a poem for men who don’t understand what we mean when we say they have it by D. A. Clarke
privilege is simple: going for a pleasant stroll after dark,
not checking the back of your car as you get in,
sleeping soundly, speaking without interruption,
and not remembering dreams of rape,
that follow you all day, that woke you crying,
and privilege is not seeing your stripped, humiliated body plastered in celebration across every magazine rack,
privilege is going to the movies and not seeing yourself terrorized, defamed, battered, butchered seeing something else
privilege is riding your bicycle across town without being screamed at or run off the road,
not needing an abortion,
taking off your shirt on a hot day,
in a crowd,
not wishing you could type better just in case,
not shaving your legs,
having a decent job and expecting to keep it,
not feeling the boss’s hand up your crotch,
dozing off on late-night buses,
privilege is being the hero in the TV show not the dumb broad,
living where your genitals are totemized not denied,
knowing your doctor won’t rape you
privilege is being smiled at all day by nice helpful women,
it is the way you pass judgment on their appearance with magisterial authority,
the way you face a judge of your own sex in court and are overrepresented in Congress
and are not strip searched for a traffic ticket or used as a dart board by your friendly mechanic,
privilege is seeing your bearded face reflected through the history texts not only of your high school days but all your life,
not being relegated to a paragraph every other chapter,
the way you occupy entire volumes of poetry and more of your share of the couch unchallenged,
it is your mouthing smug, atrocious insults at women who blink and change the subject-politely,
privilege is how seldom the rapist’s name appears in the papers
and the way you smirk over your PLAYBOY
it’s simple really,
privilege means someone else’s pain,
your wealth is my terror,
your uniform is a woman raped to death here or in Cambodia or wherever wherever your obscene privilege writes your name in my blood,
it’s that simple,
you’ve always had it,
that’s why it doesn’t seem to make you sick at stomach,
you have it,
we pay for it,
now do you understand
©1981, D. A. Clarke from her book Banshee, Peregrine Press