The privilege that I hold

An exploration of identity

image: drivenforward.com

part one — privilege

I’m not a woman, I’m not gay, I’m not black, I’m not minority ethnic, I hold no religious views.

I’m white Scottish
I hold privilege in the way I look. I fit in. I look the part. I blend in and don’t look out of place. At least I do in the context of the majority ethnic makeup of where I live.

I hold privilege in the way I speak and sound. I have a thick Scottish accent, welcome in any establishment to which I frequent. I don’t get strange looks when I ask a colleague a question and I’m not asked to repeat myself several times.

I don’t suffer from racial prejudice. I can walk the streets safely, neither instilling fear in others by my sheer appearance, nor inciting aggression in others by my sheer existance.

I get into clubs without being frisked, I’ve never been stopped by the police when driving. Employers assume I speak the language. I’m treated with a benchmark level of respect without having to do anything for it.

I’m a man
I hold privilege because of the sex I was born into. People listen when I talk. My opinion breathes weight. Women apologise to me when I accidentally bump into them. Mothers love me, fathers want to have a beer with me.

I’ve never received unwanted sexual advances or intimidation tactics. I’ve never been pressured for sex, nor have I been discriminated against for having too much of it.

I am congratulated for liking musicals, understanding feminism, and being able to talk about menstruation. I’m celebrated for even having an interest in or the inclination to talk about things that interest women (in a stereotypical context). When I buy sanitary products for my partner there are cheers from the circle.

I’m straight and cis-gender
I hold privilege because of the people with whom I have sexual relationships and because I identify with the male body into which I was born.

I’ve only had relationships with women and I’m engaged to a woman. I have always identified as a ‘man’. I don’t get anxious in male locker rooms or using a urinal in a male toilet. I’ve always identified as straight. I don’t feel out of place in city clubs. I’m fine around groups of male friends, and when I was single, I was comfortable flirting with women in clubs.

I don’t worry about walking down the street and being accosted for the way I look — I don’t look or dress in ways that are counter to that of socio-normative gender appearance.

I’m left in peace and free to be whom I am. This is a privilege I hold.

I’m everywhere
I see people like me almost everywhere I look. I see straight, white men. Everywhere. On TV. In the papers. The music I listen to. Celebrities in the media. The silver screen could be renamed the white sheet.

My boss is a straight, white man. My department head is a straight, white man. My CEO is a straight, white man. The board is either straight, white, or a man — usually all three.

I’ve never had trouble relating to film and TV as the hero is always me. I port myself into the hero’s shoes. I save the world. I get the girl (not a woman, that’s too much power).

I’m smart, I’m brilliant, I’m strong, I’m handsome, I’m heroic, brave, courageous (yes, all three, it’s a multiplier).

I don’t ask for my privilege (though some do). It is bestowed upon me by my very existence, because I conform to the criteria of prevelant social acceptability.

Although I have to work hard at the things in which I want to succeed, my privilege places me several steps ahead in the first place. I don’t have to work hard to be treated like a human being. It comes as standard. Part and parcel. It’s one of the many privileges I hold.

part two — identity

I’m not a woman, I’m not gay, I’m not black, I’m not minority ethnic, I hold no religious views.

I’m white Scottish (to the naked eye).
I’m Georgian blood, Russian born, Edinburgh raised, and Glasgow learned. I get pale in the winter, but have a natural olive tone when tanned. I call home the Southside, not a country. My loyalty is to my friends and family, not a flag.

I’m Scottish (-ish). I’m Russian (-ish). I struggle with a sense of national identity as I don’t have one. I can’t answer questions about Russia as it’s not a land I’ve known for over 25 years. People ask me to verse them in Putin and Yeltsin. They think I know about Russian culture, food, music. They think I’m also a sexist racist and hate gays. I’m not and I don’t. I also don’t dope.

I don’t comfortably fit in in my Scottish homeland, and I don’t identify with the Russian birth land. My name is Russian but I don’t speak the language. I have a Scottish accent but I wasn’t born here.

I’m white (-ish) and I do see colour. I see colour but don’t actively discriminate on the basis of it. I don’t attempt to normalise or reduce people’s identities because they don’t conform to the mostly-white socio-national context in which I live.

I hold outward white and native privileges, but I’m constantly terrified of being found out. People I meet for the first time do a double take when they hear me speak — who’s this guy with the broad Scottish accent and the weird-sounding name?

I’ve been subject to racial and xenophobic abuse. I was teased mercilessly in school. I was attacked for being the other.

Though I was born into privilege, not all privilege is equal — but I’m certainly not at the bottom of the league.

I’m an outcast, but nobody knows.

I’m a man (whatever that means).
I like some sports and don’t like others. I used to play and now I barely watch. My contemporary sports knowledge dates back to the days of my flat stomach. Now, my gut belies my past strength and athleticism, never mind my yearning to play.

I’ve played in bands and par-lived a faux rock n roll lifestyle of gigs and beer. I play guitar, bass, and acoustic. My gran taught me piano.

I now do housework, gardening, and curl up on the couch with a cup of tea.

I cry at films and talk about my emotions.

I constantly check myself when I’ve said something insensitive, apologise and make mindful commitments to not doing it again.

I prefer the company of women and most of my close friends are women. I don’t do ‘locker talk’. I don’t think it’s OK to grab pussies. I deplore Trump and men like him. I challenge toxic masculinity and call it out when I encounter it.

I’m a feminist. I don’t condone “meninists”. I talk about feminism, about race and equality/equity, and I bring these subjects into the norm by discussing them at work, challenging previously-normalised speech, and flippant chat.

I’m (mostly) straight.
I am straight, but do identify as queer (-ish). Although I’ve only had sexual relationships with women, I’ve kissed men and find them attractive. Not sexually as such, but can appreciate their beauty. I’m not bisexual, but I’m not traditionally heteronormative either.

I have many queer friends and actively seek to understand their experiences.

I’m queer (-ish). My fiancée is bisexual. On the face of it, we’re in a traditional white, Scottish, heterosexual relationship. But we’re not. We’re other.

I’m passing.
When comparing myself against our world history of white-washing, segregation, and advocating heteronormative lifestyles, I’m passing. I’m not ‘pure’, I’m certainly not ‘normal’.

I’m other
When ethno- and hetero-normative society attempts to classify everyone, I, and many, many others like me, are immediately outcast. We don’t fit the criteria, fit into the box, within the lines of socio-normal convention. We’re ‘Other’.

Then, I’m forced to explain myself — if other, please explain.

I’m not perfect — far, far from it. But I’m trying.
These are the privileges I hold.

NB These observations are from my personal experiences and are intended only to open an honest dialogue.