The Intersections of Privilege
I shaved my head with a Bic razor when I turned 21 years old. I did it intentionally and as a ritual of sorts. I wanted to do something quasi-original for my 21st birthday (in addition to the partying, which to be certain, I did as well).
Though shaving your head isn’t that original, deciding to do it completely sober as ritual of reaching a milestone in our culture seemed about the right amount of original for me. I was elated to find out that I didn’t have an odd shaped head and that I actually looked really cute with a bald head.
I thought about how I was pushing up against culturally norms of femininity but how I also felt that this new look more closely matched an expression of my genuine self. I have kept my hair short ever since. During that time I also absolutely came to relish the pets and touches that my friends jokingly, shockingly, and in surprise lavished upon me.
I distinctly remember one encounter in downtown Minneapolis that didn’t go so well. I had met my friends who were dancing at club. I had a lot of things to do in the morning so I decided to abstain from drinking that night. As I left the club early, on my own and with my shaved head, in jeans and blouse revealing just a little cleavage, a group of young white men eyed me leaving the club.
As I felt my heartbeat quicken, I realized I was afraid of them—the stares, their energy and their presence. Then my ears caught just a couple words: “dyke” “butch,” “bitch.” It was almost as if they were hissing. They were seething with an energy I can’t explain, but it was meaning was unmistakably menacing.
In that instant, I distinctly remember questioning why I had turned down my friends’ offer to walk me to the car. I didn’t feel so brave for challenging gender norms in that moment; in fact I regretted it a little bit. But in the club I had thought, my friends are having so much fun dancing… I am a rugby player I can take care of myself, no one needs to escort me. I’ll be fine. Of course I was not thinking that I would encounter an entire group of drunken, white, young men filled with some sort of vehemence that I can’t understand.
Tears started welling up in my eyes as I realized they were following me. I remember a rock forming in my throat, thinking would I fight back? Should I scream? Should I respond? They will know how scared I am. I can’t let them see how terrified I am, it will only feed them.
My car was only about three blocks away. Should I run for it? They could clearly catch me. Would they beat me? Would they rape me? Mostly I remember being terrified.
They taunted me, “Hey! Come back here!,” “Hey baldy, let’s see how tough your are now—you fucking dyke!”
I started walking faster. Somehow the streets all around were completely empty. I looked around in vain and realized I was alone on the street with these men. I decided to quicken my pace and make it to my car. So as long as I could get there I could be safe and then I would also have a really, big powerful weapon—my car. I just had to get there and open it. Tears were running down my cheeks by now, and my hands were now balled into tight fists, save for the key I had sticking out in a position ready to defend myself.
As I turned a corner, I looked back to see how much time I had and how far away they were, and I actually bumped straight into a police officer. He took a step back, quickly ascertaining if I was a threat. He heard me coming and stopped where he was. I can imagine what he saw: my stature, my light brown skin, my bald head, my cleavage, the tears on my face, the key in my hand—my makeup streaking down my face, the terror in my eyes.
He asked, “Are you okay Miss?” All I could get out was, “Guys…following me” before the men came drunkenly barreling around the corner. Their energy had an agitated edge to it, but when they saw the cop they suddenly fell silent. They shifted their direction as if they were going somewhere else all along. One of them even nodded his head at the cop and said, “Officer.” The officer responded by glaring and saying, “Move along.” A warning in his voice as he stared them down. Meanwhile one of them just glared at me with a look I will never forget. And they walked on.
It turns out the officer had been around the corner and heard their taunts. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but as he told me, he had been a cop long enough to recognize what that tone of voice usually meant. So he was following it to see if there was a problem. He was kind enough to walk me the next couple blocks to my car. He warned me about walking to my car alone—even for a “sturdy girl” like myself. He said I should be more careful next time and find a buddy to walk with. I thanked him and said I would be more careful. I was shaking and crying. He asked me again if I was ok. I said yes, I’m ok—just shaken up. Thank you.
A couple things occurred to me in the days after that incident as I processed it. Though I was very thankful the cop walked me the rest of the way to my car, I couldn’t help but wonder at the sentiment in his last warning…he told me to be more careful. He told me not to walk alone. I wonder if he would have had the chance, if he would have told those men not to hunt me down. Would he say anything to them about their targeting me, their violent intentions, their hatred? I left that night feeling thankful for his protection but also as though it was my fault for not having taken my friends up on their offer for an escort. When the truth was, yes, I ought to have had an escort, AND it wasn’t my fault.
It wasn’t my fault for being who I am in the world. It wasn’t my fault those men decided to target me, yell at me, and follow me because I had decided to shave my freaking head. It wasn’t my fault they were menacing thugs seeking to unleash violence on someone they read as non-conforming to their gender roles and hetero-normative sexual orientation in the world.
I reacted with tears and retreat initially, but I know myself well enough to recognize that if, for instance, they would have surrounded me and smashed a beer bottle into my face, those tears would have become rage and I would have found a way to defend myself. I know that the person I was at that point in my life would have met violence with violence. I had that key in my hand for a reason.
