‘this is your nation on white privilege’

This is Your Nation on White Privilege
by Tim Wise

For those who still can’t grasp the concept of white privilege, or who are constantly looking for some easy-to-understand examples of it, perhaps this list will help.

White privilege is when you can get pregnant at seventeen like Bristol Palin and everyone is quick to insist that your life and that of your family is a personal matter, and that no one has a right to judge you or your parents, because “every family has challenges,” even as black and Latino families with similar “challenges” are regularly typified as irresponsible, pathological and arbiters of social decay.

White privilege is when you can call yourself a “fuckin’ redneck,” like Bristol Palin’s boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you’ll “kick their fuckin’ ass,” and talk about how you like to “shoot
shit” for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.

White privilege is when you can attend four different colleges in six years like Sarah Palin did (one of which you basically failed out of, then returned to after making up some coursework at a community college), and no one questions your intelligence or commitment to achievement, whereas a person of color who did this would be viewed as unfit for college, and probably someone who only got in in the first place because of affirmative action.

White privilege is when you can claim that being mayor of a town smaller than most medium-sized colleges, and then Governor of a state with about the same number of people as the lower fifth of the island of Manhattan, makes you ready to potentially be president, and people don’t all piss on themselves with laughter, while being a black U.S. Senator, two-term state Senator, and constitutional law scholar, means you’re “untested.”

White privilege is being able to say that you support the words “under God” in the pledge of allegiance because “if it was good enough for the founding fathers, it’s good enough for me,” and not be immediately disqualified from holding office–since, after all, the pledge was written in the late 1800s and the “under God” part wasn’t added until the 1950s–while believing that reading accused criminals and terrorists their rights (because, ya know, the Constitution, which you used to teach at a prestigious law school requires
it), is a dangerous and silly idea only supported by mushy liberals.

White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people immediately scared of you.

White privilege is being able to have a husband who was a member of an extremist political party that wants your state to secede from the Union, and whose motto was “Alaska first,” and no one questions your patriotism or that of your family, while if you’re black and your spouse merely fails to come to a 9/11 memorial so she can be home with her kids on the first day of school, people immediately think she’s being disrespectful.

White privilege is being able to make fun of community organizers and the work they do–like, among other things, fight for the right of women to vote, or for civil rights, or the 8-hour workday, or an end to child
labor–and people think you’re being pithy and tough, but if you merely question the experience of a small town mayor and 18-month governor with no foreign policy expertise beyond a class she took in college–you’re somehow being mean, or even sexist.

White privilege is being able to convince white women who don’t even agree with you on any substantive issue to vote for you and your running mate anyway, because all of a sudden your presence on the ticket has inspired confidence in these same white women, and made them give your party a “second look.”

White privilege is being able to fire people who didn’t support your political campaigns and not be accused of abusing your power or being a typical politician who engages in favoritism, while being black and merely
knowing some folks from the old-line political machines in Chicago means you must be corrupt.

White privilege is being able to attend churches over the years whose pastors say that people who voted for John Kerry or merely criticize George W. Bush are going to hell, and that the U.S. is an explicitly Christian
nation and the job of Christians is to bring Christian theological principles into government, and who bring in speakers who say the conflict in the Middle East is God’s punishment on Jews for rejecting Jesus, and
everyone can still think you’re just a good church-going Christian, but if you’re black and friends with a black pastor who has noted (as have Colin Powell and the U.S. Department of Defense) that terrorist attacks are often the result of U.S. foreign policy and who talks about the history of racism and its effect on black people, you’re an extremist who probably hates America.

White privilege is not knowing what the Bush Doctrine is when asked by a reporter, and then people get angry at the reporter for asking you such a “trick question,” while being black and merely refusing to give one-word answers to the queries of Bill O’Reilly means you’re dodging the question, or trying to seem overly intellectual and nuanced.

White privilege is being able to claim your experience as a POW has anything at all to do with your fitness for president, while being black and experiencing racism is, as Sarah Palin has referred to it a “light” burden.

