RACE IN AMERICA

Why My Perspective Is Changing About Privilege?

A personal reflection about my own access and economic privilege

The lines are already drawn. Though, never, neatly enough.

Land of the Lost

I live in a world that is full of irony. Each day that I step with ease inside my bubble — one I call access and economic privilege. I learned early in life to stay planted in my bubble where good things happen. Admittedly, this is a decision of self-preservation and self-indulgence as a natural competitor and ambitious person. I want to make it to the top, too.

The irony is that I enjoy living a life virtually unaffected by social ills or political erosion; yet I happily encourage the less fortunate to keep trying. Knowing full well they don’t have or never will have the same options I am afforded. As I’ve gotten older and reflect on many experiences, I am making the conscious choice to re-evaluate how I use my privilege. Here’s why.

Growing up, I remember watching this popular 90s TV show, The Land of The Lost. Its plot was a popular alternative reality in which a family had to learn to live and survive in a dinosaur-dominated world. I’m not saying I live in a Jurassic Park World, but I can relate to the flooding rush of anxiety one might feel at the sighting of a salivating, carnivorous T-Rex ready to abuse their privilege and attack lower-form prey. For many, and if I am real with myself, we live in our own version of The Land of The Lost.

My bubble is one of slight privilege, because of my proximity to power, status, and professional relationships. In full disclosure, I was born into the bubble and I learned through my childhood years how to exist inside of it. In this bubble, I experienced far-land camps in the mountains, attended private schools of other latchkey spoiled kids, and shared access to prestigious college campus and military officer housing quarters.

I know when I head out into the world my interactions with the proverbial T-Rex, my life will most likely not turn fatal. If I’m sincere, most of my encounters will be innocuous as I am often given a pass to roam freely about the open lands and tend to my own business.

I realize that my uniform and the rank that adorns it, with my special ID card, residential zip code, and the clean-cut unsuspecting look I wear, give me a pass. It is not lost that I am part of the forsaken tribe of America’s lower caste. No, it is not. I’m in a bubble, and I know it.

Attention, ‘Attention!’

“I sometimes, revel in it and wonder how I came to stand in this very spot where I could dance daily among the T-Rex.”

I’ve served for 20 years as a military officer in America’s Army. Every day since September 16th, 2001, I’ve worn a sewn forward marching US Flag on my top right shoulder. For 20 years, every day at 0700 and 1700 hours, I stood at attention and saluted our symbol of freedom and equality among all created men, as its worn fabric waved in the calm dawn and dusk skies.

The disciplined soldiers, dutifully raised the flag and lowered it to rest. Yes, I stood at attention. Every day for 20 years, I walked into rooms, hallways, through sentry gates, and countless other spaces to which subordinate soldiers quickly hushed even the faintest decibel to silence. They would call the command ‘ATTENTION’ and synchronously stand frozen-in-stance awaiting my response command to continue with their business. I sometimes reveled in it and wonder how I came to stand in this sacred spot. I know. I’m in a bubble.

Yet, sometimes the bubble glitches or blinks an HTTP 404 error. Like the day, I walked into an exclusive space of different tribe members. My presence, unexpected and the status I wore, was overlooked. I was casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. No one stood and acknowledged me. Not even a pleasant, “Good Morning.” This time the proper command was unannounced and only stoic eyes rolled off of me and back to business. Nothing to see here was their bodies’ language. Was I technically still in my bubble?

The next day I assumed command responsibility, and I returned to the office of soldiers who so coldly received me the day before. This time I was dressed impeccably in uniform, my privileged cape, and garb. Before I could get square inside the door, those same faces double back with fear, surprise, shock, and embarrassment as they tried to smooth over their previous day’s discourtesy. They barked the loudest “Attention” one could render. I think their behavior was wrong on so many levels but I chose to passively settle it. I felt I made my point. I guess my bubble is working again.

I learned on the day of my military commissioning ceremony that I would walk in privilege and that privilege is attached to my uniform, ID card, and social status. So I ensured every day, I never left my home without these magical items. I understood these tools of privilege, how to use them for personal benefit, and I did unabashedly as I walked inconspicuously by the proverbial ‘T-Rex’ every morning and every evening.

Eventually, a day will come when my tools of privilege will not hold as much value. On this day, I will become solely another member of my tribe, having no protected value to which the T-Rex respects.

Red Light, No Turn

“These were my thoughts: Why is he asking these questions? He just had my military ID card.”

I just landed on a 14-hour international flight from Afghanistan to Baltimore via Germany. My weary body spent the night in Baltimore before making the next morning's 45-minute road trip down to my next duty station in Virginia.

As I pulled off the highway, dusk falling, I was quite unfamiliar with the new town and its streets. I made a slow right at the red light. Within seconds I see swirling lights and hear a commanding siren that seemed to make a short quip, “Stop!” I complied.

The officer turns on his high flash beam flashers that wash out the car’s cabin. I reactively sank in the driver’s seat, stunned. Regaining my composure, I leaned over to reach inside the glove compartment and retrieve my registration. I then pulled out my military ID card and sat waiting for the officer’s presence. He tapped on my window, and I depressed the button to lower the final barrier between me and the outside world. I lived a relatively safe life around the T-Rex, but today, my luck may be tested.

