My privilege is showing… and it shouldn’t be.

I moved back to Miami to be closer to the ocean, but she is not the ocean I remember. The few times I have played in the water in Miami since moving back, I have emerged with a series of bites. The seaweed is dirty, Dead fish are washing up along the bay. The ocean is sick, and her sickness is man made waste.

This week, I’m stationed in Ponte Vedra with a small quarantine pod. The water is cleaner, the nature is present, cohabitating with a smaller population, one that is more mindful about leaving no trace and respecting the life. (Seriously, I saw a turtle patrol cruising down the sand this morning.) But I wonder if it’s less about the individual in habitants than the amount of money available here.

So far, I’ve been blessed with seeing a little crabesito crawling up the path towards the back porch, a row of pelicans cruising overhead, a lone falcon riding the breeze, these teeny tiny birdos that pitter patter across the sand, fish jumping over swelling waves, a freaking shark hunting those fish for their dinner, a dolphin playing in the distance, and lizards galore.

Amid walks along this fairly empty and spacious beach, I’ve found little shell friends. I like to collect the weirdos that catch my eye so they can hang out together for a little while before I return them to their rightful place on the sand. As my brain has healed from November’s concussion, these small moments of childlike wonder at the stormy sunsets and flashes of lighting and little creatures that cross my path, have kept me tethered, close to myself, in touch with the steady essence that guides me. Coming back into yourself after months of feelings that don’t reflect the person you thought you were becoming can feel like magic.

My privlege is showing, and it saddens me that access clean ocean water is in fact such a privilege (don’t even get me started on drinking water). That there are so many barriers to nature access, especially for the many people locked into urban landscapes. That taking time to collect oyster and seashells, is a luxury many children don’t get to have. Rest and play should not be luxuries. They are essential. I am thinking of Jacob Blake and his children. Of the trauma brutally inflicted on so many children in this country. Where is the rest and play for them? Why aren’t we diverting resources from the military industrial complex, from the police, to social services? Why aren’t we holding murderers accountable? Why aren’t we allowing those who need it the space to REST.

I remember hearing on a podcast once that humans forget we are mammals. Most mammals spend a lot of time chilling the fuck out. They work hard to get food, but when that’s done, they chill. We’ve been sold a prescription of grinding to survive. To take more and more. To be GREAT. My Capricorn stellium ass bought into that hard. I wanted to be a GREAT writer, a GREAT journalist, something, anything, GREAT.. I wanted to be SUCCESSFUL. I wanted to be REMEMBERED. All these aspirations to feed my EGO. For WHAT? To what END? Where did all these aspirations come from?

That is not to say I am not still ambitious. I still want to build something. I just no longer need it to amplify my own sense of GREATNESS. I don’t want to be better than anyone else. Do I experience a sense of intellectual superiority when I see videos of Karens and macho men screaming about their right to not wear a mask? I absolutely do. I’m working on it. I’m trying to turn that into compassion. But anger gets in the way.

My privilege is showing because I get to avoid those people in real life. I get to work virtually. I get to turn down requests to teach in person. I have other ways of getting by. I have had the space to heal. The things most often in my way these days are my own thought patterns. Thought patterns that grew from patriarchy and white supremacy and capitalism, but ones I have enough distance from now to see clearly for what they are. The money and space for therapy and mentorships that instill the lifelong practice of learning and unlearning is another privilege. The space to embark on a spiritual journey is a privilege.

These words are a little less structured than usual. A little less lead by thesis. A little more lead by little thoughts and threads that come up organically. Still, I think what I’m getting at is that guilt won’t serve us. Only gratitude will. Defensiveness and fear won’t help anyone, but humility and open ears might. When are cups are full and our fires are stoked, we can share our excess. The biggest problem I see is that those most willing to share are rarely those with the strongest fires and the fullest cups.

What I mean is, we must both protect ourself and tend to our growth and healing while simultaneously understanding we are all INTERDEPENDENT. We are only as healthy as the sickest members of our society. Many of us are sick in very different ways. The sickness itself is not the problem. It’s ignoring the symptoms or refusing to treat the cause. But once we do, once we surrender to examining our darkest shadows, we can shed the presence of what “matters”. We can speak from a place of authenticity. We can find a way to lead and love and grow.

I’ll close with a quote. Once of my favorites from The Fire Next Time. A compassionate analysis of the psyche of America. Perhaps of the psyche of everywhere depending on what marginalized group you’re scapegoating. I don’t have a prescription or answer to sign off with, but I hope you have something to ponder this week as a result.

There appears to be a vast amount of confusion on this point, but I do not know many Negroes who are eager to be "accepted" by white people, still less to be loved by them; they, the blacks, simply don't wish to be beaten over the head by the whites every instant of our brief passage on this planet. White people in this country will have quite enough to do in learning how to accept and love themselves and each other, and when they have achieved this -- which will not be tomorrow and will not be today and may very well be never -- the Negro problem will no longer exist, for it will no longer be needed.

― James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time