My White Privilege Story

Today is "International Human Rights Day 2014," a day which "commemorates the date on which the United Nations General Assembly adopted the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, proclaiming its principles as the 'common standard of achievement for all peoples and all nations.'" It's an international day, but it's quite clear that while we Americans regularly like to point out the human rights failings of other nations, we have some work to do to live up to these standards as well.

What do I know about it? I'm an educated, middle-aged, white guy, and have benefited from the same society and system that failed to grant justice in the killings of Michael Brown, Eric Garner, and so many more. It's not something I asked for, or purposefully or even consciously participated in bringing about, but I have benefited from it all the same.

Here's one little story of white privilege: I was about 19 at the time, and the car I was driving was a beat-up 1969 Pontiac station wagon. Where it had paint, it was primer gray. Quite out of place in the middle-class Los Angeles suburb where I resided.

One morning, on my way to work, I ran a stop sign. "Ran" -- actually, it was more of what we call a "California stop," where you slow down, check both ways, and roll through without actually stopping. A policeman pulled out behind me and pulled me over. He informed me about the stop sign and asked to check out my ID and registration.

Once my ID (with an address about a mile or two from the intersection) checked out, he asked me, "What do you think we should do about this?"

Being a smart-ass 19-year-old, I said, "Let me off with a stern warning?"

He handed me back my ID and said, "Don't let it happen again." He then returned to his vehicle and drove off.

White Privilege. Had I not "belonged" in the neighborhood, that transaction would not have gone so well. Had I not "fit in," a traffic ticket would have been the least of my concerns.

The pay-off there was obvious, and the contrast to current cases is clear. It's not always so obvious and clear. Walking through stores on a day when I didn't bother to shave and am wearing old, torn jeans, but still get excellent service instead of being followed and scrutinized. Middle-aged white guy privilege.

Of course, I am missing one crucial ingredient for full privilege: I am not now, nor have I ever been, a Christian. I've experienced anti-Semitism first-hand, too.

Perhaps my worst story of anti-Semitism effecting me: I was about 21 and working in a real estate office. One of the saleswomen got off a contentious phone call with a client and started screaming about the "fucking cheap kike."

I took exception to her choice of language, and told her so. What word should she use, she wanted to know? I suggested that clients behavior had to do with them being an asshole, not a Jew. Now, I was in trouble.

While she got away with using the anti-Semitic slur, "kike," as well as several choice curse words, I was to be disciplined for saying, "asshole." Needless to say, I didn't work there much longer.

There have been other, more minor, examples, but generally speaking, in my life experience, being a white guy has gained me far more than being "the wrong religion" has hurt me.

Protestor blocks traffic

So, yes, when activists, advocates, and protesters point out the use of excessive deadly force and its racial overtones, I get it.

"But they were thugs!" Michael Brown did not "rob a convenience store." He and the owner had a nasty dispute over about $1.50 worth of cigarillos, and yes, it turned to pushing, but not there was no robbery. And really don't think that $1.50 worth of smokes is a capital crime.

Eric Garner's crime of selling loose cigarettes is hardly worthy of a banned strangle-hold and death either. If Garner had created an iPhone app to match holders of extra cigarettes with people who wanted to purchase one, he'd be hailed for innovatively disrupting the tobacco market and be handed $40 million in venture capital.

"But nobody raises such a stink when white guys get shot by the police!" Well, actually they do. If you pay attention there's plenty of protest about the over-militarization of the police and the abuse of excessive force overall. But within that broader problem there is also the inescapable fact that young black man is twenty times more likely to be shot and killed in a dispute with the police than a young white man.

Black lives matter. (Yes, all lives matter, but not all people rightly feel like a walking target at this time). And, personally, I can't see any attempt to justify the killings of Brown or Garner as anything other than justification of a racist system and the perpetuation of Christian, white, male privilege.

Still don't get what's happening here? How about a few lines from William Shakespeare, Act III, Scene I, Merchant of Venice:

I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is? If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.