And finally, white privilege is the only thing that could possibly allow someone to become president when he has voted with George W. Bush 90 percent of the time, even as unemployment is skyrocketing, people are losing their homes, inflation is rising, and the U.S. is increasingly isolated from world opinion, just because white voters aren’t sure about that whole “change” thing. Ya know, it’s just too vague and ill-defined, unlike, say, four more years of the same, which is very concrete and certain…

White privilege is, in short, the problem.

bonfire bonanza

San Francisco is probably the only city in the country where it’s cheaper to live closer to the beach… and being the cheap bastard I am, you can find my apartment a mere 20 blocks from Ocean Beach. I make it down to the beach on several occasions: walks around Sutro Heights, bike rides near the water, and trips to visit 100 cardboard cut-outs of Native Americans near the Cliff House. Despite all my endeavors, I’ve never hung out at the beach at night… until this weekend when I went to my very first bonfire.

When I was told we were having a bonfire for Mark’s birthday, I imagined us being the only group huddled in a circle near the ocean. Upon arriving at the beach, I saw 20-30 groups of people scattered on the sand from Balboa to Noriega. Fire pits were set up everywhere you looked: some in holes dug in the sand, others raised up above the ground with sand scultures formed around them. As we walked toward our spot, I noticed that groups had music speakers, hookahs and fireworks. This wasn’t just a last minute thought for these people; these bonfires were planned well in advance.

Our group had 8-10 people huddled around a fire that was dug into the ground. We all placed hot dogs on sticks and stuck them in the sand. My first attempt was kind of a disaster. The stick fell out of the sand and the weiner landed in the fire. But my second one was mighty delicious (even after my kvetching about whether it was fully cooked or if I would get another bout of food poisioning). We also had chips, smores, liquor-induced jello and my trusty Nalgene with a bottle of wine encased within its green walls. At one point, when the fire was diminishing, we put a cardboard box in the hole. The fire ate that cardboard box so fast and it lit up the entire beach. But as quickly as the new fire dynasty began, it died and we ended up packing up and heading out.

I can’t believe I live so close to the beach and never heard of this before. I want to have a bonfire every weekend. All you do is put on a warm sweater, get your favorite food and drinks, bring some music, enjoy the sound of the ocean as the sun sets… and the fire does everything else. It provides warmth, it cooks the food, it becomes the visual commonality for everyone in the group, it serves as a conversation starter, and its existence is co-dependent on the people who created it. It’s the ultimate symbiotic relationship.

Jon Secada Lives Again

The past two days with the nPod have proven to be entertaining. There have been moments of pure joy:

• When I discovered the Jon Secada album that featured “Just Another Day” and “Do You Believe In Us”
• “Love is a Battlefield” by Pat Benetar (I sure did picture myself in my jammies with a bunch of 12 year old girls like in the movie 13 Going on 30)

There have been some artists of which I’ve never heard and listening to one song has inspired me to investigate more:

• “Hey, Hey” by The Elms
• “Happy” by Fischerspooner

There have been some artists I know, but songs I’ve never heard before that I really liked:

• “Chitown Tonight” by Joe Purdy
• “Lucifer” by Jay-Z

And finally, there has been one song that made me question my friend’s validity in this competition:

• “If You Asked Me To” by Celine Dion

But who am I to say anything? I’m sure I have equally embarassing guilty pleasures (see: Britney Spears, Whitney Houston, soundtrack from The Incredibles). Unless, of course, this wasn’t a guilty pleasure and in fact their personal anthem. In which case, we may need to have an intervention.

Day 4 with nPod: going strong. We’re growing attached.  We whisper sweet nothings in the day, spoon each other at night. I open doors for him, he pays for my dinner.

I even used the “L” word last night… do you think it was too soon?

The Big Switch

Not to be cocky, but I have the best taste in music ever. Diverse, yet focused; lively, yet endearing; hip, yet classy. Whenever people get in my car, the first thing they often say is “has it always smelled like this?” But then that’s quickly followed by “can you please stop texting while you’re driving? I’m getting really nervous.” Eight or nine sentences later, they will eventually mumble “this is kind of the most incredible iPod ever.”

