By BOB FUSELIER
Los Alamos
A few years back I read a story that highlighted a teacher’s creative lesson on privilege. As I recall the story, the teacher asked his/her students to take out a piece of paper for a quiz on what it means to be privileged.
After placing a trashcan in the center of the room in front of the first row of desks, the teacher told the students to crumple their paper into a ball and throw it into the trashcan. Those who were successful would get an A; those who weren’t would fail.
Those in the front rows said nothing as they began to successfully toss the paper into the trashcan. Those in the back rows complained of how the test was tilted unfairly toward those in the front. Some of the front row students responded that it wasn’t their fault; they hadn’t set the rules and were only doing what they were told to do.
After a bit, the teacher stopped the discussion by simply reminding the students the exercise was a test on what it means to be privileged.
I’m a white, male veterinarian old enough to have a voice but not too old to feel ignored and with enough wealth that I was able to retire after the death of my son Michael last year. I think it’s safe to say that I fit into the category of those who have “White privilege”. I’m in the front row.
Many will say that I earned it by putting in the years to become a veterinarian and building, along with my partner Dan, my wife Susie, and many others, a successful practice. But my dad, early on in my life, made sure I understood that I had been given opportunities others did not have. He taught me that I should make the best of those opportunities and then, when possible, help bring opportunities to those who did not have them.
Perhaps his early lessons have allowed me enough humility to realize that I am part of the privileged class. But that realization still was not easy to come by. Which is why I understand the protests of many I know against the idea that there is a “White privilege”. But there is, and life here in Los Alamos can offer amazing examples of what White privilege means if one can seek to understand the lives of those without it.
No experience of mine in raising my children better exemplifies White privilege more than an incident that involved my son Mike when he was 15 or 16 years old. I arrived home one evening to a message on our answering machine from the LAPD asking me to call them. I did, and when I introduced myself, the dispatcher said something to the effect, “Dr. Fuselier, can you meet Officer ‘James’ on 35th Street. He is with your son and needs you to come by.” I asked what the problem was, but the dispatcher offered no further details.
I quickly arrived to see a few patrol cars and officers with a few teenagers sitting on the curb outside a house by which some other officers were standing. Amongst the teenagers was my son. They weren’t handcuffed, nor lying facedown on the pavement, nor standing spread-eagle against a patrol car. Officer James approached me and, when I asked him what had happened he said, “Doc, your son was involved somehow in an incident that involved the discharge of a 22 from a car into the back window of a car full of teenage girls. I would appreciate if you could talk to your son, since he is not cooperating in anyway.”
My immediate response was, “Sure, send him over here.”
Allow me to digress for a second. Since most of you reading this are from Los Alamos, this scenario up to now may not seem too unusual. It would, however, seem like a story from another planet for a father of a Black teenage boy in the middle of Detroit. How many of them get a call at their home inviting them to come to the scene of a crime? How many of them would see their teenage son just sitting on a curb? How many of them would be asked by a police officer for assistance?
I asked my son what happened. He was sitting in the front passenger seat in a car full of teenage boys when one of the boys took the pellet gun he had brought and, as some form of not-thought-out prank, shot it at and broke the back window of the car full of girls they knew. He didn’t think it would do any harm.
I asked Mike what happened next. He told me they then drove to the home of one of the guys in the car. He then began to complain how the police arrived and “busted” into the home with their guns drawn and yelling at everyone. I told him that we’d discuss that later but, for right now, he had better go over to Officer James and cooperate fully if he had any hope of seeing the outside of his room for the rest of the summer. Mike went back to Officer James and apparently told him enough of what he needed to hear. After a few minutes, Officer James told me I could take Mike home.
Allow me to digress again and point out how unreal this would be for the father of a Black teenage boy in Detroit. How many places in the US could a father tell his son to cooperate with the police without consulting a lawyer and have confidence that the justice that would be meted out would be best for all involved? When you live in a small community where the police know those in the community, this is not that unthinkable. At that time I had no idea I had just experienced a huge portion of White privilege.
My discussion later with my son involved a few questions.
“Why did you get in the car with the 22.”
“I didn’t know it would be used like it was.”
“How did you think it would be used?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you make sure after the shot was fired that everyone in the other car was OK?”
“I wasn’t driving.”
“Don’t you think your friend who was driving could have used some advice at that moment? Don’t you think he was under a bit of stress?”
“I didn’t think about that.”
“Did you stop and think at any time that you were involved in a drive-by shooting and that the police would come looking for the car and those involved. And that once they found the house, they would be under the assumption that those within the house were armed and ready to use the weapon?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Again, another digression. I have no doubt that every Black teenager in the US would have had many a lecture on how to behave when suspected of anything by the police. Mike was taught to be respectful at all times with the police. But I thought to give this lecture only after he was involved in perhaps the only drive-by shooting in Los Alamos’ history. Before that, it never entered my mind that I needed to teach my son how to be sure he didn’t make an innocent mistake that could cost him his life.
I’m glad that I live in a place where an incident such as this one was handled as it was. At no point did I think that how the criminal justice system would handle this group of teenagers, including the shooter who I knew had no intention of hurting anyone, would be anything less than fair. I knew those in our local justice system would aim for restorative justice. And, as far as I know, that’s how it was handled.
Viewing White privilege as good or bad, or right or wrong fails to recognize the problem. White privilege is simply the result of a society that has yet to reach its founding belief that “all men are created equal”. I know that I’ve lived a life of White privilege. But the life I live shouldn’t be one that is considered a privilege. Living in a community where the police force and criminal justice system are intricately woven into the fabric of the community shouldn’t be a privilege; it should be what every community and every person experiences. When that happens, there will be no privileged class. About four years ago, Mike told me he had a book I had to read. It was Michelle Alexander’s, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. I’d recommend it to all.