Shylock did not appeal to his oppressors to raise them to higher level of caring. He eloquently explained why he chose to sink to their level of evil. Had he sought his pound of flesh without this speech, the audience would have no sympathy. He's still the evil Jew in the play, but he's a humanized evil Jew, thanks to his eloquence.

I hesitate to condone some of the more extreme violence of some of the current protests, but I get the motivation. Unfortunately, I fear, it allows those who just don't get what's going on to dismiss it all as, "I told you they were thugs."

Sympathizing with Shylock's demand for a pound of Antonio's flesh doesn't quell our revulsion at possibly having to watch it cut out live on stage, or our relief when a less bloody resolution is found.

But I would say that. I'm a white guy.

Irwin B. Goldstein, 1929-2012, R.I.P.

Last Friday night, at about 1:15 AM, my father, Irwin, suffered a major heart attack. My brother, Miles, had arrived for a visit with his wife and young daughter just a few hours earlier and was able to perform CPR till the paramedics came.

They were able to revive him and transport him to the hospital, but he was in a coma from that point on. 

Leslie and I were called at around 2:40 AM, washed up, threw a bag of clothes together, and drove all night, arriving at the hospital before 9 AM Saturday morning.

Once all the family was gathered at his bedside and had said our final goodbyes, ventilation and all support, other than a morphine drip for comfort, were removed at approximately 11:30 AM.

 

We were told that death would not come immediately. Maybe it would be a few minutes, maybe a few hours. As he hung on, that became "twelve hours, tops." Then, "by early Sunday morning." Despite all odds and expectations he held on another twenty-eight hours with family by his side. 

 

At 3:12 PM on Sunday, December 9, 2012, our father opened his eyes one last time and died looking into the eyes of our mother, his beloved Judi.

 

(What follows is a rough transcript of what I said Tuesday, in eulogy, at my father's funeral:)

 

In trying to decide what story to share with you all today, I wanted to share something that wasn't just personal, but a story that really explains who my father was; something to demonstrate his character. And what came to mind wasn't an early childhood memory, but something from just a couple of months ago.

 

As I'm sure you all know, Dad had been suffering from Alzheimer's for several years. Alzheimer's is heartless and relentless and was slowly taking him away from us.

 

It took away memories and details. It took away being able to have in-depth conversations and ask for advice. But it never took away the essence of who he was.

 

He was still overwhelmingly positive, happy, and loving life and his family. He was always pleased to see people he recognized and give a warm hello.

 

So the story:

 

The last time we went out to dinner was to a local place where my parents know the chef/owner and the chef's mother, Barbara, who is the hostess.

 

About a hundred times during the meal, Barbara would walk by our table to seat another group, and each time she'd pass, Dad would smile at her and say, "Hi! How are you doing?" to her like greeting a long lost friend. It was repetitive; but it was sincere. And she responded kindly each time because she knew he was sincere.

 

Some who only saw him at work might just say he was a good shmoozer, but he genuinely loved people, and everybody he met loved him.

 

At home he was still concerned for everybody else's comfort and happiness above his own, and making sure he was taking care of his family and any guests. "Can I get you something?" "Are you okay?" "Do you need anything?" ... Over and over again.

 

It's true, he wasn't the same as he was before Alzheimer's. But he was still Irwin. We may have already spent a couple of years mourning the decline, mourning the inevitable, and missing the details, but HE was still very much there, himself, with us, and taking care of us, till the very last.

 

... Okay... One personal childhood memory... One I don't even think my brothers know. A secret story...

 

Most of you know that Dad loved to play golf, and if you knew him long enough, that he played hockey as a kid. But we were not huge sports fans in our family. Still, when I was growing up, one of my favorite tv shows was ABCs Wide World of Sports.

 

I enjoyed Jim McCay, but more important was the ritual of how we watched it. Dad would lie down on the couch and I would lie down beside him, with his arm around me, enjoying the comforting aromas of Old Spice and Budweiser.

 

I have no idea where the rest of the family was on Saturday afternoons, but for me, "The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat" meant I would have ninety minutes alone with my Daddy.

 

Goodbye, Daddy. I love you.