8/3/2023

I’ve learned to challenge the thought, “I have no time for that”. I take a deep breath and stand still. I let Her be my compass and she says, “Please”.

Every behavior after that is a simple task. No emotion- we are just moving towards the goal. Her goal is the pool. So, I’m at the pool. I’m reading and writing because that’s what I like to do. And we’re outside and spend time splashing in the water because, that’s what She likes to do. I try to do this when We need it. Sometimes, most of the time, I’m like I was before- moving too fast so I’m missing things in front of me.

I finished a book and am starting a new one. I’m content so now I play. I sit on the steps of the pool and take in the sun. I move my legs left and right, up and down. The breeze catches the sweat droplets forming on my forehead. I notice- I am still. A man comes through the gate. His presence breaks my focus but I notice,… that’s all it does. We smile at one another and he finds his own space. I notice my awareness of him as he moves around me but the tension in my body is only that- awareness. I’m not scared. I hold my gaze at the light reflecting off the water. If I blink, my pain will add to this pool.

Letting her hold my hand is changing me. Changing Us- maybe. I don’t recognize this kind of awareness. I’m able to play and take in the joy of it. Awareness always meant sacrifice. Play was sacrificed for survival. I needed to always be aware to survive. I’m not sure why there’s no sacrifice this time. I can hear my heart beat when I sink my ears into the water. The rhythm is unremarkable. I scan my neck, shoulders, and back- nothing. No tension, no tingling, no heat or cold. Nothing. My body is aligned with my mind. I feel happy… hopeful.

-.-

He lets her in with her three kids. I can feel the children. The excitement and innocence. They’re ready to play. I notice they look like me and feel good about the company. I can hear the mom try to keep her children’s screams of laugher down, “You have to be quiet”. I catch the women looking at my chest tattoo and that’s when I notice her tattoos. On her face, chest, and arms. She smiles at me and plays with her kids. I enjoy how she interacts with them. She’s patient, encouraging, and loving.

Then it hits me… I have privilege.

This pool is a privilege. A privilege I never thought I’d have and not in a “crushed dream” kind-of-way. It just wasn’t something someone like me could have. A pool wasn’t necessary. You know, a need.

I remember the thrill of breaking into apartments to use their pools in the summer. I was pretty good at jumping fences, walls, gates,…you name it. And if that was too hard, I would find a tenant I could befriend who would let me in. I was always good with things like this and never thought much of it…

We couldn’t stay more than a few hours and we had to be very quiet. Sometimes we would get caught and we’d have to run for it. If there were others in the pool we would try to fit in and pretend we belonged. Hoping no one would notice we really didn’t and call us out.

That’s something I’ve missed while I was caught up in the will to survive. I have privilege now. I’m in rooms I never thought I’d even get a peak at. I sit at tables with people who’d easily pass me up in a different setting, hell in a different outfit. I’ve infiltrated spaces I was told I didn’t belong in. Rooms so guarded and heavily monitored. I’m in.

So, what is the hang up with accepting all of this? What’s the story I was told and/or am telling myself?

1. I don’t deserve anything good or easy. I deserve to suffer and struggle.

2. I didn’t earn this. It’s luck and luck fades.

3. Someone will take this from me when they find out who I am.

4. There’s no time to enjoy it because if I stop to tie my shoe I’ll fall behind.

But there is a fifth story.

5. Accepting this privileged means I’m a traitor. It means I’m ungrateful and ashamed of where I come from. So ashamed I fought to leave it. What a betrayal. It means I’m just like the people I felt envy of. Those in the world of trust fund babies, silver spoons, and nepotism.

Am I like that world now?

No, there isn’t a way I could be... My story was different. It just is. I wasn’t born into privilege. I was born here, making me American. Least that’s the idea but my relationship to that word is distant. It’s not that I’m not grateful but if I say this out loud that’s all that’s heard. I’m grateful for this privilege. It’s granted me things my ancestors only dreamed of. It just doesn’t work in every room. Other descriptions are louder when I walk into certain spaces. Other aspects of my identity are marked and often not to my benefit. But I’m not ashamed. Least I never was…

I earned this privilege and its new to me. There is shame that the others at this table can tell I’m not “from here”. Yes, I have shame and I have shame about having shame…

That’s the loop. Trying to hide parts of myself at this table is the real betrayal. That’s what makes me the traitor. That’s how I abandon those of us born with little to no privilege. I try to negate the meaning of the infiltration. I reaffirm a glass ceiling that we all strive to break through. So why isn’t this easier to accept? Is the narrative of “not belonging” so strong I don’t need people to tell me anymore? Why do I continue to feed the narrative of marginalize groups?

It's scary to be standing here. I can resist it or move forward. I’m a compilation of different stories and versions of Xxxxx. All good and bad. All needed and valuable. Clearly- they got me into these rooms. So why can’t I be all of them? She, is teaching me that.

I’m in… breathe… let’s see what I can do with this access.