Cover art for Checking My Privilege by J-d-write

Checking My Privilege

1 viewer

Checking My Privilege Lyrics

Today, I have been forced to check my privilege in a way that I didn’t foresee, in a way that made me uncomfortable, and in a way which makes me have to write about it, even though I have to write about it from a position of white, male privilege. This tough day I have had in no way equates to the struggle many go through daily; it doesn’t equate to the struggle my wife goes through as a mixed race woman, or to the struggle my son seems fated to go through.

Perhaps I shouldn’t write about this. But I’m going to. I’m writing to white people who haven’t considered their privilege. People who haven’t felt demeaned in a place they should feel safe, who haven’t seen their loved ones face abuse. I write this even though, had I been alone all day, and not in the company of black friends and family, I would have been utterly untouched, utterly unaffected. I’d have tweeted a few lefty statements and condemned white extremists from a position of privilege and complete lack of understanding. I’ve discussed race and class and feminism with people, read challenging and thoughtful blogs by a range of thinkers, both well known and emerging. My white privilege has been challenged to an extent; to the extent, simply, that I am now aware of it and consider it. I would like to think that I’m a fair person, not prejudiced, aware of how racism’s (and other prejudice’s) structures cut through society. But this is all through the prism of my white, male privilege. It means nothing.

Nobody has been racist to ME today. I’ve simply been exposed to prejudice that would otherwise have passed me by.

Nevertheless, it’s woken me up to certain feelings to which my white privilege has made me immune. It’s made me face up to the unnerving feeling of facing indirect and direct prejudice as you go about your normal life.

Some hint of it came when my wife expressed her wariness of visiting town, her fear of our son, young as he is, being exposed to prejudice. This redoubled my intention to head into town, to actually start doing something about what I perceive to be wrong. It wasn’t as simple a day as I had expected.

For the first time, groups of men who looked like me – six foot white men, short hair, laddish demeanours – made me wary. As we walked through Leeds city centre, men like these became questions, threatening potential violence or abuse. A young man coughed as we walked past, one of those ‘I’m saying something under my breath coughs’.

Behind my privilege, I thought nothing of it. My friend, black, stopped, suspicious, but not certain. He had heard abuse. That was the first point at which I had to think. Amongst the seemingly oblivious shoppers, had that happened? How often must this happen?

Around the corner, the EDL were gathered. The police surrounded their subdued ranks, hemming them into city square, oddly juxtaposed with the bourgeois diners outside the Loch Fyne restaurant. Opposite, a mixed crew of people stood, waiting for the march. Everybody seemed to scrutinise everybody else, seeking to divine their intentions. I’ve never had to do that before, not even when walking down the street with my wife. I’ve never felt this – the idea that there might be people out there who don’t like you, who are explicitly going to be prejudiced against you. Pleasingly, the groups of teenagers who walked past seemed disparaging of the fascist thugs, offering some hope.

But millions of our countrymen and women have to have this reality, every day, every time they leave their house. You sometimes hear the idea put forward that it’s ‘their fault’ that ‘they should integrate more’.

I wouldn’t. Not if I faced that every time I went to the shops.

I’ve never quite understood why my wife hates certain supermarkets so much. I thought, wrongly, that it was a touch over the top. I know now that was wrong. I understand, in a tiny way, that feeling she must have in a tesco in Seacroft, as little glances build up like daggers pricking in her back. This is just one of a litany of events, in the years I’ve known her, that have punctuated her life. From being followed around supermarkets and shouted at in the street, including directly outside the University of Leeds, these events occur more often than you may think.

Through all of this, my white privilege still protects me, still means that I’m safe, relatively protected, able to blend into the majority with ease.

After the pathetic dribbling of fascists meandered up a quiet street, met by silent indifference and mocking comments, I met my wife and son in a popular Leeds park. This park is always filled with families from every background, being fairly central and within easy reach of the inner-city communities where non-white communities are in no way ghettoised in this country.
After a stroll around, we approached a cafe. Three white men, early twenties, cycled past, and one spat on the floor, while looking at us. My son was in my arms. My wife next to me. Neither of us responded, or mentioned it until we were in the car later.

I have never felt anything like the confusion I felt then. Anger. Shame. I wanted to rewind time and strike back. But this is a fraction of what people face. A tiny fraction. My white privilege was, briefly, checked.

Today, I’ve experienced a fraction of what others do, daily. At any time, I could have walked away, and my whiteness would have ended it. In fact, it probably was an ameliorating factor, deflecting the worse of the toxins to others. I know that had I been alone in any of those situations, I would have been untouched. In fact, I’d have unwittingly intimidated people, by being a white male with a shaved head. I realise I must have done that many times.

We live in a country where we, white people, like to think that we’re not racist, that we have black friends and appreciate black culture. This is a cosy lie. We think that Stephen Lawrence is a sad footnote to a struggle that’s in the past. He isn’t. We think that we’re not like America, we didn’t have slavery here, so we don’t have the same history. No. We built our cities and economies on slavery. We’ve benefitted, continuously, from white privilege.

We need to do more than sign a petition, or tweet about how we view the EDL as lowlifes. We need to engage directly in the struggle, because the struggle continues on. And if we don’t make the change, nothing can change. We have to show our prejudiced friends and families that they’re wrong, that they damage the fabric of our society. We need to show our racist neighbours the error of their ways, and, most of all, we need to recognise our role in it, no matter how liberal we think we are; we must see how we benefit from all of the wrongs which keep people down in this country, the ‘soft’ prejudice as well as the hard.

We must condemn it all. We must fight it all. This must become our everyday struggle too.

How to Format Lyrics:

  • Type out all lyrics, even repeating song parts like the chorus
  • Lyrics should be broken down into individual lines
  • Use section headers above different song parts like [Verse], [Chorus], etc.
  • Use italics (<i>lyric</i>) and bold (<b>lyric</b>) to distinguish between different vocalists in the same song part
  • If you don’t understand a lyric, use [?]

To learn more, check out our transcription guide or visit our transcribers forum

About

Have the inside scoop on this song?
Sign up and drop some knowledge

Q&A

Find answers to frequently asked questions about the song and explore its deeper meaning

Credits
Tags
Comments