“License and registration,” he forcefully asked. I handed him the documents and kept my eyes facing forward.

My military ID card, rather than my driver’s license, was intentionally placed on top of the registration as a message. It was a slight nod to the bond between the military and the blue wall.

“Do you have a license?” he asked. I handed him an expired California license with a card that stated active duty military members were authorized to retain their license while in service. I kept my eyes forward and watched the passing cars slowing down to see who was stopped by the police.

The officer returned to his car to run my credentials. I must have sat in place for about 30 minutes before the officer returned outside my window.

He made small talk about gathering more information.

“You are not from this area?” he asked.

“No, Sir.” I shook my head.

“What brings you here to Virginia?”

There is a military post not even 15 minutes away from where I was stopped. Also, just a quarter-mile up the highway is an exit sign that reads: “Arlington Cemetery and Pentagon Headquarters. I thought, Why is he asking these questions? He just had my military ID card.

“I report to my next duty station tomorrow. Fort Belvoir.” I informed the nodding officer.

“Do you know why you were stopped?” he asked.

I stopped at the red light. I signaled before making a safe right turn. I was under the speed limit. I was replaying the events. Shaking my head, “I have no clue, Sir.”

“There is a ‘No Turn on Red Light’ sign right underneath the light. Did you not see it?” The officer asked while pointing to the sign at the light behind my car.

I twisted my body to follow his arm and hand, pointing at the sign. I then turned back to look at the officer. “I guess not,” I said.

“Well, I see that you are new to the area. I am going to give you a warning and no citation.” He handed me back my documentation through the top of the window. “If you are ever in the mood for Thai Food, try Sisters Thai in Old Town Alexandria district; you will love it. Have a nice day,” he softly offered before heading back to his patrol car.

“Thanks, Sir.” I keep my eyes forward and depressed the button to close the window. Once again, I make it unscathed. With every police stop, I know the drill, and clearly, they do as well. I am truly fortunate, and I realized that more than ever.

Get the F**k Out the Bubble!

“My bubble is my fantasy escape. I know if I were to leave it behind that I would have to interact with the carnage of real-world, and that is huge.”

What is happening in the New Land of the Lost? So many different encounters of families and individuals who crash course with the T-Rex’s in their lives. It has me wondering about the safety and distance I’m afforded in my bubble. I need to check myself.

I start to reflect back on this world, my world, my bubble — crumbling.

A black man died that day; the police who knelt on the dying man’s neck said he felt his life was in present danger. My workmates argued, while the murder replayed in loop cycle on TV, why did the black man refuse the police’s orders. I listened dumbfounded.

Then, we received the first stimulus checks. My workmates bragged how much they expected to receive for each kid and what new pet projects they would now start working on. A vacation. A new fence. A new collector’s part for a show car. We are all in the 22–24% tax bracket and wouldn’t even miss the stimulus checks. I listened, conflicted, as I knew our lives did not remotely reflect the desperation and despair that flooded our TV waves. If I am truthful, I also thought about pet projects too. Oh, the hypocrisy that reflects straight to me. As much as I aim to be better, I sometimes fall too.

They shut down all businesses because the coronavirus ransacked America’s livelihood. We were all running scared. It seemed America’s bubble was also squeezed. I asked myself, will she run or stay?

The spate of bad news richochet and clogged airwaves — static. In New York, Governor Cuomo is reporting New York’s 23,121 COVID-induced death. Prisoner men in white suits position the wooden boxes filled with devastated bodies in a mass grave — unclaimed. To get away from it all, I turn off the TV, put on my Nikes, and take a walk around the neighborhood pond and 18-hole golf course.

My bubble is my fantasy escape. If I were to escape, it would mean leaving this bubble and interacting with the real world. In the real world where a black man walked home for their final time, where the young black lady in dress confronted the T-Rex for her freedom, where families have lost their livelihood footing, where children pay for just being born, and the sick are underinsured, and, and…

It is not lost what I was doing. Trying to shield myself with an invisible cloak to obscure my movements. Too afraid to walk naked in this ‘Land of The Lost’ world. I wrapped up inside my bubble like a child’s warm blanket.

My sense of comfort was being challenged. My well-tuned subconsciousness kept the heartbeats we lost. It couldn’t let me forget that I’m still blood-related to American Black slaves and a native of the lower race class where the crushing loads of misfortunes lay awake, never relenting. All of this and I am still in that damn bubble.

What is life if you choose to live it blindly while your kind perished and suffered? Could you truly live a purpose-driven life? The T-Rex and I have a unique understanding, but the cost has risen in silent taxes; too heavy to bear. One’s privilege must not be wielded for self-prosper but to make the community around one better. I must let it go; the bubble I’ve known for long.

Help my kind. Pass my privilege. Shine a light on others’ dark, broken roads. Share abundant resources. Something. Anything. My community is breathless and fighting to breathe.

The call is real. Pop.

Thank you for reading! I would love to hear what you think in the comments.

Shay D. Potter is a military veteran, caregiver by day, and writer by night. They are currently working on their debut contemporary novel, Two Roads Back Together. Follow on Instagram, Twitter, or YouTube.

If you are interested to read more of my writings, check out the following ones.

• How Introverts and Shy People Can Start to Build Their Confidence?
• Tears, Fears, Pride for the Stars and Bars…and, Yes, Hope

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