Malignant Privilege
I think about privilege a lot: what it means, how much I have, how some people don’t see theirs.
It is something that I’ve always been aware of, even before I knew the definition of the word. I grew up as an observer of privilege, through the work my parents did, which had them taking care of many people belonging to the highest levels of privileged society.
I grew up partly in a place that offered very little privilege to the majority of the population. Yes, there were beautiful beaches and clean, warm air, but those things don’t create well paying jobs and educational opportunities.
I knew I had the privilege of American citizenship, skin color that was favored, and the means to leave. Today, I am privileged to co-own a home, make enough money to split bills for that home, and have a great life with an amazing husband and family.
Privilege is everywhere and — I have learned — there is nothing inherently wrong with it, so long as you don’t consider that privilege a birthright, or god given, depending on your beliefs.
If you belief that it is, in fact a birthright, then you have what I like to call “malignant privilege.”
Living on the periphery of several towns in which reside some of the most privileged of the United States certainly has it perks: it’s good for business and great finds at consignment stores, but it certainly has thrust how maligned some people when it comes to their thinking that they have the “right” to so many things.
Take beaches for example: I have never knew so many people could get so bent out of shape about beaches. First off, I wasn’t very aware that there were private beaches, never mind people that spend a good portion of their days worried about who is and isn’t on “their” beach.
Then there is public spaces.
The other night, my husband was chided by an older woman for speaking to friends too close to her table at a private club for no more than two minutes as they passed through the restaurant. Yes, a club is not a public space, but a restaurant, whether at a club or not, is by definition a shared space, and to think that you have “the right” to define the auditory levels of all beings within a shared space at a restaurant, that was something I had never considered before. That — to me — is malignant privilege: the sense of ownership of something that is not yours.
Malignant privilege is what is wrong with this country. Those with it are no better than the monarchs who had their heads cut off during the French Revolution. It is the most virulent and nasty thing we as Americans have to face.
And, unfortunately, I don’t think it is going anywhere any time soon.
To feel ownership of another person’s body, to feel the right to define who or how other people use a public space (there are limits of course, but I am talking about in the broadly defined “appropriate” sense), to believe that you have more “right” to take up room in this world, these are all examples of malignant privilege or entitlement that continue to pervade our society.
We see it in the old lady at the private club and we see it in the Chad or Brad who thinks he is entitled to rape a girl at a frat party. We see it in our reluctance to implement Critical Race Theory in to schools. We see it in our reluctance to face how and why there is such a severe wealth gap.
I do not feel entitled to anything, not even happiness, because I know that. even have to work for that. It continues to astound me the things that people feel entitled to, and there seems to be a new one every week, especially when I break the geographical barrier and venture in to the heart of the privileged circles that surround us.
I am thankful for my privilege every day: Because of my skin color and the way I look, I get to interact with the world in a way that is not vilified. Eroticized and exoticized yes, but I am not deemed a threat, except maybe by a few bitter ex-wives. I get to weave in and out of different societal circles with relative ease. Home ownership and travel are a part of my life. I get to drink coffee directly imported from Puerto Rico, just because. But I never — not even for a moment — forget how lucky I am to have all those things.
I know all these things can be taken away from me in an instant.
So, to the lady who thought it was her right to tell my husband to move away from her table because it was disturbing her “right” to a whole restaurant, you can fuck off with your malignant privilege.
Maybe a quiet, all-white nursing home would be more your cup of tea.
