White Privilege on the Streets of Ferguson
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Being white is not all it is cracked up to be -- at least not for those who are really aware. There's no escaping the ugly history of those who look like me, those who have historically terrorized and dehumanized some part of nearly every culture including our own. In the past I carried much shame and embarrassment about being white.
When Michael Brown was murdered I found myself sobbing while unconsciously rubbing my skin until it started to hurt. Was I trying to rub away my whiteness?
As a young white girl, I was raised in a very prejudiced environment. My grandmother tried very hard to teach me that being white was better than anyone else -- especially black. Lessons came through getting the hell beat out of me for having my black friends discovered. Another time I was whipped until I bled for declaring that Jesus was black. After all, he hid in Egypt.
When I first heard the term "white privilege," I didn't think it applied to me; I certainly did not feel any sense of privilege. I was from a poor home filled with abuse and brokenness. Life had been hard. As the mother of black children I feared daily for their safety as they left home for school, work or play.
As I learned more, I understood white privilege as a social benefit of which I am, by default, a recipient just because I'm white.
I have never been as aware of my privilege as I was on the volatile streets of Ferguson. ...
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