The Privilege to be Guilty

Today, I had a bit of a crisis.

I guess that's not quite an accurate statement, as these thoughts have flown in and out of my consciousness since I was ten and realized that I, unlike some of my downtown-dwelling friends, lived in a nice, safe suburb.

This is my life. I've led a life of privilege. I have no memories of my family struggling to pay bills, no recollection of struggling to put food on the table, no inkling of what it's like to be in any kind of financial crisis. But this privilege goes beyond money.

I am white, heterosexual, and Catholic. According to society, I am at the perfect socio-economic level, somewhere between poverty and gross riches. Yes, I pay for my groceries on an intern's salary. But, if I don't have enough money, my parents will graciously foot the bill. I have a car and a cell phone, a laptop, and a $40,000 a year education. And I am often disgusted by all of these things, although I've never had the courage to give them up.

These thoughts began today at the grocery store where I think I experienced something some of my peers would refer to as "reverse racism." I say this with caution. I am many things besides "white." But, in the very short encounter with little time or information to draw from, this is how I experienced it.

I was in a line with an African American cashier, sandwiched in between two African American mothers, kids in tow. As I loaded the week's food onto the belt, I overheard snippets of a conversation about financial struggles. The topics were normal, price of gas, price of food, price of gas and food compared to price of car insurance, etc. The two people didn't seem to know each other especially well, but, for some reason, their conversation cheered me. I'm a true lover of people, of conversations, of reaching into unfamiliar territory and finding a friend. Goodbyes. My turn.

I stepped up to slide my Debit card and greet the cashier. I smiled and said hello. We exchanged pleasantries, and I prepared myself for an ensuing conversation. Nothing. Was it my food? My sweatshirt, proudly displaying the name of my pretentious (yes, I need to find a good synonym) college? My demeanor? Any of the other thousand indicators in my appearance that indicate who I am and present myself to be?

I felt somewhat discouraged. I moved down to bag my own groceries, as the cashier began a lengthy conversation with the woman behind me.

I walked out, experiencing some strong feeling between anger and frustration. Why can't we have a conversation about how much gas costs? Why can't you complain to me about alternative energy plans? I have a voice, too.

Again, I can't say it was a race thing. Maybe it was ageism. Or any other number of things, but as I obsessed over the situation, I was covered in an overwhelming sense of guilt.

Who am I to complain about the state of the economy? My family is financially secure. I have health care, an environmentally friendly car that runs on little gas and a credit card to back me up whenever I reach a financial crisis (which has never happened). And I don't deserve any of it. I was born into it.

This entire internship experience has been about re-examining my default understandings. Even as I type this, I analyze my thoughts and words for prejudice, for stereotypes, for bias. I work to uncover and unpack my notions of the world. And I hope to be able to see things from the perspectives of everyone else, of anyone else, of all else.

But the fact of the matter is, I have it good. And I guess this summer will be about finding out what I can use it for.

Until then, the guilt sits and the frustration lingers. I type on my laptop (paid for by Mom and Dad), listen to Liszt (which I was taught to appreciate during my 17-year long trek in music studies) and sleep at night, having confidence that tomorrow will not be a crisis in health, finances, employment, or any of the other countless things that so many of my brothers and sisters face.

So, I pray for my eyes to widen, for my ears to open, for my heart to expand. And I do so with the hope that, despite all of these labels, I am first and foremost human.