Privilege is the things we take for granted,
like starting life on a road that isn’t slanted.
It's walking that road without having to hide;
without feeling you’re the reason why
women clutch their purse
and cross to the other side.
It’s looking into a stranger's eyes
and knowing their thoughts started at zero.
That you have nothing to prove,
nothing to say or do
for them to look at you
as if they have no idea who you are.
It’s leaving the house without a steadying breath,
without wondering if this is the day
where it will manifest:
that thing they say no longer exists.
Privilege is thinking your discomfort
excuses you from the conversation.
It’s being able to watch others
live a life you wouldn’t choose for yourself.
Thinking you helped
with thoughts and prayers,
blacked out pictures
and apologetic poems.
It’s entering your apartment complex
without anyone calling the police,
or shouting at you to leave,
or prove you have keys.
Sometimes privilege is big,
like not having a son to grieve.
Sometimes it’s small,
like not having to beg for your right to breathe
What is privilege?
It’s not having to ask that question.