I couldn’t agree more.

I’ve always taken immaculate pride in my music collection. I treat new albums as additions to the family. I place them next to their siblings in my playlist (who just so happen to be kept in alphabetical order). I take my iPod everywhere I go. Everywhere. Sometimes I even bring my speakers into the bathroom while I take a shit just so I can have a soundtrack to my bowel adventures.

Perhaps that was an overshare?

Anyway, what I’m trying to establish is that my iPod and I are besties. Last night, a certain individual (who will remain anonymous for this next series of posts) and I decided to switch our iPods, convincing each other that our own music collections (which somewhat overlap) are far superior than the other. Knowing that mine is the best, I felt pretty confident going into this competition. We will listen to each other’s iPod for one week. I told this person to take notes, make comments. I want a full debrief at the end of the week of likes and dislikes.

I listened to the nPod (new iPod) last night on my drive home. Since it was so new to me, everything sounded great. The first song came on– “At Last”. How romantic and idealistic. Then I heard some r&b and JT and things were good. But on the drive to work this morning, I put it on the “Top Rated” playlist and I just couldn’t find anything I wanted to hear for the morning. It bounced back and forth between hip-hop, techno and soft rock. So what did I do? Find the CD I burned this individual and listened to it. I needed stablity for a groggy morning mood. I totally wimped out. I’m ashamed to admit it… but denial is always the first step and I had to plunge through it.

On the ride home, I manned up and gave the nPod another try. I listened to the Top Rated mix once again and enjoyed it more. Slowly, but surely. I still skipped through a few songs that I felt sounded like ones I had already heard, but I did come across a few beauties I wanted to share:

1) Burn — Usher (Axwell Version)

2) Piano Song — Meiko

3) 4am — Our Lady Peace

4) That Was Then — Jesse McCartney

And the techno music that annoyed me in the morning came in handy when I was cooking this evening. It was good background music as I focused on the vegetables I carefully cut for my pasta sauce. It put a little pep in my step for a normally ordinary task.

At the end of Day One, I feel a little better. I feel like I went through the first three months of living somewhere new in twenty-four hours. The quick excitement, the reality that things aren’t the same, and the small discoveries that make you feel comfortable but challenge you at the same time.

nPod: I look forward to what you bring me in the next week. May the best pod win.

Remember that Time?

Remember that time when I was sick of living in land-locked Ohio and decided to search for jobs primarily in California? I applied to almost every school that had an opening. I had never been to northern California but I had this gut feeling that I would love it. I figured it would be just like southern California except with less traffic and smog, more moderate weather, and more hippies. I was right on all accounts.

Remember that time I accepted a job at San Jose State University and drove across country in three days (to the hour)? I only brought whatever could fit in my car and sold the rest. Once I got here, I ended up sleeping on the ground for the first three weeks until my bed got delivered.

Remember that time within the first month of my job, I found out my supervisor would be leaving for four months to work on a ship for Semester at Sea?

Remember that time I discovered that there was more to San Francisco than the Financial District and Embaracadero? Shane made me walk around Golden Gate Park, through the Haight, up and down a mountain, through the Castro, Dolores Park and Mission until we finally reached the 16th Street BART station. I ate the most amazing burrito ever (and still go back to that taqueria). That day gave me the desire and curiosity to come back over and over, wanting to discover more.

Remember that time I moved four times in under two years?

Remember that time I planned a leadership conference for 400 people with no experience in planning leadership conferences? I’m pretty happy with how it’s turned out and think of it as one of my greatest accomplishments in my job. And when will I get an excuse to use Pirates and the London Underground as themes again? Probably not anytime soon.

Remember that time I made some great friends and went on the following trips with them: weddings in Santa Barbara, conferences in San Luis Obispo, beach trips in Santa Cruz, weddings in Merced (dreamy, dreamy Merced!), job signings in Berkeley, Thanksgiving in San Francisco, reunions in Los Angeles, and countless tourist trips in our own cities.

