Privilege is a pair of blinkers,
placed on my head from birth,
directing my vision,
seeing only my troubles, no direct lines, only my worth.
Privilege is hearing about crime,
shocked or worried through a TV screen,
never having to face a gun or knife to the neck,
never knowing real fear, always distant by a few feet.
Privilege is debating war at coffee shops,
on social media, in office blocks,
while children die, burning up from the inside,
decades of shooting at their legs, tortured and displaced, whole flocks.
Privilege is a minority, the asset portfolios,
surfing, bike-riding, skiing, connoisseurs of holiday homes,
telling the salary-dependent classes below,
that wealth control, distribution is of little use, their fine noses grow.
Privilege is living in the world’s most inequitable country,
a place once full of hope,
realising that the system was designed, then and now,
to do many wrong, any second you could slide on economic soap.
Privilege is going to posh schools,
enjoying small classes and teacher attention,
neurologically standard, not divergent,
the losers of public education, unmentioned.
Privilege is a girl learning about old boys funnelled into battle,
young and eager, wanting to be brave,
their bodies ripped, minds ripped too,
millions of boys murdered in waves.
Privilege is a boy, teenage promiscuous king,
getting high-fives like an undeclared sport,
the girls shamed for speaking out of turn,
one kiss too many, hers a dirty game…no doubt.
Privilege is never having to use the word, colonialism,
you’re allowed to forget how it served,
when those left without, mass extraction, exploitation,
a system still in use, veiled under new words.
Privilege is knowing you’ll likely die before the planet does,
children left behind to fend,
polar bears shrinking, species erased,
humans racing to their carbon end.
Privilege is leaving your country behind,
worrying, on and off, whether they’ll make it,
every happy moment stained with their despair,
how I wish their suffering would dissipate.
Privilege is loving your children,
wanting for them the very best,
being comfortable with different standards,
for children not yours, “those people” and all the rest.
Privilege is buying hair extensions or weaves,
for a normal day or special event,
never having to think of the women in temples,
the desperate poor, selling their hair, no rest.
Let’s be honest, privilege is a warm blanket,
a frosted glass bubble,
a life of relative comfort,
class, intersecting with race, nationality, less to no trouble.
Privilege is not a sin,
rather a product of systems, local and overseas,
compounded by history, current or no redress, personal paths taken,
there’s no shame attached, for you or for me.
However, privilege is – it must be – a platform to speak out,
quiet, loud, creative or policy bold,
to say, this here stinks,
we cannot carry on while dignity, life itself, has and is being sold.