I recently watched Dave Chappelle‘s Netflix special, Equanimity, in which Chappelle responds to criticisms of his
jokes against transgender people. Admittedly, I was one of the many who took
incredible offense to these jokes. In
his response, Chappelle comments that there is a privilege to even caring about
the feelings of people who are trans. He suggests that these jokes wouldn’t
cause uproar if transgender identity was limited to blacks, Hispanics or women.
His contention being that, historically, no one has defended these groups when
comedians make jokes about them. But, when the issue affects those of power and
privilege, namely white men, the issue becomes important.
I still take issue with Chappelle’s remarks about
transgender identity, and yet, his contention about the role of privilege in
civil rights advocacy stuck with me. I write about my encounters with
adversity, despite the ways in which my whiteness, cis-gendered female
identity, education, heterosexuality, and class have facilitated my use of my
voice. This blog is the product of privilege. I have privilege in my ability
status. The development of my disability in my late teenage years provided me
the opportunities of an able-bodied childhood.
I attended mainstream public schools and played on local sports teams. I
have privileges of education and access to an elite culture; I listen to NPR and shop at Whole Foods). I am steeped
in a culture that prioritizes authenticity. This cultural privilege forms the
foundation for me to speak my truth and expect others to listen.
Beyond an immediate recognition of how my privilege affords
me the opportunity to share my story, I reacted to Chappelle’s response to the
uproar about his transgender jokes by thinking, “who am I to vocalize thoughts
about adversity? I haven’t had to overcome much of anything compared with most
people. Isn’t it a privilege that I think others should hear my plight, albeit
minimal, and take action?”
I considered silencing my story; we need space for the
voices of those who have really had
to overcome. We don’t need another educated white girl pontificating about her
struggles.
But then, I reflected on my observations of effective civil
rights advocacy. The most profound
example of a civil rights shift in my lifetime has related to the rapid
expansion of gay rights. Within twenty years, homosexuality went from being a
diagnosable mental illness to being celebrated in the media (Modern Family or
the L-word, anyone?). For this change to take place, LGBTQ people had to tell
their stories.
These stories were heard. People listened to the stories of
their friends, family, and neighbors all sharing about their experiences.
Importantly, people with sufficient privilege and power to make changes heard
these stories. When privileged white (gay)
men were beaten and killed, or prohibited from marriage rituals, people with
power cared.
I close by acknowledging the inherent privilege that leads
me to write this blog and use my voice to share about disability rights. I
could keep quiet, knowing that my struggles pale compared with so many others.
But instead, I don’t think representation of people with disabilities will
change without more people using their voices to share their stories. To use
Chappellian logic, perhaps it is my privilege that serves as a vehicle for my
advocacy.