Remember that time after two years at SJSU I accepted a new job in corporate America? Although I’ve enjoyed this rollercoaster called higher education, I am excited for a new opportunity. I am excited to be living in the greatest city in the world. I am excited for the friends I’ve made and those I am making. I am excited to walk to the beach when I want serenity or to the Haight when I want crowds. I am excited to be blogging after a week hiatus.

Remember that time I couldn’t think of a poignant way to end this entry?

permanent press, medium heat

One of the patterns I have developed since moving to the city is doing laundry on Tuesday nights. I chose Tuesday mostly from a process of elimination. Monday is too long already and to do laundry would just elongate the pain. Wednesday nights have some of my favorite trashy tv shows (but can be substituted for happy hour quite easily). Thursday is a good night to hang out with friends, anticipating the sweet sounds of Saturday and Sunday just around the corner. And Friday– well, I usually save my Friday evenings for reviewing my bug collection and polishing my rock garden. And since the weekends are quite hectic at Sunshine Laundry, Tuesday is my default day. Tuesday is the day when I rinse, wash, heat and repeat.

There are some perks about doing my laundry in public. I love showing everyone my underwear (whether they want to see it or not). I’m quite proud of the money I’ve spent on my Old Navy Lingerie collection. It’s a good investment. And I must say I look good in the boxers that say “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” all over them. That was $4.99 well spent. Something I’m also proud of is how I have horrible laundry etiquette. I’m well aware that one is supposed to divide their loads into things like “whites” and “colors” and “delicates” but I prefer to divide my loads into “top half of the basket” and “everything else I didn’t grab the first time around.” I don’t really buy clothes that would bleed and my whites usually stay pretty bright so I have little use for bleach. I’m sure this will come to haunt me one day, but for now I enjoy living life on the edge.

I really like that using a laundromat forces me to do it all at once. I’ve always hated laundry because I go through the same conflict of do I stay around and diligently listen for the machine to get it done quickly so others can use it? and do I put my clothes in the dryer and come back whenever and deal with the wrinkly mess that will await my folding fingers? No more conflict when I do it all at once. And the best part is the counter space to fold all your clothes when your done. By the time I get home, all I have to do is put them away. I used to hate folding my clothes on my bed, so now I don’t have to associate my sleeping palace with dirty laundry… but instead with things like blankets, pillows and my silky, soft skin.

And what about the characters that come in the laundromat when you’re there? There’s always those who walk in, put their clothes in the machines and peace out. Since I live a few blocks away and haven’t worked myself up to the point where I can leave and feel comfortable that my clothes will still be around when I get back, I sit on the bench and watch my striped socks swirl in the washing machine filled with one carefully measured scoop of Air Breeze Tide.

Then of course there are those who stay in the Laundromat. Some people bring nothing with them and just sit there. Others will bring books or iPods, jamming to Laundromat appropriate music (for a list of Laundromat Appropriate Music, please refer to the LAM guide at your local Sunshine Laundry). A few people will talk on the phone, making laps around the machines as they speak with their friends or partners or grandparents. Doing laundry is a great time to call the grandparents. When you tell them what you’re doing, they can’t help but be proud that you can do your own laundry now.

My favorite type of people are those who come with their friends, most likely drink between loads and insist on singing really bad songs as loud as they can. Wait, did I say “favorite?” I meant “please never come back.”

Where other nights can bring unknown adventures, Tuesdays are reliable because of their quirky predictability. Although the people and songs and books and strange looks change, I know I will always be entertained by my fellow Laundromaters. We’re a rare breed: we public displayers of laundry, we shower and tellers. It’s a shame if you don’t do your laundry at the laundromat; you people are really missing out.

