I have to admit something. I felt very uncomfortable and self-conscious writing my previous post about my new living conditions (more than the usual discomfort that comes with publishing one’s personal writing for the world to see). The reason for my extra queasiness is because, as I’ve been immersing myself with these fantastic new facilities and home amenities in Dallas this week, my mind has been with the people of Haiti and Afghanistan, and it’s a guilt-inducing endeavor trying to reconcile these disparate realities.
To be clear, the guilt I feel is not because I’ve done something wrong; it’s a guilt born of the recognition that I am benefiting from something I didn’t earn, something I inherited purely by chance, something afforded to me but not to everyone. This thing I’m referring to I call “American privilege.”
As I was sitting in the Dallas sun the other day, overlooking my new vista, sipping my iced latte, and scrolling through my iPhone, I could feel the grip of guilt grow with each horrifying image I saw on my screen of mutilated bodies being recovered from the rubble in Haiti and terrified Afghans desperately clinging to US aircraft at the Hamid Karzai airport – some plunging to their deaths. In the face of this juxtaposition, I was reminded of a conversation I once had with a close friend.
My friend is Nigerian. He was actually born in London, England, but was not granted automatic citizenship due to the British Nationality Act 1981. He grew up in Lagos and he and I met as undergraduates in Michigan in 2005. For as long as I’ve known him, it has been a constant struggle for him to retain American residency. Despite no criminal records; despite copious academic credentials; and despite contributing to the American economy for the last 17 years through his tuition, rent, and other personal expenses; it has been an uphill battle for him to secure a work visa or green card or anything that could legally keep him in this country besides enrolling in more school. The implicit message he has received from the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services is: “You are not wanted here.”
Years ago, he and I were discussing our various forms of privilege. My friend, for instance, was born into a family wealth that dwarfs my lower middle-class upbringing. But my friend said to me, “Phil, you have the greatest privilege there is: You’re an American. You grew up in a country with clean running water and electricity that works 99.99% of the time. You have a largely functional government that’s kept in check through free elections. Your market will reward you for your labor and economic contributions. Your visa is like gold – you can basically go anywhere in the world you want. All other forms of privilege pale in comparison to being an American.”
I was reminded of my American privilege again the other night while having dinner with some fellow MMIAM students. A student from France and a student from Italy were lamenting how difficult it was to get a good job in the arts in their countries because the arts establishments there are so corrupted with nepotism and other exclusionary practices. Meanwhile, I sheepishly thought to myself, “I just gave up a good job in hopes of getting an even better job.”
I expect I’ll be confronted with my American privilege at many other points during this international journey. And I expect it will continue to raise complicated feelings as well as tough questions about why this privilege exists and what to do with it. This is not to suggest there is nothing bad or broken about my country; on the contrary, many of her flaws are fully displayed on the global stage this week. I only mean to say I have been reminded – in a humbling way – of the unique advantages afforded to me by my country, which are not always found in other countries.
The recent scenes from around the world are heartbreaking. Any form of human suffering is tragic. I don’t have the expertise in geopolitics to say anything profound or insightful about the specific situations in Haiti, Afghanistan, or Cuba (which already feels like old news), or even Lebanon (which isn’t getting any coverage in the American press). This blog is not a good source for political hot takes. (However, I will say that anyone – regardless of their citizenship – who risked their life and sacrificed more than I’ve ever sacrificed to protect Americans and American interests should be granted safe harbor on American soil, no questions asked). I mostly wanted to share my reflections on privilege and American identity within the context of recent global events and my graduate school experience. And I expect this is a theme I’ll return to in future posts.
What do you think? Does American privilege exist? What do you do when confronted with your forms of privilege? Comment below!
My MMIAM Journey 