examining my own privilege

In any discussion of white privilege, I think it’s important to recognize that at some point, a lot of us have experienced some kind of privilege. It is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, because it’s often something we cannot control. And privilege doesn’t mean that we haven’t worked for what we got. When we say white people have privilege, we mean that the color of their skin doesn’t get in their way. It means white people start out at an advantage, even when disadvantaged. It doesn’t mean that white people have not experienced adversity, or don’t work hard for what they have. I don’t always recognize my privilege, and I’m not great at being objective about it. I’m often embarrassed by my privilege, or worry that people will think I didn’t earn what I’ve had. So I know how hard it can be to have conversations about privilege. My privilege doesn’t just come in the form of looking white. I grew up comfortably middle class. My grandpa was a surgeon. All of his children went into healthcare. They lived in the same town as us, so when I was growing up he was always around. I saw him practice, saw my mom work as a pharmacist, saw my aunt and uncle become physicians. I went to private school. We were definitely in the poorer group of people who went there, and I grew up thinking I was a lot poorer than I was, but we were comfortable. We took trips, went to camps, had a car when we turned 16, and knew we’d go to college. I worked as a babysitter and always raised my own money to take school trips, but I lived in a nice enough neighborhood that I could solicit. I was able to work in the daycare at school, never had to work in the service industry. I got a scholarship to college and picked a school that was inexpensive enough that I wouldn’t have debt. My grandma bought me a car after I graduated. I was awarded a Fulbright scholarship and able to travel abroad. I didn’t get into medical school right away but I found a job to pass the year. I was able to live at home through med school and my grandpa paid my tuition, so I barely have any debt. My family is well respected in our community. I’m a physician, putting me in a place of power and authority (sometimes) in the hospital hierarchy. I live in a nice house in a safe neighborhood. I have healthcare. I am relatively healthy. I have access to a gym. My husband is supportive of my career and is an equal partner in parenthood. Our daughter came into this world healthy and has remained so. My privilege to me feels like blessings more than anything else. And I suspect that’s how privilege feels to most. I have little control over this privilege, I didn’t ask for it. I recognize though, that each piece of this puzzle is built upon the privilege that comes before it. With privilege comes responsibility. I’m learning now that I need to use my privilege to be an ally for others who don’t have the same privilege. I don’t always do this well. This is where I’m learning the most. I have often said “I probably wouldn’t have gotten into medical school if my grandpa, aunt, and uncle hadn’t been alumni of the school. I had a wonderful application, a lot of heart, and I make a great doctor. I recognize that this may not have been enough. I may have never been accepted, no matter how hard I worked. Knowing the right people helped boost me. I see that, and am grateful for it, and am also shamed by it. It increases my imposter syndrome, I feel like I didn’t do enough, and don’t really belong. That makes it hard to have a conversation about privilege. When you feel shame because of it, and worry that you wouldn’t have been enough without it. Without being able to put those feelings aside, it’s hard to know what to do with my privilege. If I’m so overwhelmed by the feelings of shame, I can’t recognize that I need to use my privilege to help others. My favorite phrase to talk about privilege is “you can’t pull yourself up by your bootstraps if you don’t have boots or straps.” It helps me remember that hard work isn’t the only way to succeed. Many people work so hard and don’t get anywhere because of other circumstances and lack of privilege. I have to not only recognize my privilege, but recognize that others don’t have it. It’s particularly important in healthcare. When I’m giving recommendations, I have to know they are reasonable. How can I ask a patient to take a medicine every day if they don’t have access to a pharmacy, or don’t have a home to keep their medicine? How can I ask them to get on a sleep schedule if I don’t know where they sleep at night? Health disparities happen on a daily basis. Bias in medicine is real. Racism exists. Stating these facts is shameful, yet we can't overcome them and truly set up a system of care that works for everyone if we aren't willing to acknowledge these basic facts I have privilege. I choose to use mine to try to level the playing field for others. What will you do with yours?

The lens through which I see the world

I want to dedicate this post today to my own journey through privilege, race, identity, fragility, and activism. Growing up Arab and Muslim in the US, pre and post 9/11, I’ve been on this journey for a long time. However, I’m realizing I’m still very new to this journey. I live in a strange reality where I'm both white and not white. Throughout my life I’ve grappled with this dichotomy of identity. I often talk about it jokingly, saying things like “I’m white when it’s convenient and Arab when it suits me,” but it’s not a joke that I’m struggling so hard to recognize my own place in this world. I’ve faced racism and Islamophobia, Xenophobia, sexism, while at the same time experiencing privilege, white fragility, and colorblindness. I learn something new every day. I see so much more by being able to move between the groups (white vs person of color) but I often don’t feel like I fit in any one of them. Recently someone said that creating an inclusive environment is about allowing people to be their complete, authentic selves. When I was reflecting on this statement, I realized I’ve rarely felt comfortable being my authentic self. Mostly, it’s because I’m not sure who my authentic self is. This is not a new experience for me. My previous therapist wanted to focus on my cultural split quite a bit, but I wasn’t ready to do so at the time. I wish I had been, because now it’s all I can think about. I never feel truly Arab, but I don’t identify as white. I worry both that people will see me as a white person and that they’ll see me as a scary POC. I worry that people don’t know I’m Arab, but at the same time I worry that when they do, they’ll see me differently. I recognize the privilege in this. I don’t have dark skin, so I can walk through the world with less fear than my darker skinned friends. They don’t have the option of appearing white, they are always seen as the “other.” Every experience they have is through the lens of someone seeing their race, whereas I get to sometimes be “colorblind.” Yet at the same time, I often feel like my experiences aren’t as valid, or I wonder if things that happen are due to my being an Arab/Muslim, since I don’t know if people even know that I am. I sometimes think about wearing hijab specifically so that people know I’m Muslim. I want them to see me, and know me, and treat me the way they’re going to treat me. Yet this kind of motivation isn’t really the point of hijab. And of course, I’m terrified of the response I’d get. This is part of the lens through which I see the world. I’ve found it very handy to be white and not white though, since I feel like I can relate and talk to both groups. I can bring up issues other people might not feel safe enough doing. I can be a “safe person” for my friends who are white to ask questions, and for my friends of color to talk to. It is also an obligation though, to use my place to amplify the voices of the unheard or unseen. I hope to do that partially through this blog. Stay tuned for more