Privilege for Hire

a humbling lesson in our quest for proximity

The fraud notification for a charge of $199.00 graced my phone screen. A few months ago, in an attempt to better manage my finances and create cybersecurity safeguards, I locked most of my credit cards. The alert wasn’t alarming, but it set off a trigger of mental events that humbled me.

At first I simply thought, let me unlock the card so I can renew my CLEAR membership. As an avid traveler, I see value in the service. The value was the cost of my time, or was it? I had a domestic trip in a few days. Was I prepared to wait?

Physical and mental pearls clutched.

In my mind, I thought, I don’t wait. The sista-homegirl inner voice, with her hand on her imaginary hip. Why don’t YOU wait JaNohn? Who the fuck are you?

Astonished by my own brazenness, I countered: I’m brilliant and humble and patient, loving — and sheepishly admitted I was programmed to pay for privilege. Ugh, not another level of unlearning. I’m never ready, but always willing.

Years ago when I traveled weekly for work, I performed what I called The March of the Penguins. A cadre of mostly white men, and a smattering of BIPOC humans. Tumi bags, Gucci loafers and Patagonia vests were part of what appeared to be a uniform. The go-to outfit for business people going to deliver a point of view at $450/hour to people with annual compensation packages of $500k. A conversation for another day.

I was part of the Penguin March. Locs perfectly coiffed, skin hydrated, Starbucks cup in hand.

My Sorel-laced feet whizzed through TSA/CLEAR past the people who had to wait. I would walk past and think, why wouldn’t you just pay for CLEAR? Fellow penguins remarked how they hoped people wouldn’t sign up for CLEAR. They don’t want this goodness to end.

My arrogance was not justified, or acceptable, but it existed. I was part of the penguins. The ones who “traveled for a living.”

Level 1 Access Granted

Next step, the Delta Sky Club Lounge. My mental model: I need quiet to get work done. I can’t do screaming babies. My company paid for this access and when they didn’t, I held the right credit card to grant it. I don’t sit with Gen Pop, I would joke. Folks always laughed, but I wonder how many thought differently and laughed through discomfort. May the Universe help me send loving apologies.

I walked up to the purple frosted doors, greeted by the most manicured humans, experts in delivering the designed user experience. Welcoming as if long-time friends. Phone scanned, doors open.

Level 2 Access Granted

Minutes before the flight, I stepped out — caffeinated or inebriated, it depends on the day. Relaxed and refreshed, I bypassed the boarding line. The zone determined access, seating and privilege — more legroom, food, and attention.

Level 3 Access Granted

If you had asked me before today, I would not have admitted that I viewed myself as better than. I convinced myself I earned this access and it felt good to have. What I didn’t do was explore why it felt good.

Did it feel good because it granted access to a place to shower after a long international flight? Or did it feel good because I got to be THAT Black woman? The one that wasn’t like the others. The one that “pulled herself up by her bootstraps.”

Welcome to my Usher-level Confession. It was both.

There were times of genuine convenience, but more times than not, it was to be in a place, to have achieved access. And what’s crazy is that this message wasn’t given to me by White people — it was Black people. It came via voluntary congratulations for clearly having a “Good Job,” for “Making us Look Good.” It was confirmed when I said good morning to staff in the TSA line and used my privilege of race to connect.

This realization sat with me heavy. I didn’t clutch my pearls this time. This time I held my chest, eyes darting back and forth. Am I complicit in this fuck-shit?

The inner voice: Yeah girl, a healthy smidgin. And you’re light skinned too? The voice mocked and soothed me simultaneously.

I returned to my fraud alert of $199. I thought deeply about paying for it. I justified it as a business expense. The inner sista-girl voice said — Girl! You aren’t even going to be in the United States for half the year. WTF are you doing?

I snapped out of it and realized, damn this programming is deep. I’m not doing it.

I’m cleared of CLEAR.

The moment of truth arrived. Early one Friday morning I entered O’Hare airport — lines everywhere. The tightness in my chest developed. I checked my watch. Do I have time to wait in line? Girl! Breathe, read and walk.

I listened to my internal instructions.

Walking towards TSA Pre-check, I entered the looped line, chest still tight. I got through in 5 minutes. The line was shorter than CLEAR. Wait. What?

I happily found a coffee and a snack and made my way to my gate.

Who knew a fraud alert would send me into an existential crisis with a healthy dose of humility. It’s not that serious.

Wait in the fucking line J.

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Unlearning in Love, J

PS — I thumb typed this in row 24 of a 24-row plane. Best flight ever!!!!!

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This is part of an ongoing exploration of self-love, authentic relationships, and the courage to love fully in a world that often makes love feel impossible. Writing has become a cathartic way of unlearning and relearning.

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