I’m part of a group of self-identifying women on Facebook, thousands of lovely, like-minded women who support each other, ask questions about where to buy hemp milk, whatever. It’s oozing with crunchiness, hippy-dippiness, and over-sensitivity. And I was stupid enough to ask for some friendly advice.
We’ve been toying with the idea of getting a second home outside the country, potentially living there one day, as we’re concerned with the education and healthcare systems in America, as well as our culture of consumerism-at-all-costs. The divide that has happened in this country leading up to, and since, the election also has us sad and concerned for the country’s future. And having lived abroad as a child myself, I can attest to the change it creates in you to experience another culture when you’re young. I want that for Cameron.
Most of the comments on the post were friendly and helpful; giving me advice about Visas and taxes, making suggestions about countries that might make sense. But some interpreted my highly early-stage question as some sort of assumption that we could move wherever we wanted and were owed things from the world. They further ripped me for having a “white child” and suggested that we could find exactly what we wanted in Atlanta since we were so privileged already.
I shouldn’t let trolls get to me, but the reaction really put me into a dark hole. I try so hard, every day, to understand and acknowledge my privilege. We live in a diverse neighborhood because we like being around people who are different from us. It is my #1 goal as a parent to ensure Cameron uses his privilege the right way. We volunteer, donate, give to the homeless and treat them as neighbors. We fight for those without a voice. We march. We rally. I call my representatives, and often. It saddens and infuriates me to feel like there’s literally nothing I can do to make some people happy. That because I have certain things and others don’t, that I deserve to be treated like garbage or told my family doesn’t have a right to try and pursue happiness as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else.
I don’t have any more to give. I have been screaming into an endless void for a year now, trying to use my voice for those who can’t speak. Unlearning racism. Acknowledging my privilege. Teaching my child to do the same.
And here I am. Square one. Diminished and embarrassed, like being unhappy with this country is a right reserved only for the disenfranchised.
I am endlessly fortunate, for so, so many things. And I am eternally grateful. But sometimes I don’t think it’s enough until I also feel un-endingly guilty as well. Like I have to bleed to somehow make things square.
Is this how right Right feels? Is this why they hate us? Because we can’t see beyond our own noses to recognize the people at the end of them?
30 Before 30 