I suppose that most of us can say we are privileged in some ways but not in others.
If you are reading this blog, you have the privilege of my unparalleled adventures, timeless insights and deathless prose. All right, I'm kidding. The privilege you have, though, is the time for, and choice of spending time with me. You could be doing other things, after all.
On the other hand, even if you love my blog more than anything else in the world, you probably have other things tugging at your sleeve, so to speak. In short, you don't have all day to read this.
Also, I suspect that most of you who are reading this are cyclists by choice. That is a privilege, certainly. If you are cycling because you have no other choice but your unaided feet, I feel extremely honored by your presence.
I have long had awareness of who has privilege and choice, and to what degree. But I may not have ever been so cognizant of my own privilege as I was the day took a bike trip into the Cambodian countryside with You Sert, who lives in that milieu. During that ride, I spent some time with a farmer who is a traditional healer and played with her children, who didn't speak any language I speak but who understood, perhaps better than I ever will, the ways we communicate through motion, through touch and toward the heart. Also, I went with You Sert to a market, where we picked up the ingredients for a lunch we shared with a family. And, before the end of that ride, a woman showed me how she weaves her grass roof and led me through weaving a row of it. (I hope she stayed dry through the rainy season!)
I mention that day because, as rewarding as it was (I've stayed in touch with You Sert as well as other people I met there), at the end of it, I returned to my room in the inn which, although it wasn't the Ritz, was nonetheless palatial--with its air conditioning and cable channels beamed in from France, England and Australia--compared to the conditions I only glimpsed.
That day, as it turned out, was emblematic of my understanding of being black, or anyone not white, in America. While riding my bike, I have been stopped and frisked for no discernible reason--other than, perhaps, my gender identity or the fact that I am cycling in a car-centric culture. One incident in particular was scary: One of the officers who stopped me was clearly afflicted with "'roid rage." Still, even then--on a hot day early in my gender transition, when I was riding home from work in the skirt and blouse I wore on the job--I felt at least somewhat certain that I would soon be home and riding my bike the next day.
I didn't think, then, that I would meet the same fate as George Floyd. Or Breonna Taylor. Or Sandra Bland. Or Tamir Rice. Or Eric Garner. Or Freddie Gray. Or Amadou Diallo. I didn't even expect that I would be stopped, again, by some other police officer for "riding while trans" or whatever they call it in legal lexicon or cop argot. And, so far, I haven't.
Unfortunately, though, I have met a few riders who were stopped for no apparent reason other than "cycling while Black" or Hispanic or fill-in-the-blank. And even if they managed not to get summonsed, or worse, I could understand if they felt even more anxiety than I did about having to deal with the police. After all, the only people who have a greater chance of being murdered, by police officers or anyone else, than transgenders are African-Americans, particularly the young.
And, let's face it, as a white woman, I can be seen, at least by some, as an educated creative person and educator who likes to ride her bike. It seems that my professional pursuits and passions--or even being an honest, law-abiding person trying to make a living and help others--are enough to for folks like Ms. Bland to escape whatever biases accrue to them on account of the color of their skin.
In short, even as a member of one "minority", going for a bike ride or a walk is something I can do, on most days, without thinking. That is a privilege Ms. Bland, George Floyd and others did not have. I try not to forget that.
If you are reading this blog, you have the privilege of my unparalleled adventures, timeless insights and deathless prose. All right, I'm kidding. The privilege you have, though, is the time for, and choice of spending time with me. You could be doing other things, after all.
On the other hand, even if you love my blog more than anything else in the world, you probably have other things tugging at your sleeve, so to speak. In short, you don't have all day to read this.
Also, I suspect that most of you who are reading this are cyclists by choice. That is a privilege, certainly. If you are cycling because you have no other choice but your unaided feet, I feel extremely honored by your presence.
I have long had awareness of who has privilege and choice, and to what degree. But I may not have ever been so cognizant of my own privilege as I was the day took a bike trip into the Cambodian countryside with You Sert, who lives in that milieu. During that ride, I spent some time with a farmer who is a traditional healer and played with her children, who didn't speak any language I speak but who understood, perhaps better than I ever will, the ways we communicate through motion, through touch and toward the heart. Also, I went with You Sert to a market, where we picked up the ingredients for a lunch we shared with a family. And, before the end of that ride, a woman showed me how she weaves her grass roof and led me through weaving a row of it. (I hope she stayed dry through the rainy season!)
I mention that day because, as rewarding as it was (I've stayed in touch with You Sert as well as other people I met there), at the end of it, I returned to my room in the inn which, although it wasn't the Ritz, was nonetheless palatial--with its air conditioning and cable channels beamed in from France, England and Australia--compared to the conditions I only glimpsed.
That day, as it turned out, was emblematic of my understanding of being black, or anyone not white, in America. While riding my bike, I have been stopped and frisked for no discernible reason--other than, perhaps, my gender identity or the fact that I am cycling in a car-centric culture. One incident in particular was scary: One of the officers who stopped me was clearly afflicted with "'roid rage." Still, even then--on a hot day early in my gender transition, when I was riding home from work in the skirt and blouse I wore on the job--I felt at least somewhat certain that I would soon be home and riding my bike the next day.
I didn't think, then, that I would meet the same fate as George Floyd. Or Breonna Taylor. Or Sandra Bland. Or Tamir Rice. Or Eric Garner. Or Freddie Gray. Or Amadou Diallo. I didn't even expect that I would be stopped, again, by some other police officer for "riding while trans" or whatever they call it in legal lexicon or cop argot. And, so far, I haven't.
Unfortunately, though, I have met a few riders who were stopped for no apparent reason other than "cycling while Black" or Hispanic or fill-in-the-blank. And even if they managed not to get summonsed, or worse, I could understand if they felt even more anxiety than I did about having to deal with the police. After all, the only people who have a greater chance of being murdered, by police officers or anyone else, than transgenders are African-Americans, particularly the young.
And, let's face it, as a white woman, I can be seen, at least by some, as an educated creative person and educator who likes to ride her bike. It seems that my professional pursuits and passions--or even being an honest, law-abiding person trying to make a living and help others--are enough to for folks like Ms. Bland to escape whatever biases accrue to them on account of the color of their skin.
In short, even as a member of one "minority", going for a bike ride or a walk is something I can do, on most days, without thinking. That is a privilege Ms. Bland, George Floyd and others did not have. I try not to forget that.
