at it, thank her for putting up with the clueless, uneducated, privileged, self-centered, and ignorant person I was when I initially conducted this interview. You can find her social media linked at the end of this article.) I asked her, and I quote, “How can we make our communities safer for black people?”

There’s obviously no one uniform answer. There’s no one-size-fits-all for what one can do, nor is there a comprehensive list of everything we can do. But maybe that’s the point. It shouldn’t be boxes to check off, it should be a way of life, right? But unfortunately many of us, myself included, have not become active voices until things have happened. She mentions that too. Reach out to the black community, Najla says, “not only when someone black is murdered but constantly.”

So, what does that mean? Sure, it’s a nice enough concept, but in practice, what can we do?

One example: “defending them when they feel uncomfortable because of the racist jokes”.

I have a really vivid memory of one singular incident from a few months ago. A friend of mine posted an image of a chat in which a pair of white boys from our school “made a joke” about how they wished the North hadn’t won the Civil War—so then they could have slaves.

It’s reprehensible, isn’t it? I hope you find it so.

There’s plenty of other racist jokes that have been told on campus, but especially in my school, where diversity is on the low side and our African-American population is rather small, these things get hidden and covered up. They don’t get addressed the way they should. But that doesn’t just go for my school—it goes for everywhere. I mean, even in the obvious—if you’re not black, you don’t have the right to use the n-slur. Don’t make any sort of joke about slavery. At least, to me, they seem obvious, but for some people it’s conditioned into habit. What we have the obligation to do, you and me, is speak up and call people out on their actions, not just on social media but in person. We can hold people accountable by talking to them and reporting to it, and if the school doesn’t do anything, push further, because “staying ‘neutral’ when the person in your class is racist is being racist”. Your silence does not aid the victim, and thus can only help the oppressor, or the racist.

Obviously, we should avoid trying to talk over our black peers as well. That’s a fine line to walk. We’re privileged, too, in the fact that we’re not aware of how our actions can harm the black community even when done with good intentions. Instead, Najla suggests, “if you want to speak up then check with your black friends to see what is right to say, support them, help them.”

Ultimately, she emphasizes that “one black person does not speak for the whole community.” And again, I return to my earlier statement—that this article is woefully incomplete. It doesn’t offer the widest perspective, nor is it just a clear-cut bulleted list of things one can do. Najla’s voice is her own, but she is one black woman from a community of millions who continue to be oppressed. Her voice is important, but in each of our own individual lives, it’s the voices of those close to us, our peers and friends, that matter the most. Our job is to amplify them, and make it so that they have a chance to speak at the microphone too.

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So what can you do? 

“As a young teenager, I can’t donate either and I can’t attend protests,” Najla says. I’m in the same boat as her too. I don’t exactly have access to sums of money, and my parents are too worried about coronavirus for us to go anywhere in general.

So, where to start? First, signing petitions. This is the easiest one to do. It doesn’t require money, just an email verification, and you can find tons of them at blacklivesmatters.carrd.co. The site is updated regularly. You can also find resources to which you can donate if you have funds to spare.

Second, read. Read, read, read. I cannot stress how much reading, whether it be about black history or op-eds and books by black activists and writers, has changed my perspective. A friend recently shared this enormous Google Drive file with me. I’m nowhere near done, but not only is the material pertinent to the Black Lives Matter movement, it also has information related to Pride and the LGBTQ+ movement, as some of the most prominent leaders were black trans women. If reading’s not your thing, there’s plenty of good documentaries and movies too—these I have not explored as much but I know several friends of mine have and they have recommended quite a few on this list.

The last thing I have to say comes from my own experience, and that is to talk. My perspective on these matters is much more progressive than my parents’ views, and at first I was a little bit afraid to challenge them. But ultimately, they have surprised me with the intellectual conversations we have had. There is no point in pushing for overall change and reform to curb racism if we cannot eradicate it at the roots; that is, in our families and communities. That’s been my project over these last couple of weeks.

There’s one last word Najla used, and it’s probably my favorite: “unapologetically”.

Do things unapologetically. Raise awareness unapologetically, she says. “Unapologetically”. There’s no need—there shouldn’t be a need to apologize for fighting for human rights. There shouldn’t be a need to apologize for standing up against people and words and actions that are unfair and unjustified. There should be no apologies for doing the right thing.

I hope, now, you pay the price of your privilege just as unapologetically as any other.

You can find Najla on Instagram at @najlaxomar.