Grief and Privilege



People ask me how I'm doing and I tell them, "Pretty well, except when I'm not." Not is less and less often. I've thought a lot about why I'm doing as well as I am.  Of course there are a lot of reasons, but one that stands out in particular: wealth and privilege. 

As I have made my way through these last months, as I found him and called the police, as I made arrangements for his cremation and memorial, as I traveled to Atlanta; I did not, even once, wonder how I would pay for it all.  I didn't fear that the police would see my color and make assumptions. I didn't wonder if he had killed himself because I had failed to provide for him.  

When I looked at grief head on and saw a long road before me, I cut back on my work and didn't worry about my income. 

Because of many accidents of birth and circumstance, because of dozens or hundreds of happenings outside my control, I happen to have privileges of race and wealth and education that allowed me to let grief have it's way with me. I slowed down. I took time to cry and to write. I've showered mothering on the child I have left. I've spent time with my therapists and napped in the middle of the day when sleep did not hold the night. 

I can imagine doing it the other way, as most are forced to do, but I can only guess what it would have cost me.  How much grief would I have pushed aside, only to have it flood back later?  How much stress would my body have absorbed? How much health would have seeped away? How many tears would have gone unshed? How many joys would I have been too numb to feel?  

I don't feel guilty for the healing I've had, but I won't claim I earned it either. In this moment I wish to notice how much more difficult grief, and life, must be when money is tight, when basic needs are not secure and when police are as likely to harm as to help. 

I am fortunate. I am secure in ways we should all be secure. Because luck dealt me privilege, I am doing remarkably well, except when I'm not.  

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