Dear Prudence,
In my early twenties, I was raped. By a man who happened to be Black. I don’t think he did it because he was Black. He did it because he was “a somebody” where we were and I was a nobody, and I don’t honestly think he thought of it as rape. I was very drunk and he took advantage, as most of the men (mostly white) in the place in which I worked at that time would do. I went to work there in part out of my own socialization as a young woman, and I can’t say I wasn’t complicit in the culture that led to that specific moment. After it and some ensuing complications, I spiraled and lost a lot of a lot of years, but because I am white and privileged and because the job paid well, I was able to access therapy secretly and stabilize. I’m one of the lucky ones—most women who went through that sort of experience don’t get to use it to improve because no one helps them.
No one in my family knows about this, and frankly, it’s none of their business. But my daughter-in-law, who is a young, politically active Black woman, has recently started trying to get me to “check” my privilege by using terms like “Karen” and “white woman tears.” It makes me really angry, disproportionately so, which actually seems to encourage her. I know I’m flawed, and I know the statistics she quotes at me are horrible for women of color, but I’m tired of being her easily accessible punching bag. It’s too triggering. I want to just move on. I am trying to remember that in the wider system, she’s so easily dismissed (young, Black, intelligent, from a financially deprived background) that she needs to know that she’s getting through to someone, and my reactions are at least reactions, not the indifference of so much of society. And, of course, if I am going to be an ally, I need to listen and acknowledge at the very least.
But I’ve just started avoiding her, even if she seeks me out, trying to educate me. I tell myself that if I could take the time to investigate my rapist with compassion and look at the society surrounding us and stop throwing around terms like “white trash” (which I used for years in reference to myself), then she can learn to stop using stereotypical terms, too. But I think I just look like an asshole, and maybe I am an asshole. My son definitely thinks I’m being ridiculous and I need to suck it up and stop being so weak. Sometimes I think I should tell her about my youth, but then I just feel sick to my stomach. It’s not that I think I did anything wrong anymore, it’s just, once you share something like this, it’s like telling people you had an abortion or something. They tend to define you by that thing that happened to you, and I don’t want that.
I realize that’s ironic, as she is regularly telling me that she is defined by the color of her skin, which isn’t fair and is, for her, unavoidable in our modern society. As an old woman, however, I want to exploit my privilege in this area and just not share this story. How do I frame my time with her so that I don’t make things worse? I want to support her in her work and in her life, just as I want to support my son, but I want to feel like I’m part of the solution, and I am finding that very difficult in our conversations.
— Maybe I Am White Trash