I don’t know what it is like to fear for my life when in public.

 

I don’t know what it is like to fear the cops pinning me down until I drew my last breath.

 

I don’t know what it is like to be afraid to go for a run and never come back home to my children.

 

I don’t know what it is like to fear being shot by those who took an oath to protect and serve, when being stopped for a traffic violation.

 

I don’t know what it is like to be full-on discriminated against.

 

As a fair skinned Latina, people always assume I am American.

 

Even growing up in Venezuela, as a little blonde, light eyed 7 year old child with light freckled rosy cheeks, the other kids would get close to my shy face, softly pet or pinch my cheek and merrily call me “gringa”.

 

As if it was the sweetest, most suiting compliment they could ever give another human being.

 

Once we moved to the United States, a day of shopping in the heavily Latin town of Hialeah did not go by without someone speaking Spanish around me as if I couldn’t understand, asking someone to translate for me, or rolling their eyes because I would not understand what they were saying. I could be speaking Spanish straight to their face and they would still say “I don’t speak English!” with a heavy accent.

 

As I grew up, people would ask me where I was from only to interpret my poor pronunciation of Venezuela as Minnesota. I spent years correcting many who gathered through my looks that I was from the Midwest.

 

Then in NYC, where I briefly went to college, I would get hooted at “white girl, you are in the wrong neighborhood!” as I carried my groceries home to a shared basement apartment in Brooklyn.

 

And one unsuspecting night, as I speed walked to the train station, minding my own business, with my hands in my pockets and head tilted down trying to avoid the icy water droplets from stinging my face, a young teenage girl forcefully swung her arm towards me with her hand firmly gripping a large convenience store cup, splashing the contents all over my coat and jeans.

 

All non-consequential judgements. Yet, all weirdly a lesson of what I am seen as, what the world interprets me to be, and what my acceptance at first sight will be judged on.

 

Now my birth given name, Karen, has become the definition of an entitled, racist white woman with privilege, whose sole focus is running someone’s day.

 

And boy this sets my soul on fire as it stands for everything that enrages me, everything I strive not to be and everything I would never want to be associated with.

 

But...

 

I might be from poor beginnings...

 

And a minority...

 

And get discriminated against once the truth of my origins comes out...

 

But I AM...

 

PRIVILEGED...

 

I am privileged to not have to fear for my life when I go for a run…

 

I am privileged to not have to fear for my life when a cop stops me at a light…

 

I am privileged to not have to fear for my life just because of the color of my skin.

 

 

I may never understand what it is like but I hold space for you that do.