A Spoon for All While
I sat, cramped and sandwiched in the multipurpose room of my college, sweating and suffocating in the stuffy late-summer heat, I wondered really how expensive comfortable chairs could be. As I waited for the presentation to begin, I thought to myself, “Really? We pay outrageous amounts of money for tuition, ‘student fees,’ ‘processing fees,’ and yet they can’t or won’t buy anything better than these agonizing plastic chairs for us?” As I was grumbling to myself a charming middle aged woman walked up onstage and behind the podium. “Ahem! Hello everybody!” The room dimmed leaving only a few lights shining down on the woman on stage. Then as if some unseen wave rolled over the crowd, conversations ceased and eyes directed themselves to up on stage. The woman began discussing social justice, and how we can work together to achieve it. The small steps we can all take in order to initiate big changes. As inspirational as her speech was, I was too distracted to listen intently. I allowed my mind to wander, and dream about all the opportunities college had in store for me. All the people I would meet and all the friends I would make. I was eager, to start my journey as a banana slug. In the middle of my daydream something the speaker sparked my interest. She was talking about privilege; how it separates people, how it divides people among each other, and how it gives some individuals advantages they don’t necessarily deserve. My mind instinctively painted a picture of a fair-skinned, blond haired, light-eyed boy standing besides his parents in front of their three story, victorian-era styled mansion. The boy’ audi was parked right behind his father’ bmw in the long brick-tiled driveway. The part of the backyard that I could see was all green, with gorgeous stretches of bright grass that seemingly went on forever. In the midst of my mental depiction the woman went on to ask the students for some characteristics of people that come to mind when they hear “privileged.” “White,” said someone. “Cisgender and heterosexual,” shouted someone else. More and more people offered their input and the longer the list got the more I realized that I fit so many of the traits discussed. I sat motionless, staring blankly at the ground. I never had considered myself privileged. I thought I was just‚Ķ normal, the same as you, the same as the boy sitting next to me and the same as the girl at the end of my row. And yet the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense. Am I? Am I what people picture when they hear the word “privileged?” Just as I had imagined that fair-skinned, blonde haired boy? My mind raced through all of my memories in order to compare my life to others. I surely struggled like everyone else? My mind began to fight with itself, back and forth in a violent clash. I told myself, “Remember in preschool, how you went home and your biggest issue was whether or not you’d get ice cream after dinner? Imagine the how the millions of kids in America feel when they go home and worry if they’ll even get dinner at all.” “Yeah but I‚Ķ ” I couldn’t think of any response. “And what about when you were nine years old, and in elementary school and life was so easy. Remember the many days when you would complain to Dad to let you stay home from school. How could you be so ungrateful, so ignorant, so unappreciative? So what if you were only nine, think about the fact that millions of African children never even get the chance to attend school? How it’ a gift to have the chance to get an education?” “That’ being unfair‚Ķ” “Really? Recall those days in middle school when you would wake up in the morning complaining and groaning about getting out of bed. Have you ever considered how it feels to wake up in the morning and literally not have a place to call home? No? Maybe you should stop to ask the millions of refugees all around the world.” ” I‚Ķ I‚Ķ don’t have any excuse. I was ignorant okay? But I was young, I mean you can’t expect a kid to understand concepts like child hunger and the importance of education.” “Maybe so, but that doesn’t make it any less real, just because you didn’t understand it doesn’t deny the fact that you were lucky to be born where you were. Face it, you’re privileged.” Dumbfounded, I sat, silent, contemplating what the voice inside me had just unraveled for me. I really am so unaware, so ignorant. I actually had spent most of my life, griping about my situation. Lamenting over things like why UC Berkeley wouldn’t admit me and why my amazon package wasn’t at my house yet when people all over the world lived day to day worrying about their survival, worrying about whether or not they’d get to eat, worrying about trying support their families. I never realized how naive someone could really be. What does this mean then? How can one move forward from here? Well it is merely a matter of appreciating what you have, understanding your privilege and reflecting on how you can help others fight their own struggles. When you have free time volunteer at a homeless shelter or maybe help at an afterschool program for less fortunate children. Maybe you enjoy the outdoors, work with a team to help clean up parks in poorer neighborhoods. Little acts can inspire big changes. All in all, most of us aren’t super wealthy nor do most of us eat off of silver spoons, that’ just fact. However, it is also fact that most of us have spoons to eat off of, be that plastic, or wooden, or cheap metal, and that isn’t a privilege that everyone has. Let’ do something to help those who don’t.