Starving in the Land of Privilege

There was a time when I didn't know

I was privileged, and that might

have been when I walked forty blocks

in the New Orleans heat to apply for food stamps

when I was in my early 20s, and should have been

shopping for a rich white husband

to sequester me in an air conditioned mansion instead.

I was heckled the entire way by men

who stood on the perimeters of sidewalks

and offered to give me money for blow jobs

or just stared at my breasts for a few minutes

while making comments about how high they bounced.

I swiveled my entire body and averted my eyes

so I could no longer see how they looked at me,

with the same expression on their faces

as my own, when I stared at cheesecake

and boiled crab in the restaurant windows of the Quarter.

I hustled past them on my way to my waitress jobs

while wearing my unpressed white shirt and black pants

and carrying a folded apron underneath one of my arms,

always running a bit late because I hated to work.

I was fired almost weekly by managers

who thought I was too slow, or too friendly

or not friendly enough, or my shoes were the wrong color,

or I didn't wear a bra and hair spray, or I wouldn't

have sex with them, and then money disappeared from the till,

so I must have been the one who stole it.

I never stole anything, but I should have,

because at least I would have had the satisfaction

of knowing that I stuck it to them

and got away with a small chunk of the spoils,

but the truth is that I was laboring away

in an honest, though deeply resentful manner

carefully balancing platters of fried seafood

and gumbo and omelets and etouffee

on the ends of both of my bony forearms,

trying to make people smile so they would

give me a dollar, and not complain to the manager instead.

They complained anyway, because I didn't refill their water glasses

often enough, or I forgot their basket of rolls

or one of their meals didn't emerge from the kitchen

in a timely manner, or they were overcharged

by fifty cents, and they would draw huge lines

through the tip area on their credit card receipts

or write fat, bulging zeroes with slashes through them

or leave quarters for me in puddles of spilled beer.

They'd tell the manager they were never coming back again,

as if they'd ever had plans to do so in the first place,

and they weren't just going to go back home to their jobs

at oil refineries in Texas, or insurance offices in Omaha,

or wherever the hell they came from.

So I'd be out of a job again, and the next thing I knew

I was pleading for cash with some caseworker

who hated her job, but at least she had one

and she could stare across her desk at me

as if I was leprosy on a plate.

So now I am given to understand

that I was white and privileged the entire time,

and I just didn't realize that obvious fact-

and therefore should tread lightly around the egos

of everyone who didn't have my opportunities

and the sad truth is: I empathize deeply

with everyone who finds herself on the bottom,

regardless of the reason for her unfair placement

on the most rickety rungs of the economic ladder,

scrounging for the tiniest, moldiest crumbs

of the fat slices of cake the rich are devouring.

Just don't tell me that it was easy for me,

because you think I had it slightly better than you did,

because I'm not buying your story

and I can't afford the interest payments.

The same enemy has both of our heads

on a serving dish, with apples stuffed in our mouths

and steam pouring out from underneath the lid,

and if you are unable to see this,

then we have nothing to talk about

and I am just going back to the carnival routine,

and absolutely nothing will change for either of us.