My privilege is showing. It think it’s probably better that way.

I feel confident writing humor and publishing it here. I enjoy this luxury– blogging and spearheading LTYM–while conscious of self-employment as a luxury that any manner of life-events could interrupt. My privilege of creative expression stems from stability–at present a life free of major stressors (illness, poverty, for starters, and racism is where this is going) and, historically, a life full of pretty much every imaginable support.

Fear has kept me from writing this post–fear of showing my privilege, of saying the wrong thing, of sounding like I know what I’m doing or have something figured out. However, even if I feel a bit out of my depth, I’m forcing myself with increasing frequency to sit with this discomfort, and to stay in the room where issues of privilege and racism are concerned.

My own fear around race discussions likely stems from growing up in a culture incredibly uncomfortable talking about race. We “celebrated diversity” in t-shirt, and in singing multicultural songs in school, and maybe by taking a bus to an international folk fair in Milwaukee, where we ate food and collected doodads from around the world. In reality we celebrated the idea of diversity while practicing homogeneity in my mostly white and upper/middle-class upbringing.

We didn’t talk about racial/cultural differences in a meaningful way, and “racism” existed in the past, or somewhere in the deep woods south, under an obvious sign like a Nazi skinhead or a Confederate flag. Meanwhile, nearly all of the students of color in my high school attended classes on the first floor of the building where the basic and trade courses were held, while on the second and third floors, advanced classes (Latin! Film Studies! Pre-Calc! Shakespeare! ) full of white kids predominated. I think you can call it segregation even if the black kids weren’t intentionally kept out of advanced classes. Huge chasms of disparity can lie between intentionality and outcomes, and assuming the intention was equality, the outcomes told a different story for many/most of those kids. Those disparities have significantly intensified in Madison over the past twenty years, to the point of crisis today–especially for our Black male youth (and Latino male youth following too closely on their heels).

Last night as I watched the #Ferguson Twitter stream, the data coming from people on the ground (and local government before they were imprisoned, media before they were expelled) told of rubber bullets and tear gas sprayed at crowds of peaceful protestors with their hands up. I tweeted this:

A few people responded by arguing about the crowd throwing rocks, speculated about a Molotov cocktail–essentially inferring that the Ferguson protestors got what they deserved. A couple more pointed out the differences between the nature of the events (peaceful political protest, compared with angry reaction to a murder). The point of my comment was not to make an apples to apples comparison, but to say that because of our privilege, when deciding to raise our voices in protest, we did not have to choose between our safety and making our voices heard.

We did not face the threat of police brutality where we gathered in large numbers, which people of color across our country must consider when congregating (even in small numbers) to protest — regardless of context. While the degree of our anger toward Governor Walker and his administration felt real and palpable, I would argue that maintaining a peaceful atmosphere did not require serious self control. How many of us can comment on, or even imagine the willpower to contain our rage, and our own perhaps never-before experienced violent tendency if our son, or our neighbor’s son, white males one after another across the country, unarmed, got shot by our police, or choked to death, or beaten for a minor or no infraction?  Actually, how might our peaceful protest have devolved if  police equipped with military grade weaponry, shooting rubber bullets, & throwing tear gas canisters, descended on the capitol while we ranted within that confined space?

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My life, my mostly happiness, and my success grew from a childhood in which I felt loved, safe, and food and lodging was secure–my way in this world paved by my parents and their parents, white skin and heterosexuality, extraordinarily good health, able-bodied/mind-ness, even thin nice-enough-lookingness.

I got introduced to the concept of white-privilege in undergrad at UW Madison, all the while enjoying the benefits my own white privilege as a UW student afforded me.  For example, I expected not only to have a voice that people listened to, as a theater major I got quite accustomed to the spotlight, knowing I’d have ample opportunities for roles regardless of whether a director decided to make a radical “color-blind” casting choice (which some did, to their credit).

I go into interviews with the expectation I stand a good chance of landing a job I’m qualified for (although as I age, that theory may get tested). I go about my shopping day without suspect eyes tracking me. I do not fear my sons’ expulsion from school, or incarceration for minor infractions. My peers of color in Madison and on Facebook live in fear of these outcomes for their sons, and these fears are justified in a city where  52% of our non-Hispanic black boys do not graduate high school with a regular diploma in four years,  and where black men made up only 4.8%  of the county’s total adult male population, yet accounted for more than 43% of all new adult prison placements in 2012 (Race to Equity report, Wisconsin Council on Children & Families). I have the privilege of believing teachers and administration, and police have my family’s best interest at heart–in theory, but more importantly in practice. My step-father was a teacher and administrator in Madison schools for his entire career. He told me a story of a colleague of his, a Black mother, upon visiting an elementary school her children had attended, asking him “Is this artwork new, or was it always here?” It had always been there, but she explained, as a  parent she never noticed, because every time she stepped into school she felt hyper focused on the task at hand, attuned only to the feeling she was going into battle on behalf of her child.

I can afford to look at art work. I can greet people warmly and be welcoming because of a confidence gained from a life of investment in my success as a person, both monetarily and from social capital I could easily access. I can volunteer in school to create meaningful connections with black children and children of color who are growing into black teens and adults of color in my city,  because I have a partner who makes a generous wage, and I, too, have at times been paid handsomely for work involving simple math seated at a desk, a firm handshake, a nice suit, and people skills. I don’t have to stand on my feet all day at 2 or 3 jobs (if I’m lucky) and still not even be able to clothe and feed my kids. As I write this, I feel overwhelmed by even an attempt to piece out all the ways my privilege has set me up for and continues to allow for my success, my free-will, my creativity, and my hard work to flourish.

Now, to come full circle about using my own voice and my platform for discussing racism and privilege, it’s worth noting that for whatever awards and ways my humor has earned me recognition and helped me create a platform, my two most shared tweets– by many many times over anything else I’ve ever quipped– are the following:

Let’s show our privilege, and put it to work for good.

For me that means challenging myself out of my comfort zone on the school playground–engaging with parents different from me. It means listening and showing up and staying when it’s uncomfortable. It means educating myself, and paying attention, and lending my voice to the chorus of voices demanding change. It means admitting where I need help in my work with LTYM, and not asking for favors to make my project better but creating a context where people feel welcome and I invest in them by creating opportunities at a microphone, financially, and/or otherwise.

I am showing up. I am making mistakes. To use my sister Rachel Krinsky’s words–I am no longer simply doing enough to check the boxes to tell myself I’m not a racist. I’m working on making meaningful invitations personally and professionally, locally and nationally. I’m here, and I’m staying in the room.