What is White Privilege?

I saw a Tweet during the week in which comedian Nathan Caton undertook the ‘Check your privilege’ test, lowering his fingers in response to an audio clip featuring some of the systemic racism that black people face.  Check out his reaction at 51 seconds when he’s run out of fingers and the narrative continues.

Now do the test.

How many fingers do you have left?  I had 10, which I achieved by ignoring the teasing that I get from friends for being a Kiwi.  I’m pretty sure that doesn’t count.  It was a salutary lesson in what so many of us white people fail to understand and an illustration of why those responding to the hashtag #BlackLivesMatter with their indignant ‘All Lives Matter’, really don’t get it.  That’s White Privilege

Another comedian, Mark Steel, writing in the Independent provided an analogy that summed it up rather well.

“there are people who object to the slogan ‘Black Lives Matter’, making the reasonable point that “ALL lives matter ACTUALLY.”  They make a good point, as long as you ignore the fact that obviously all lives matter, but clearly many people, including armed police, don’t think black lives do matter.  It’s like ringing for an ambulance after a heart attack, and being told, “Why are YOU so important, surely ALL hearts matter?”

I don’t consider myself to be racist, and I’m not, overtly.  However, I’ve just written a screenplay and, in my mind, I had a clear vision of the characters I was writing.  Admittedly, I didn’t dig too deep for inspiration.  It was a cast largely plucked from a Richard Curtis movie: Hugh Grant, Colin Firth, Emma Thompson, Renée Zellweger, Rowan Atkinson, Kristen Scott Thomas – you get the picture.  The problem though, is that they’re all too old, and dare I say it – white.  Its conception illustrates my unconscious biases, that a white upper middle-class demographic would fill the roles.  It’s a subtle form of racism; a 50-year-old-man penning a trope that reinforces an embedded stereotype.  I failed to see it as an issue, and therein lies the problem.  For so many of us, it’s not.  That’s White Privilege.

It wasn’t until I submitted my screenplay for professional scrutiny to The Black List that I was challenged to think about the composition of the cast.  The website has a section that invites details on each character including gender, age, and race.  Until then, I hadn’t confronted the ethnicity of the characters.  Their ages are important, so too is their wealth, but they could be from any ethnic background – it’s immaterial.  My prejudices had coloured my thinking, if not my cast.  That’s White Privilege.

I reflected on the cast of ‘Hamilton’; Lin-Manuel Miranda’s brilliant musical telling the story of one of America’s founding fathers.  It is an outstanding production with a fabulously diverse cast that play the parts of white historic figures, deliberately so.  At no point during the watching of the show did I even consider that the casting was flawed because the actors weren’t white.  Frankly, it was performed by an exceptional cast and is a supreme performance which is delightfully colour-blind.  There is no need for the characters to be played by white actors.  What the show needs, and what it has, are the absolute BEST actors; a requirement that should be adopted in many more walks of life.  But it’s not.  That’s White Privilege.

That may lead some angry white men to complain that affirmative action is discriminating against them, denying them their privilege.  I almost joined them when I heard an interview with a literary agent who suggested that right now, it’s not a good time to be a white, middle-aged, heterosexual male writer if you’re trying to break into the industry.  Woe is me.  I determine a career change to pursue my dream to find, after hundreds of years of publishing being controlled by my demographic, that the odds are against me.  At least, that’s the excuse I can use if my novels and screenplays continue to gather dust.  Heaven forbid I should think they remain unpublished for any other reason like, for instance, they’re not good enough.  That’s White Privilege.

Instead of feeling aggrieved or bemused, we white folks need to take conscious and conspicuous action if we’re to dismantle the implicit racism that exists with White Privilege.  We probably don’t have to think, as John Boyega did following his impassioned speech in Hyde Park recently, that his words about the injustices that black people are facing may result in backlash from the moguls in his industry.  Would a white person face the same risks?  Listening to his address, I don’t know why any of what he said would result in censure – but then, I’m a white man, so why would I?  That’s White Privilege.

As it happens, John Boyega just about fits the age profile that I need for my characters, so if he’s interested, there’s a role for him – and he can decide who he wants to play, although perhaps the story’s entitled arsehole should be played by a white man.  Of course, whether it gets produced is another matter altogether.  I think it’s brilliant, but then it’s written by a middle-aged white man and the cards really are stacked against me.  That’s not White Privilege, that’s just delusion.

Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2020

05 June 2020

Attempting the impossible

Happy New Year.  I’m a couple of weeks late, but as these are the GOM in Training’s first mutterings of 2020, I’m sticking that out there.

Given the turning of the year, I’ve come up with a couple of resolutions which, as of today, I’m almost managing to keep.  They’re different to anything I’ve proposed before.  The first, which is NOT to interfere with other folk’s barbecues, saw some early challenges in the first three days of the year.  These were spent in New Zealand, where a barbecue occurred on each of those days.  I left Anthony, Bella and JP, and Mike to do their thing.  Each was superb: Ant’s effort, unencumbered by my contribution, was excellent.  I allowed the view over the Orewa River and out into the Hauraki Gulf to distract me whilst he grilled a feast.  That same Gulf, but from a different perspective on Waiheke Island, distracted me again as Bella’s butter and thyme drenched Pipis opened in all their gloriousness on the hotplate, a perfect starter to precede her Dad’s effort, JP demonstrating expertise of his own.  Back on the mainland, Mike’s swift breakfast barbie the following morning served as our final treat before heading back to Blighty.

