Taking Stock of the Privileges I Own

They arrived in different packages, of varying weights and strengths.

Many came with my birth. (White. Able-Bodied. American. Neurotypical.)

Others came later. (Cisgender. Thin. Heteroromantic.) Or at least, people figured — assumed, unquestionably — that they were at my doorstep, though they weren’t brought inside, encompassed into my life, right away.

Some packages are easy to spot, obviously in my possession. Others are more transparent or oddly shaped, not quite the norm or ill-fitting within their boxes. People question if I’m their rightful owner. I sometimes do too.

All people own boxes.

But some have more — way, way more — than others.

Oddly enough, many of the most gifted people want more. Demand more. They suspect that other people are hatching elaborate plans to steal their boxes. Use them for themselves to get ahead, then turn back, mockingly.

They never consider sharing.

Other people, who have more than their fair share of boxes, deny owning even a single one. “What box?” they say, while clinging to a massive one, on display and in other people’s way.

Other folks can’t stop insisting that they never ordered any damn boxes — never specifically requested them.

But that’s completely irrelevant.

They still have them. They accepted them. They held on to them. Hold on to them. Everyday.

Most types of boxes can’t be discarded or recycled, even if their owners want to; they own them for life.

Sure, a box can change strength or force — often upon aging or being moved a great distance— but it’s a weight the person will always carry. For better or for worse.

No two people have the exact same arrangements of boxes.

Even within the same family. Or at least, each individual interacts with their own collection differently. They see their boxes differently. Treasure different ones above others. Display them differently. Present them to the world differently.

And, over the years, whether through time or circumstance, a person’s collection becomes all tied up. Boxes are interconnected, impossible to tear apart. Tangled within each other. No one their owner meets — be it a friend, a stranger, or an acquaintance — can celebrate the existence of one box but deny the worth of another.

Collections don’t work like that. They’re— quite literally — a package deal.

People are often envious of other people’s boxes.

They wish they had been gifted them, too. Or could order them. Work for them. Be rewarded them. Deemed worthy.

Life is harder without them. (Though that doesn’t mean they dislike the boxes they have been handed. They’re usually quite proud of their ownings. They may be meager, less valued by other folks, but they’re still uniquely wonderful.)

But people with only a few boxes — or lacking a fundamental one — rarely wish that no one owned boxes. They simply want box owners to share the wealth — to let more people enjoy the wonder of their contents, without charging a steep price or asking the non-owners to give up another box in return.

How is it decided what collection each person gets to own?

Who decides it?

No one person — every person. It’s systemic. Ingrained. Set by a disorderly, ever-evolving algorithm that may have once had roots in science, but is now shaped much more by humankind and its flawed pseudoscience.

It can be changed — this box-owning allocation of who gets what and who can’t even touch certain boxes — but it will take time.

And collaboration. Especially from those with many boxes — the ones wrapped up with the most power.

People have to first look around, recognize and take stock of what they own. Only then can the system be dismantled.

Yes, I own privileges. Maybe more than you. Maybe less.

We can’t do a gift exchange, but surely we can unwrap, reveal, and dissect what’s inside.

I’d like to share. Will you?