Follow the signs to privilege

I've recently been thinking a lot about the moments that led to my explicit understanding of my own privilege.  This understanding started to grow while I was a student at the University of Saskatchewan, when I was in my early twenties.  I was taking a group dynamics class where the central activity was, well, working in a group.  One of the group members I worked with was an Indigenous woman from northern Saskatchewan - I'll call her Jane for now.  

A couple of weeks into the term I learned that Jane was commuting from Prince Albert to Saskatoon to attend her classes.  It's about an hour and a half drive each way, and much more when the weather is bad (as it frequently is in that part of Saskatchewan).  I asked her if she had considered moving to Saskatoon while she was a student to make life a little simpler.  Yes, she said, but I haven't been able to find a place to live.  Any time I call up a landlord who has a rental posting they turn me down immediately, saying it has already been rented.  

I remember how my face felt during this conversation.  I remember the furrow in my brow and the ache in my forehead as I thought about what Jane had just said.  I remember thinking - jeez, it took us (my husband and I) no time at all to find a place to live here, easy peazy.  Our landlord had entrusted us with his home roughly thirty minutes after we first met.  I remember clocking, for the first time, the fact that Jane had a thick Cree accent and dark brown skin, and then the penny dropped.  This was my initiation into understanding the implications of being an Indigenous person in Saskatoon, and the first time I internalized that this was a barrier I would never face as a white person.  

Later in the term Jane got really sick with a throat infection and she missed over a week of classes.  When she returned, I asked what had happened.  She reported having visited a walk-in clinic when she first became ill.  The doctor had provided the most cursory of examinations and then told Jane that she could not be treated until she stopped drinking.  After leaving that walk-in appointment, Jane proceeded to get so sick that she required hospitalization.     

That moment in time is frozen for me.  I knew Jane well enough to know that she didn't drink, not even a little.  I think I said something like, "that's unbelievable" and then proceeded to ask Jane if she was going to report the doctor for their clearly racist behavior.  When Jane quietly said no, I offered to do it on her behalf.  

In the moment, I obviously felt like my response was warranted, but in retrospect, I'm appalled by my own glaring entrenchment in privilege in this circumstance.  First of all, to claim that the doctor's racism is unbelievable is equivalent to: (1) claiming that such a thing couldn't possibly happen, and by proxy, (2) invalidating Jane's experience at the receiving end of a racist interaction.  It also implied a perception of myself as non-racist (as in, I'm so not racist that I couldn't possibly conceive of such a thing occurring).  The fact is that Jane's experience was wholly believable.  Racially-motivated aggression and micro-aggression is a reality for Indigenous people in their everyday lives, in addition to the kinds of instances that Jane described.  Additionally, I am learning that no matter how uncomfortable it might feel to me to say so, I am and will likely always be racist to some degree.  The book, "White Women: Everything You Already Know About Your Own Racism and How to Do Better" by Regina Jackson and Saira Rao has helped me to navigate this in my own mind and to view my own behavior critically.  

What's more, the way I responded in this situation was a textbook instance of white saviorism.  In other words, by offering to take on the task of reporting a physician's racist behavior toward an Indigenous person I implied that I had the skill and ability to advocate for Jane and that she did not. I offered to take over: white lady floats in to save the day.  I didn't even ask Jane how she felt about it; I was blind to not only her reality but my own privilege.    

Okay, so it's clearly not an easy task to start interrogating privilege.  I'm thinking back on my own experiences and will admit that I feel shame, guilt, and embarrassment.  It's pretty yucky in the moment.  But it would be worse to sit here in this space and do nothing, to refuse to grow, learn, or move forward because it's gross for a bit.  To languish in the place of inaction is also privilege at play.