#85.5: Celebrating Holidays

Although people around the world have celebrations throughout the year to honor meaningful days in their culture, white people in the US love making sure that you know they are celebrating a holiday. These holidays come in two forms: American holidays that give them an excuse to be proud to be an American, and religious holidays that give them an excuse to show their love for Jesus Christ. It can be argued that these holidays are celebrated more out of routine, but any excuse to clean the grill or dust off your tacky Christmas sweater for a tacky Christmas sweater party is good enough for white people. Point them to the hot dog aisle at a supermarket or the spinach dip and carrots on Grandma’s kitchen counter and they are ready for any momentous occasion.

White people love American holidays because it gives them a sense of pride that they can’t find in their jobs or marital affairs. White people love being the best and since America is the best country (and thus so are American cars, furniture and food), they love making sure others know that our founding and milestones should be witnessed around the world. Along with this thought, it is also common for white people to think that not only are their creations amazing, but that no one can meet their high expectations. American holidays are a great time for Dad to remind everyone that all French people are mean and that food is meant to be eaten with your hands, not with tiny sticks.

But if there’s something white people love more than celebrating American holidays, it’s celebrating religious holidays. And since the majority of the country is Christian, they love to use this fact as defense for why it’s okay to say and write “Merry Christmas” everywhere in public. (Side note: Using the same logic, why don’t white people say things like ‘Have a white day!”?) White people think it’s a crime against humanity if anything is planned or scheduled for a Christian holiday, but require others to bring in excuse notes to prove that they were really celebrating heathen days such as “Solstice” or “Pesach.”

The best part about celebrating a religious holiday is getting to hang out with your extended family. Although you wish you could do this everyday, you weep a little on the inside knowing that you can only eat tuna casserole and slightly burnt ham on a few days of the year with your twin counsins who insist on pinching each other under the table. After a few “amens” and stories about how cute you were as a child, white people can get through the meal as fast as possible in order to spend the rest of the day reflecting on why their celebrations are so important that supermarkets and hair salons close.

leaving my heart in san francisco

Tony Bennett released the song I Left My Heart in San Francisco in 1962 and his words are often associated with the beauty of this fine city by the sea. Tony wrote:

The loveliness of Paris seems somehow sadly gay,
The glory that was Rome is just another day,
I’ve been terribly alone and forgotten in Manhattan,
I’m going home to my city by the bay.

As someone who also thinks the wonders of the world hold nothing to this cultural explosion of hilly goodness, I hope I never leave my heart in San Francisco because that implies that I have left the city, never to return. Instead, I want my heart (and more importantly, my perfectly-chiseled body) to remain in this city by the bay as long as it can. I’ve moved around so much, and for the first time I finally have found an emotional and spiritual connection with a city.

Something that’s always been important to me is aesthetics. Urban planning, architecture, public art, mountains in the distance, dramatic sunsets… these things matter! I am someone who is inspired by what I see and when a city can offer me any combination of the above, I have found love. Yet San Francisco has managed to give me all of above plus cultural, artistic and dining experiences like I’ve never experienced in a climate that is never too extreme. This city truly has anything a person could want (with the slight exception that it will eventually break off and float toward Hawaii).

Just today I managed to walk in one of the largest parks in an metropolitan city (fact: Golden Gate Park is actually larger than Central Park in NYC), go food shopping one block from the ocean, eat coconut tofu and noodles in the heart of the hippie revolution and sit in a field where tons of people were openly smoking weed and no one seemed to care. The only things this city lacks are expansive parking lots and ugly surroundings. If you want those, please look elsewhere.

What excites me most about living here is that although San Francisco is only about 7 square miles, I feel like I can continually make new discoveries every time I step out of my home. I think part of the reason I keep moving is because I master a city and am ready to try something new. It’s refreshing to know that I can’t use that excuse this time.

I leave you with the rest of Tony’s song… may his words inspire you to come visit me soon.

I left my heart in San Francisco, high on a hill it calls to me
To be where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars.
The morning fog may chill the air, I don’t care.
My love waits there in San Francisco, above the blue and windy sea,
When I come home to you, San Francisco, your golden sun will shine for me.