Checking My Privilege, Carrying On

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.