I have so many privileges. Being able to write this post about privilege is a privilege. How many women through eternity had occasion to gain literacy, write, or climb high enough on Maslow’s hierarchy to scrape past grinding lives of food, shelter, and childcare? Why should their stories be any less visible than mine? Why?I was able to go to school, lots of schools, and then more schools.
I author everything my social-media guru posts. She tells me what to write, adds tags and all that, then posts. “Take pictures on your trip and write a blurb,” she might write me. Laura asked for a post about my writing program: “I think a post about the Harvard program would be excellent. It’s another illustration of your expertise & constant thirst for learning.” After about five rejoinders like this I realized the problem was me. I’m a quintessential, white, financially comfortable, able-to-retire-at-63, not-quite-suburban-so-I-can-still-be-hip, hetero, liberal, left-coast, American woman.
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