My privilege is showing
It was a lovely late summer day as I dashed by the big pickup trucks in the parking lot to my crummy sedan, my sundress and ponytail catching air along the way. I was a recent college graduate and thus my bank account and my belly were both empty. I had one hour for lunch and was determined to raid my parents’ fridge, ten miles to the south, and make it back to the office before the afternoon began.
There was an issue with my car’s fuel injection. After going at high speeds, it would need time to adjust to going slower. It would stall if I stopped too quickly. That didn’t stop me from getting on Highway 494 because I needed to get back from lunch on time.
After I exited the freeway onto a city street in Minnetonka, I noticed a police car with its lights on behind me. I pulled over to let the officer pass. But he didn’t pass me… he stopped right behind me. “Huh,” I thought. He walked over to my window, which I swiftly rolled down and then I smiled.
“License and registration,” he said.
“Registration…I’ve always wanted to know what that is.” I mused.
Perplexed, he offered, “It’s the paper that had the stickers on it.”
“Oh!” I quickly retrieved it from the glove box for him.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?” He inquired.
Even at 22 years old, I probably knew I’m not supposed to give away too much information. “Was it because I was speeding?” (I had been doing 60 in a 55).
“No,” he responded.
“Was it because I rolled through that stop sign without fully stopping?” (I had nearly stopped but seeing no cars coming, I then slowly glided through to avoid stalling out my crummy car).
“No,” he replied.
“Was it because I don’t have any license plates?” (They were missing from both the front and back of my car).
“Yes,” he sighed.
“Officer, I can explain.” I gave him the police report documenting that my plates had been stolen in Minneapolis two days ago.
“Miss, you can’t drive without plates, even with this report.” He coached me.
“Well darn. Can I at least drop it at my parents’ house? They live just around the corner,” I pleaded.
He said yes and let me off with a verbal warning.
During the entire exchange, all that was going through my head was “I’m going to be late getting back to work.” At no point did I think, “this is how I die.”
That was my upper-middle-class-white-woman privilege on full display. I acknowledge I got off easier than I deserved. More importantly, there are many others who may not have experienced such a generous response.
My privilege can also be seen in my cancer treatment. Racial differences in mantle cell lymphoma in the United States [i] looked at how race played a factor in overall survival rates of my disease. Mantle cell lymphoma (MCL) is rare and some of the results were limited due to small sample size. Further, MCL is heterogeneous. That said, “the racial difference is significant for the 40–64 years group. Specifically, non-Hispanic whites have the best survival (64.4%)” within their sample set.
Racial and Socioeconomic Disparities in Mantle Cell Lymphoma [ii] further explored socioeconomic determinants including type of medical insurance and treatment setting on overall survival rates. When reviewing multiple variables in their sample set, the researchers found that patients with private insurance had a higher five-year survival rate (66.2%) than those with Medicare or Medicaid (with age being contributing factor). Further, patients treated at an academic center had a higher five-year survival rate (56.6%) than folks treated at regional facilities[iii].
So here I am, a white woman with private insurance living in a metropolitan area. I have teams of scientists, nurses, and doctors at both the University of Minnesota and the Mayo Clinic working on my treatment.
My company has a department in Human Resources whose single role is to help employees like me navigate benefits for undergoing cancer treatment. My company also lets me work from home.
My private healthcare has assigned me a case worker whom I can text whenever I need help and who is frequently the first person to cheer me on when I’m embarking on a round of chemo. The list of benefits I have goes on…
At times cognitive dissonance has creeped in. I look at the overall survival rate of less than five years, and I think “Oh, I can beat that.” Then I pause to contemplate the inequities that makes that thought likely to be true.
[i] https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4210548/