Telling on myself

I'm sitting outside, giving myself the gift of space. And air. And cool rejuvenation. And it's a privilege to do so. 

Nobody is trying to physically do me harm. I have no fear of what situation I may find myself in with another person, one who may think my very existence is wrong. I am not in danger. 

It is a privilege to be able to raise my voice. To argue. To be told to shut up. To have blatant falsehoods said as though they were fact...and be breathing in the cool fall night air. To live through that. 

I have privilege. And I exercised that privilege by silently removing myself from a situation that was bad for my health. But only my emotional health. My physical health was never in danger. Ever. 

I am no social justice warrior. I am an upper-middle-class, white person. I have used my privilege as such to extricate myself from an uncomfortable discussion about the humanity of another. Someone who must fight and struggle and worry and fear for their life each and every day. Someone who has little chance to simply remove themself from their existence, though so many do. 

My heart breaks for them. I acknowledge their worth. Their lives—though cut short by their own hand or that of another—mattered and had value. 

They were and are real.

They are loved. 

I love them. 

And I will continue to seek opportunities to ACT in accordance with that love. To say and do what is necessary to protect them—to extend or give away my privilege to keep them safe. 

Even if it costs me my own family's acceptance and approval.

Thumbnail photo by Cecilie Johnsen on Unsplash