Member-only story
A Walk Through My Own White Privilege
The extent to which I’ve benefited from my skin color is too significant to measure.
My friend knew we’d made a mistake based on how long it was taking to get to the next stop. He had forgotten that the 2/3 veered East after 96th Street, rather than continuing north up Broadway. I was a high school senior, making a college visit. He was from New York but the suburbs, not a regular subway rider.
Only later did he tell me he had a feeling that we should have transferred at 96th.
We climbed the stairs, and we hadn’t even fully reached street level yet when I heard the voice.
I didn’t see the street signs, but I know now where we were: at the corner of 125th Street, also known as Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard, and Lenox Avenue, also known as Malcolm X Boulevard. Right in the middle of Harlem.
“Why don’t you two white boys go back to where you came from?” is what we heard.
I never saw his face. I didn’t sense we were in any danger, but we weren’t there long enough to find out.
We turned around, and took the subway back to where we were trying to go.
But that question has haunted me ever since.
Where do I come from? Not just where did I grow up, but what is my heritage?