When I heard about CeCe McDonald’s experience, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own. I wonder in my situation—what if I had had a darker skin tone, and what if I hadn’t been crying? Would that officer have seen me as more of a threat? Wwould he have been so nice to me if he read me differently? What if I didn’t look like a cisgender woman showing cleavage with makeup on? What if I had been drinking, would the officer still have protected me?
This much I know. I was very, very lucky that night and I am forever thankful to that officer for protecting me—without him, I am certain my life would have changed that night, and been marred forever by some violent terror. I will never forget the fear I felt, the complete inequity of physical power, the threat those men brought into my world.
I cannot in good conscience say that the person I am today agrees with the means CeCe took to defend herself, but I can say I am sure am glad she defended herself. I can’t pretend to be completely saddened that a man with neo-nazi symbols tattooed on his chest is no longer in this world, but I do at the same time know that the taking of life is a serious matter—even a life such as his.
However, when I look deeper at this situation I see a transgender woman who was persecuted for being herself in the world and expressing herself. It wasn’t her fault that these intolerant, belligerent, mean-spirited people attacked her. CeCe wasn’t asking it for it by having the courage to be who she is called to be in the world—for being herself. It is not on CeCe to be more careful. It is not her fault.
CeCe’s case raises a lot of issues of how we do justice in our society. It is clear that skin color, gender, and class all play huge roles in the perceived level of responsibility and innocence. The intersections of privilege become clear here. Being white or even just perceived as white, having hetero-normative sexual orientations, and being perceived as cisgender translates into unfair and unjust treatment of our transgendered people—especially those transgendered people of color. If this weren’t so, they would not be taunted, threatened, physically beaten, and intimidated just for being who they are while the perpetrators are exonerated of any and all responsibility for things such as smashing a beer bottle into someone’s face.
It is not CeCe’s “fault” for defending her life and this is not an exaggeration either—we know violence towards transgendered people of color often results in death. That beer bottle could have just as easily been plunged into CeCe’s main artery in her neck, killing her in minutes—instead it hit a saliva gland. She has been the victim of violence in the past. Personally, I cannot blame her for valuing her life and having enough sense of self worth to say I am worth fighting for, and I will take a stand against these people who have attacked me.
I don’t know CeCe McDonald, I have never met her, nor any of the bullies that attacked her as a group, but I know this: the way she was treated by the police and the judicial system is unjust. The way that she is solely being held responsible for this situation is unjust. It is not her fault for being who she is. There is fault to be shared by the hate-filled, intolerant group that put CeCe into a violent situation, forcing her to defend herself.
When we explore why no one in the Minneapolis judicial system is seeking to hold the people who happen to be white, heterosexual, and cisgendered responsible for their actions, while CeCe faces 4 years imprisonment for defending her life, it is there where we can see the intersections of privilege and the most glaringly blatant forms of injustice in our judicial system. It is there where we can see whose life is valued and whose is not, and when we ask why, what the reason is for that value, we arrive at the intersections of privilege, which in this case happen to be the morally corrupt step children of the un-holiest of union between white supremacy and hetero normative gender roles supported by the power of the judicial system.
How would you respond surrounded by a group, yelling hateful epithets at you and your friend, when you are outnumbered and overpowered…then someone shatters a beer bottle into your face? Would you run? Would you be nice in your response and say please stop? Would you say please leave me alone? Would you do all of that and then just stand by and watch as they advanced towards you? Would you fight for your own safety, for your own life? Would you be polite when you fought back for your life? Would the tone in your voice be kind?
Cece’s only fault was having had the courage to be her true self in the world and having had the self-worth enough to fight for her own life when an entire group of people violently attacked her. When people with CeCe’s integrity, strength, and courage are white, straight, and cisgendered we tend to refrain from putting those types of people in prison, even if we are asking them to take responsibility for their actions. We usually give those people awards, actually, we call them role models, we call them brave, we call them a hero. We usually stand by their side—especially if they have defended something under attack that we value, even if in that defense lives have been lost.
CeCe’s defense of her life was justified and the responsibility she is asked to bear alone and in the ways she is being forced to bear it is unjust. She was attacked. And it isn’t right that she is held any more responsible for the sad turn of events that violence brought into the scene than those other people who initiated the violence by smashing a glass bottle into her face.
I send you love, CeCe. Keep standing up for yourself because you are worth it.We need more people in the world like you. We need more people in the world to be their true selves and transcend cultural norms to find their genuine expressions of self and life, whether that looks like short hair, transgender, or just a funny t-shirt. Courageous people like you make life more beautiful, not less. People who are brave enough to be themselves enrich life, they don’t detract from it.
I am saddened that a life was lost and I regret that you chose to defend yourself in a way that ended up being lethal. But I know that justice looks different, for you and for the family who lost someone, and for the person that smashed a bottle into your face. Justice is different, it feels different and it is always tempered by love and understanding or else it is closer to something else, something like punishment, revenge, scape-goating…but whatever it is, the responsibility for what happened that night is not yours alone and this is not justice.
- Impatient with Waiting - December 1, 2016
- Cultivating the Courage to Act - April 1, 2016
- The Hope of OurAncestors - December 1, 2015
