A World Apart.
The exact definition of “privilege” depends heavily on the speaker. My wife’s brother married into a wealthy New Rochelle family. Liberal to the bone. To. The. Bone. He of course does not and did not get so much as a penny so he had to make his own pile. Nothing puts a smirk on your face like not needing someone else’s money. I of course have no idea what that feels like.
His mother-in-law, (I’ll call her ‘June’) an octogenarian with all her marbles is typical of her set. Vacations in the Hamptons, lunches in Manhattan, and the beneficiary of her husband having never missed a payment on his life insurance policy. She’s mostly pleasant to be around, privileged of course, and naturally has no idea where her money comes from. This was a family that could not boast a cop, a solider, sailor, marine, or a fireman – volunteer or otherwise. To quote Barrack Obama, “that’s not who we are.”
Protesting the “privilege” of those who string the power lines in the dead of Winter, take hammer to nail in the heat of Summer, and guard them while they sleep all year long.
June and I sat across from one other at family dinner a few years ago. I forget the occasion. Someone’s birthday? Just a gathering?
