It’s difficult to talk about class privilege when you’re a benefactor.

Uncomfortable, even.

But it’s absolutely essential that we sit in this discomfort.

You might remember me sharing my observations about entitlement after a day spent in a Manhattan Starbucks…

I realized that was just one of the countless times my place of privilege had replaced someone else’s basic rights. And I had been oblivious…

I’ve dedicated my career to lifting the curtain on that kind of willful blindness, and I’m full of hope. But it’s been quite a journey for me, and I’m nowhere near my final destination.

Starting at the head of the class

I was in the Peace Corps, volunteering in Bulgaria. I blew out both knees and needed multiple surgeries.

I was in pain, but it wasn’t debilitating. Time wasn’t an issue for my recovery – and yet, I magically leapt to the front of the line. I leap-frogged a Bulgarian government official – who I can only assume had an important job to do – and the country’s best soccer player.

How you might ask, did I manage to out-muscle these two citizens who, by rights, should have received medical attention before I did? 

I held the magic class privilege card: I was an American.

Through absolutely no merit of my own, beyond winning the birth-geography-lottery, I had a place of stature and entitlement.

And I was completely ignorant to it…didn’t stop for a moment to consider the ramifications of playing my privilege card. I certainly didn’t suggest that either man take my place in line so they could resume the jobs that provided their livelihoods.

Healthcare is unwell…

Sadly, healthcare is an open wound of discrimination and class privilege the world over.

Not only did I get preferential treatment in Bulgaria as a white American woman, but I also played the privilege card – albeit without malice – in my own country, too.

I was recovering from another surgery and found myself in a hospital room with a rather disruptive roommate. We’ll ignore the beautiful forest view I had out the window…

She was a smoker. She had a gravelly voice. She rang her bell constantly. She was demanding medications, attention.

While I was sitting, quietly, following doctor’s orders, and playing Backgammon with my husband, she was creating a racket. How dare she interrupt my peace and quiet time, my healing time. 

She made many phone calls to family…would that family bring drama to my quiet oasis of tranquility?

I came up with an unflattering narrative in my head…gave her a bleak backstory, imagined an older woman with a drug problem on the other side of the curtain.

In the space of an hour, I was smoothly campaigning the nurses for a different room…to better aid in my recovery, of course. I was entitled, wasn’t I?

My access to education, upper-class social capital, charming personality, and knowledge of systems, not to mention financial privilege, immediately lubricated the situation. 

Imagine my surprise when I overheard her telling the nurse her birthdate to receive her medications. She was a year younger than me. She had five children and three grandchildren. 

This information simply validated my narrative: I was entitled to my new room. 

New room, new perspective

The nurses moved me later that day. 

My roommate, Thelma, was in palliative care. She didn’t say a peep, I was assured. No talking. No visitors. No phone calls. That suited me nicely, though I did tell myself a narrative about the sadness of her dying alone. 

It made me think about the challenge I had been ‘spared’ with the early death of my parents. It was a scenario I would never have to face.

In that place of solitude, I gave deeper thought to my previous roommate. What was her life like, outside of the hospital? Was her time as the center of attention a holiday from a much more difficult existence in her daily life? What struggles was she facing? And what tools did she have at her disposal to manage them?

I had blithely flexed the muscles afforded to me by well-entrenched class privilege.

That night I was given a gift – one that I haven’t entirely decoded just yet.

Thelma began to sing. And she sang all night.

It was something she’d never done before…the nurses were baffled.

I happened to be in the room when Thelma walked through some doorway and decided to share her beautiful voice. I’m not sure why.

Face the music

If you’re a member of a privileged class there are certain advantages you can’t simply abdicate.

No matter what else I do, I will remain a financially secure, well-educated, white American woman. 

I come to the table with some privilege cards planted in my deck.

The vast majority of us do.

The turning point in the game is when you decide to use those cards to help someone who doesn’t have the same deck that you’ve been given.

They are disadvantaged because of their skin color, their gender identity, their upbringing. Factors over which they have little if any, control. Factors that society has turned into disadvantages for life…

I have resolved to take my class privilege and use it as leverage in the social justice game for those who need it most. 

You can do the same. Imagine the world we could share if we resolved to share that one precious thing?