Home of the Brave
Illustration by Johnny Neville | The Corsair
On January 17, 2017, the first “Women’s March” protest took place in cities all across the world. The protest happened the day after Donald Trump’s inauguration, and was organized largely because of Trump’s many “anti-women” remarks.
On the day of the event, I drove with my roommate to Downtown Los Angeles to participate, excited to stand up for equality with fellow feminists. I painted us both signs the night before saying “History has it eyes on you” and “Love, not hate, makes America Great” which we proudly held. We were given pink cat-eared beanies to wear by women we met as we joined the march. I looked around the crowd, and felt hopeful seeing so many of us come together for the cause.
I saw men in attendance and felt appreciated. I assumed they were there to offer their support. As I read their signs it dawned on me that they too were showing up to have their voice be heard.
Trump’s remarks weren’t just women’s issues — they spanned all races, classes, genders, and sexualities. Unbeknownst to me, I’d had tunnel vision when it came to feminism. I had really only viewed it as an issue of equality between men and women. But it’s more than that. It’s about equity for all genders, ethnicities, sexualities, and upbringings.
Without realizing it, I had been contributing to white feminism, and thus hurting the cause I believed I was fighting for. I hadn’t been an ally to my peers, especially those in marginalized groups, in the way that I thought I had. This revelation allowed me the chance to reflect upon my own privilege.
When white people hear the phrase “check your privilege” they often get defensive. They are quick to come up with examples as to why they’re not privileged and how much they do to help others. They point out how difficult they’ve had it and how hard they’ve had to work to get to where they are. But how hard you’ve had to work isn’t what privilege is about, it's the hoops and bounds that you did not have to jump through to get to where you are. Privilege is the simple concept of not having to think about an issue, because it doesn’t affect your day to day life.
I’ve never had to worry about where my next meal would come from, or if my family could afford to send me on a field trip. My male friends don’t know the feeling of clutching pepper spray or your keys between your knuckles as you walk to your car at night. My parents didn’t have to sit me down as a teenager to have a conversation about why I couldn’t wear the hood of my sweatshirt on my head at night. Even as I write this, no one thinks that I am speaking on behalf of all white women, but rather that this is my own opinion. All of these are ways in which people are privileged.
This Monday marked the start of the trial for Derek Chauvin, the former Minneapolis Police Officer who murdered George Floyd on May 25, 2020. A video of Floyd’s final words “I can’t breathe” as Chauvin kneeled on Floyd’s neck went viral on social media. Protests over police brutality began across the country, as well as tough and overdue conversations amongst peers. With stay-at-home orders in effect due to the pandemic, many conversations and vocalizations about police brutality and racism began to happen over social media. It became apparent that being an ally to marginalized communities meant being more than just “not racist.” Allyship needs to include vocalizing when things are unjust, having tough conversations, donating time and resources, and supporting those who are being treated unfairly.
Since the beginning of the pandemic there has been a rise in hate against the Asian American Pacific Islander (AAPI) community, fueled by racist remarks by our leaders in the nicknames they gave coronavirus. California is seen as a liberal bubble by the rest of the country, but even in the Golden State hate crimes take place. A few weeks ago in San Francisco Xiao Zhen Xie was waiting to cross the street when she was punched in the face by a fleeing man in a targeted hit and run attack. She fought back and the man was arrested. This altercation took place just a day after a mass shooting in Atlanta, where six of the eight people murdered at a spa were Asian women.
My heart hurts for the pain these targeted attacks are bringing to the AAPI community. Friends of mine who are a part of the AAPI community have taken to their social media to speak up about the racism they have faced, especially this past year. While they did not personally know the individuals who were murdered and attacked, there was a common tone that the victims could have just as easily been a family member, friend, or even themselves.
Their responses reminded me of the survivor's guilt I felt after the Isla Vista shootings. In May 2014, six college students were murdered on the final evening of the spring semester at Santa Barbara City College. I didn’t begin to process what had happened until the next morning, when texts began to come in from back home, making sure I was okay. In the weeks that followed, the constant conversation with my friends was that it could have been any of us, we were just lucky enough to not be there that night.
Too many people in this country have to worry about being in the wrong place at the wrong time because another human is having “a bad day.” Too many people have had to deal with discrimination, microagressions, and racism in their day-to-day life. It’s time we take initiative in educating ourselves and unlearning practices we’ve normalized that are hurtful to others.
When people are brave enough to share their stories, be brave enough to listen — brave enough to correct yourself. Be brave enough to acknowledge when you’re wrong, where you fall short, brave enough to change, and brave enough to do better.
