Ten years ago, I described my sexual orientation as heteroflexible.  I would grin as I explained that while I had historically always dated men, I didn’t want to rule out the possibility that I could someday fall in love with a woman.  Progressive, liberal straight people would nod as I said this, and tell me that was a pretty cool perspective to have.

Ten years ago, I would have said that skin color doesn’t matter.  Martin Luther King Jr. had said that he had a dream that everyone would be judged by the content of their character rather than the color of their skin, and I felt that the best way to do that was to assume that everyone was equal.  I argued that affirmative action was a racist institution because it treated people of color differently than white people.  I assumed that anyone who worked hard would have the same opportunities.

Ten years ago, I didn’t get it.

Three years ago, I presented at a gender, sexuality, and relationship minority conference about five common mistakes made by well-meaning allies, and then wrote a blog article about it.  I thought I was “woke”.  I talked about not making assumptions or outing people, about the importance of advocacy, and about false dichotomies.  I had come a long way from my prior self, but I couldn’t understand why, looking out on the faces of the LGBT+ and POC attendees, my audience didn’t seem more moved.

Three years ago, I still didn’t really get it.

Actually, I’m sure I still don’t.  But I’m learning every day by listening to people who aren’t like me… people who aren’t white, straight, and able-bodied.

A definition of privilege

A lot of people have tried to define privilege.  Most reputable sources cite the idea of benefits experienced by people who are not members of a minority group, but something about that doesn’t jive with me.  When I hear a black person talk about having to educate their child about police violence, or when an LGBT person tells me they were kicked out of their home after coming out, I don’t feel any benefit from that.  I feel my stomach turn.  I feel my eyes well up.  Sometimes, I lose sleep.

So instead, here’s a definition I drew up that better describes what I mean when I say the word “privilege”:

The ability to selectively acknowledge, ignore, disregard, or lack awareness of forms of oppression that impact a non-dominant group on a day-to-day basis, due to your not being a member of that group. 

Rather than try to re-invent the wheel, I’ll link you to Peggy McIntosh’s Backpack of Privilege, in which she describes “some of the daily effects of white privilege in [her] life”.  The first time I read this list was really eye-opening for me, and I hope you’ll find it to be the same.

The other thing that this list teaches me is that I’m always learning.  At this point in my life, maybe I’ve talked to enough people, read enough articles, and heard enough stories to chip away at the top layer of sediment of systemic racism.  Because I am aware that these systemic problems exist, I see them more clearly than many white people.  But I’m equally certain that there is a lot that I don’t see.

And that’s where contextualizing the experiences of others comes in.

Creating a Context for the Pain of Oppression

A few weeks ago, I was jogging down the street and I saw a sign with a big rainbow on it that said “We stand with Orlando” and then, at the bottom, “#IAMGAYUSA”

It was a rotating series of images, all with the same underlying message: The shooting in Orlando was horrible.  We want to honor the horrible nature of those losses.

But something about it bothered me: the hashtag.  #IAMGAYUSA

Because here’s the thing… I’m not gay.  I never had to come out to my family.  I’ve never had to hypervigilantly monitor my surroundings for safety as I walked down the street hand-in-hand with my partner.  I’ve never been worried about being denied a job or a home or membership in an organization because of my sexual orientation.

And I’ve never felt that the society I lived in was so inhospitable to the kind of love I feel that I needed to seek sanctuary in a nightclub.

So when one of these safe spaces was so horrifically violated, I grieved.  In fact, I’m still grieving.  But the LGBT people I know grieved on an entirely different level.  And to establish solidarity by saying, “I’m gay too!” completely undermines the experience of the people who actually are.

I wasn’t French after the Paris shootings.

I wasn’t Black after all the police shootings of unarmed black people.  (Though I do need to step back and take a breather after looking at all of those Wikipedia pages in such quick succession…)

And I’m not gay after Orlando.

It doesn’t mean I can’t grieve these losses; it just means that I don’t experience them as an “it could have been me” moment.

When well-meaning people say, “I get it, because we’re all a little bit (insert minority group here),” it invalidates what the members of that community are feeling.  It’s like if you were grieving the loss of your mother and someone said, “My cat died a few years ago, so I completely know what you’re going through.”  It’s not that your cat’s death wasn’t sad; it’s just not acknowledging the depth of another person’s pain over a parent loss.

So what is the role of an ally in these conversations?

Acknowledge your own pain, but recognize that members of a marginalized group probably experience it differently.

Say, “I hear you, I’m so sorry.”

Say, “I can’t imagine what that must feel like.”

Say, “Tell me more about that.”

Say, “Can I give you a hug?”

Say, “Is there anything I can do?”

Say, “My heart breaks when I hear you describe what you’re going through.”

Say, “How can I help?”