What about me?
That is the question. It’s so integral to human thought and expression that it easily could qualify as our Animal Kingdom equivalent to arf, oink, and moo.
It’s also a question that, whether asked directly or implied, can curtail every meaningful discussion about race and racism. There will almost always be a White person in any room where the elephant that is racism isn’t being ignored who will bring the focus back to themselves. They’ll listen to Black people talking about their experiences dealing with systemic racism in a White world, fold their arms, and basically say (or think): What about me?
What about them?
They seem to want a shining gold star for setting the perfect example of how to be White. They think because they’re “colorblind,” racism and all its attendant menaces (cultural appropriation, White privilege) must be greatly exaggerated, especially since White people struggle, too. The “What about me?” White folks would never admit to being racist, yet when we talk or write about racism, they’re perfectly comfortable making it all about themselves.
Lately, “What about me?”-ism is multiplying exponentially right here on Medium, courtesy of White “writers” who are fed up with White people being the villains of systemic racism. They’d rather pretend it’s a figment of our imagination than be implicated in its messiness.
They don’t see color, so how dare we talk about racism without acknowledging that not all White people are racist? What about them? Their parents taught them not to judge people by the color of their skin, and they do the same with their children. So can Black people just shut the f--k up and stop being so damn divisive?
If only they were as concerned about fighting systemic racism as they are about defending their own honor as good, upstanding White people. They only care about racism when it reflects poorly on them. If the White people railing the loudest against the supposed pandemic of anti-Whiteness rallied against racism as hard as they rally against critical race theory, cultural appropriation, and cancel culture, the world would be a much different place. Critical race theory might even be a moot point (and I wouldn’t have to scroll past any more Medium articles about it).
And don’t get them started on White privilege, which is perhaps the most misunderstood aspect of systemic racism. It must be the word “privilege.” For many, it conjures an image of wealth and excellent breeding, with a healthy heap of beauty on the side. If you’re poor, plain, and White, you might look at your life and look in the mirror and say, “What’s so privileged about this?”
You might look at me, a well-educated Black man with a good job living in one of the most expensive cities on the planet, and wonder what I have to complain about when you’re barely getting by. I get it. Equating happiness with wealth is as human nature as “What about me?” — but White privilege isn’t just about money. It may lead to wealth, but you don’t have to have money or make money to benefit from it.
White privilege doesn’t mean it’s always a wonderful life when you’re White. We all know that White people suffer, too. White privilege won’t protect White people from hard knocks in life. It doesn’t grant them immunity from pain and the difficulties of everyday living.
If you have money, you can turn poverty into a fashion statement. If you can’t afford clothes that aren’t tattered, people will look at you and think you’re poor without assuming you’re dangerous too.
White privilege means that when you are White, regardless of your socioeconomic status, your life likely won’t be negatively impacted because of your race. If you are stopped by a policeman while driving down a dark road at night, you won’t have to brace yourself for possible mistreatment, bloodshed, and maybe even death because you are White.
If you have money, you can turn poverty into a fashion statement. If you can’t afford clothes that aren’t tattered, people will look at you and think you’re poor without assuming you’re dangerous too. You can put on a hoodie or dress way down and walk out your front door without fear of being mistaken for a “thug.”
When you leave the house alone for an afternoon jog, your parents, spouse, partner, or roommates won’t have to worry you’ll be hunted down and shot to death by racist vigilantes because you’re the same color as a suspected local burglar — or because you’re a White person running through a White neighborhood. You won’t be discouraged from defending yourself, verbally or physically, lest you get shot, either by a trigger-happy cop or a private citizen.
When you go looking for a new home, the biggest barrier standing between you and a place you can afford won’t be the color of your skin. As a kid, you probably were never disinvited to a friend’s birthday party because their parents didn’t want a person of your color in their house. You can sunbathe until you’re a beautiful bronze hue and field compliments from all your “pasty” friends without ever having to suffer the indignities one suffers when their tan is permanent.
Rich or poor, you were raised with abundant positive images of people who looked like you, on TV, in movies, in magazines. You grew up learning a version of American and world history in which your ancestors were always the protagonists, even when they were engaging in genocide. You can easily accept Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson as great American heroes and shrug at Confederate monuments because if the Confederacy had won the Civil War, you’d still be free.
You can probably trace your ancestry centuries back, maybe to the Mayflower, or to the Reformation, or to the Roman Empire. The average Black American probably won’t be able to go much further back than 1865 because the vital statistics of slaves were haphazardly recorded, if they were recorded at all. You can watch movies about slavery with a sort of detached horror, pat yourself on the back for not being as awful as those evil slaveholders, and save your tears for when Audrey Hepburn sings “Moon River” in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Speaking of Audrey Hepburn, White privilege is heightened when you happen to be beautiful, too. We’ve seen it in the media coverage of Gabby Petito’s murder. If she were Black, we wouldn’t know her name at all. And if she were White and unattractive, we probably wouldn’t know her name either. Last year while I was watching the Netflix documentary American Murder: The Family Next Door, about a man who murdered his wife and two children, I couldn’t stop wondering if the triple murder would have gotten any attention at all if the killer hadn’t been so handsome and so White.
We should all be angry about this. We should all be angry that White lives seem to matter more than Black ones, and that the lives of beautiful people and rich people, regardless of race, seem to matter more, too. That, however, doesn’t change the facts of White privilege. We should be angry about that, too, not because of what it says about the individual White people who benefit from it but because of what it says about our society.
White privilege won’t necessarily make you rich. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re beautiful. It doesn’t automatically make you racist — or a bad person. Some simply have it; others actively wield it (the so-called “Karens” of the world). It doesn’t mean that when you’re White in a Black and White world, you will invariably get to live a wonderful life or that your life will matter to anyone other than you.
Here’s what it does mean: If your not-so-wonderful life ends a moment too soon, chances are it won’t be because you were White.