In which I admit that writing is a privilege and then try to feel okay about liking nice things
My first big publishing event was ALA in Las Vegas, the summer of 2014. I was terrified. Not because it was a place I'd never been and not because it was the first time I'd be EK Johnston in public. No, I was terrified because I was broke. When I parked my car at the airport, I knew that I would have to overdraft my credit card to get it out. I turned my phone to airplane mode, because I couldn't afford to receive texts in the US (god, I'm glad that's not a thing anymore). I had a box of granola bars and some dried cranberries, and that was going to be my food for the weekend.
This was not rock bottom. I had a paycheque coming the following week that would get me back to treading water, and if I absolutely had to, I could ask my parents or my sister to rescue me. The Disney cheque was on my horizon. Better times were coming. I just had to hang on a little bit longer. I could afford to take this risk and follow my dream towards my growing career. (This was also pre-surgery, so pain was a significant factor in all of my decision making, but I just decided to DO it. I don't know if I still would. But I don't need it as much anymore, either.)
Anyway, I went to Vegas, and people bought me food. Casually. Like it was nothing. "Oh, let's get a sandwich," said the Lerner publicist when she was helping me check into the hotel, "The food at the convention centre isn't as good." At most points in my life previous to this, I would have ordered the cheapest thing on the menu, but some instinct kicked in, and I didn't. I ordered a 12 inch sandwich with chips and a drink, and when the publicist said "The cookies look good!", I took one of those too. In that crowded food court at Caesar's Palace, I was reborn.
(Why are all my stories about food? I mean, I know the answer. I just think it's worth pointing out.)
A lot of white people, particularly white women, struggle with the idea of privilege. We're used to being underdogs. The media reinforces a very specific idea of how white women have suffered, and glosses over the lack of intersection in what good things have happened for us. We've all met dudes who treat us like shit, and we've all tried to force a better world than our mothers and grandmothers got. I'm a single queer woman with chronic pain and depression, so I am typically overlooked by the government, hated by bigots, misunderstood by doctors, and underserved by Canada's healthcare programs (which do not cover prescription drugs). My privilege is undeniable.
In my early days in publishing, we talked a lot about "sending the elevator back down". I still believe in that, and I do it as frequently as I can, but I've also started to take a more actionable role. I like to imagine I'm a snowplough, clearing the way for the people coming after me and dealing with the bullshit so they don't have to. I can do it, because I'm a nice white lady. I can get mad. I can get angry. I can weaponize my tears. It's important that I am thoughtful in how I do it.
And sometimes, I'm tired.
There's a psychological condition amongst charity workers and fundraisers and aid givers where they develop mental health problems because they're convinced that they're not doing enough. Sure, you handed out 1500 mosquito nets, but you still eat cows. Sure, you raised money for your local food bank, but you ordered that thing from Amazon. Sure, you play euchre with old people, but not with all old people. This is magnified online, obviously (and The Good Place examined it brilliantly!), but the internet is not entirely responsible for it. There have been people who dig through David Suzuki's garbage, looking for things he could have recycled, for decades.
Being tired is a privilege, too, and that's probably what I struggle with the most. Sometimes, I just want it to stop. And I'm a white lady, so it can. But it's important to acknowledge that I can't do that all the time. I have to be better. (I want to be better.) I pick my battles, both emotionally and financially. And I engage. These days, I spend more time listening, signal boosting, and channeling my money to specific organizations (and yelling at my elected officials, but that's mostly therapeutic). I think that's a normal part of the cycle. It just took me a while to find my place in it.
All of this is really a fancy way of saying that next week, I have rented a cottage on a pretty little lake because I can afford to do it safely during a pandemic. Do I need it? Yes. Do I need it? Of course not.
The pandemic was a harsh delineation of needs and wants for a lot of people. And, tbqh, the people for whom it wasn't are...a bit monstrous (looking at you, Bezos). Every household in my family had to deal with it differently, and that's just five groups who genuinely like each other. It was a pressure point, a breaking point, for a lot of stuff. I spent a lot of time alone, which was not great, but it did sort of reinforce my ability to interrogate my decision making process. Time. Money. Attention. Voice. Amplification. Silence. There are a multitude of options. And you'll fuck up! I can guarantee it. But you'll do it. And then you'll do it better.
At the end of the day, I think that's the low bar. Before your charity or your volunteering, before your activism or your letter writing, that's where it starts for white people at the top of the privilege mountain. You have to make decisions. Sometimes, they will mostly benefit you. But your interrogation and reflection of those decisions, and the choices you make going forward from that point will shape you as a person: I have, what next can I give?
A few weeks ago, I asked for a make lipstick recommendation on Twitter. I expected to get a colour suggestion, but instead someone pointed me to a whole make up line: Cheekbone Beauty.
Cheekbone is an Indigenous business in Niagara, and a portion of their money goes to Indigenous education. The make up is entirely sustainable, and they've just been picked up by Sephora, which is terribly exciting. I have their lipstick, lip pencil, and eyebrow liner, and even though I have basically never used make-up before, it's been super easy and fun. They ship throughout North America. I highly recommend them.