Here in the northern hemisphere, winter has us in its grip; outdoor cooking opportunities are rare, but this Saturday, a friend’s firing up his Weber as part of his wife’s birthday celebrations.  He’s English, so could probably do with some help, but I’ll resist.  He has shown reasonable form when turning a snag, so I’ll let him have his tongs.  If I budge in, it may engender foul language; he’s a man of the cloth so it wouldn’t do to put temptation in his path.

My other resolution is proving to be a mite more challenging.  “Be more like Ange” was my declaration on the eve of the New Year.  It’s a tall order.

I would suggest that Ange is like a whirling dervish, however, that would imply some form of chaos in her wake.  Not with her, quite the opposite, she’s a tornado of tidy.  When she flies around the house, order follows; it’s extraordinary.

I first noticed this on a visit to spend time with her and her husband, Shane, when they lived in Queenstown.  Queenstown’s a tourist mecca, there’s something for everyone, a discovery I made at the local tourist office as I garnered armfuls of brochures.  My plan was to review them when I returned to their house.  When I did, I popped them on the coffee table whilst I went to the loo.  Ange returned from work whilst I was out of the room, and when I got back, the brochures had vanished.  I momentarily questioned my sanity, then asked the obvious question.  “I’ve tidied them away,” she replied.  “Oh,” was all I managed.  I hadn’t realised they needed tidying.

On a subsequent visit for their wedding, we blokes; Shane, his best man, Dave, and I participated in the preparations by sitting down for an afternoon in front of the TV to watch the cricket.  The coffee table that had once briefly hosted a range of extreme activity brochures now supported our beers, each perched on the centre of a coaster, three corners of the table occupied.  In the fourth corner, an empty coaster sat, perfectly square to the sides of the table.  Ange, slightly more engaged in the wedding preparations than we were, fizzed around the house undertaking a variety of tasks.  “Watch this,” said Shane in a moment when she was out of the room.  He subtly shifted the fourth coaster, turning it so that it was no longer square.  The next time Ange whizzed by, she realigned it to the table without pausing as she passed.  “You do it,” said Shane when she was out of earshot, encouraging Dave.  He duly obliged.  So did Ange, once more restoring order on her next pass.
  “Your turn,” said Dave, drawing me into the plot.  I childishly participated, bolstered by Heineken-fuelled courage.  Ange, armed with freshly delivered flowers for the following day’s nuptials, straightened the coaster as she flew by again.  Shane rose to the challenge she’d unwittingly set, daring to move it a fourth time.
On her next approach she paused, hands on hips, glaring.  “I know what you’re doing,” she said.  “Leave it alone.”  Chastened, we complied.

This December we had the opportunity to spend more time with our friends and rather than disrupting the interior design through misappropriation of coasters, I chose instead to observe Ange in action.  Her tidying is immediate and breathtakingly swift.  I swear, if I’d chomped into a biscuit and an errant crumb were to break loose, she’d dispose of it before it hit the floor.  She’s a marvel.

So, my resolution, to be more like Ange, is an attempt to introduce a little more tidiness into my doings.  Mrs GOM is rightly sceptical, she’s experienced 25 years of the antithesis, so perhaps has justified reasons for doubt, but I have set off with aspirations.  From the centre of the kitchen, there is a four-foot radius where I’ve focused my attention.  Surfaces get wiped, dishes get washed and my usually chaotic efforts in meal preparation have a degree of order to them that was hitherto unknown.  It’s exhausting and I’m not sure the heightened activity will extend beyond its current scope.  That might demand attention in another room, the one to where I’ve been throwing the stuff from the kitchen.

I’m also trying to follow the example of immediacy and pace, but that’s possibly beyond my capability.  My frantic efforts create more mess than order; water is sloshed over work surfaces, discarded waste misses the bin and there is a real danger that crockery will meet an untimely demise, all of which creates additional work.  I’m not sure that Mrs GOM is impressed with my attempts, however, she’s welcoming the improvement, however mild.

I’ve tried to encourage Daughter of GOM (DofG) to join me on the crusade, however she’s too busy to participate, preferring instead not to empty her suitcase from the holiday.  Mrs GOM would argue that if ever there was evidence in favour of nature in the ‘nature versus nurture’ debate, when it comes to tidiness, DofG provides it; until that is, one considers that I’m her father.

Mrs GOM persists with her patience.  Mine, however, is being tested.  Dog of GOM (DoG), not to be confused with DofG, is not playing ball.  Or rather she is, discarding them, along with other remnants of her play and snacking about the house.  Ange’s dog knows better than to leave a toy discarded in a corner – it may never reappear. DoG, on the other hand, has taken to mass disruption, leaving bits all over the place in an effort to undermine my declaration and overwhelm me into submission.  I’m not giving up though, I’m going to convince DoG to join the effort and adopt more appropriate behaviour.  She’s bound to be easier to train than DofG.  That said, as I write, I can hear DoG shredding an envelope that she has purloined from the recycling bin beneath my desk.  My failure to notice this egregious act may illustrate that my resolutions are doomed to failure.

Maybe I will dig out my tongs for the forthcoming weekend, you know, just to spare the Englishman his blushes.


Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2020
17 January 2020