by Elaina Fransisco
We are sitting around a table. A messy pile of yellow pieces of paper is in front of me. My friend’s pile is much neater, arranged in straight columns.
The teacher sat down, pulling her chair in close to the table.
“We are going to learn about privilege.”
I grew up in a family with more money than most of my friends. True, we had less money than any of the people in the very white, very traditional church my father served at. But, what else is to be expected of a pastor’s family?
“Put a piece of paper in the middle of the table if these statements apply to you:
I have never been the only person of my race in a room.”
I looked around the room. Two white immigrants. They are still white though. Everyone in the room is white.
Well, my mother is white. So, some say that I am white. I look fairly white, sometimes. It depends on where I am. In an airport, for example, security guards don’t seem to think that I am white. There I’m “Middle Eastern.” My father is Filipino. This would make me, according to the many friends and family I’ve questioned on the matter, Filipina. But, according to my grandparents, on both sides, I’m white. My Filipino grandparents say I’m white, and tell me to say that I am white, because then I can make more money. Money means a lot to them.
My white grandparents just didn’t want Filipino grandchildren. It’s alright. They loved me as soon as I popped out. They simply want to think of me as mostly white.
…
I play with the piece of paper, my pointer finger running across the edge of the fold I made. The question has passed. I didn’t put it down.
“I have never been told that I’m attractive “for my race.””
It was after a class one day. The kid’s name was Peter.
“Where are you from?” He asked. This was the first time I remember being asked that question. I thought a moment.
“Marlton.” (Where I live)
“No, no, where are you really from?”
“Pitman.” (Where I was born)
“No. Where are you really from? Like, where were you born.”
“…America.”
“Really? But, your parents are from somewhere else, right?”
“My dad’s from the Philippines.”
“Ah,” he smiles as if satisfied, “well, you look really nice for a Filipino, different.”
First of all, it’s Filipina, a Filipino woman. Second, what do you mean different?
I’m still smiling.
…
That golden piece of paper is still in my hand.
“My family and I have never lived below the poverty line.”
There were coupons all over our dining room table. It used to drive my mom crazy. She hated it when she couldn’t see the table. And yet, there she was, making a mess.
“What are you doing mom?”
My little brother and I climbed up onto those tall chair my parents bought. The chair cushions were covered in plastic and then covered in cloth. My mom did that too. It keeps the chairs for longer.
“I’m playing a game. It’s… a sorting game.”
“Oh,” I said, “Can I play?”
My brother is better at it than I am. I get frustrated and mess all of the piles up, crumpling some of the coupons. My mom didn’t say anything about it. She asked if I wanted a popsicle, one of those syrupy ones in the plastic tubes that cut the sides of your mouth.
After the game, my brother and I went to bed. I could hear my mom downstairs, crying. She never cries.
“I just don’t know how we are going to make it…”
The next morning, we ate lasagna. A friend brought it to us. We ate a lot of pasta those next couple months.
My family had enough.
…
The piece of paper is folded, seven times. That’s how many times you can fold a piece of paper in half.
“You’ve never been stopped in an airport.”
These questions are beginning to get ridiculous. Lots of people get stopped in airports. Security is tight these days.
One time, my brother brought five pocket knives with him. He put them in his carry-on bag. He walked through security with my mom, who didn’t realize until we had gotten through security that he had knives on him. My dad and I were stopped.
I had brought an open water bottle with me. I’ve made this mistake three times. I don’t know what my dad brought on that made them check him.
Did you know that security personnel are very gentle when they give you a pat down? They also wear latex gloves that feel strange on your arms and head. It feels kind of like water balloons, but water balloons that have been sitting outside in the sun too long. So, they are warm.
…
The piece of paper in my hand is folded tightly. Everyone else has already put down several pieces of paper. There are five of us, two boys and three girls. The two boys are avoiding my eyes. One girl is intentionally trying to catch my gaze. Why is she looking at me so pityingly? And why does that make me feel… angry?
I look over at the other girl. She looks like she’s going to cry. Why?
Our teacher finishes asking the questions.
I’ve put down a few pieces of paper, leaving me with a substantially larger pile of gold than that of my friends.
The exercise done, she moves on to talk about how privileged we are.
Am I privileged?
...
I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor with a friend getting ready for bed.
“So, did you ever have to deal with,” She started wiping her face with a baby wipe, “You know...”
I start unraveling my messy French braid and shrug. I don’t really know what she is talking about. But, it probably has something to do with ethnicity or race and I was all ‘raced’ out.
“Just,” she continues, “I didn’t really deal with anything, because of being a woman, you know?”
I glance at her in the mirror I’m using.
“I mean, I have dealt with stuff because of being a woman but it doesn’t really phase me and it’s not really something I get annoyed with,” I say as I finish unraveling a braid and get up to get some coconut oil.
“Yeah but… I feel like you’ve had to face some things that I won’t have to.”
She finishes cleaning her face and grabs a bottle of lotion.
I think back as I begin the process of blending the oil into my hair.
“Not really… At least, I don’t feel like I have.”
My fingers begin twisting my hair tightly into a Dutch braid. Halfway down the braid they stop. Am I privileged? My mind jumps back to a conversation I had with my mom before leaving home.
“How is Ella?” I ask.
“She’s doing alright.” Pause. “She may not be able to go to college this year.”
“Because of scholarships?”
“Because she may need to help her mom take care of her siblings. She also may need to keep working.”
I pictured her house in my mind, the holes in the walls.
“No,” My fingers finish braiding by themselves, following the trail of hair they do every night, “Really, I’ve been privileged.”