Once, while driving home from a restaurant in Los Angeles with my brother and sister-in-law, who were visiting from Dublin, my husband and I got pulled over. He was driving; I was in the passenger seat. Everyone in the car was white.
The officer explained that the car’s licence plate had expired and asked to see my husband’s driving licence — which had also expired. The officer accepted my husband’s explanation that he had been out of the country, on a concert tour. He then asked if anyone else in the car had a California licence. I replied that I did. He said he would watch us switch drivers; we were then free to leave.
In the 16 years I’ve lived in Los Angeles — a fantastic city with opportunities galore — I’ve been pulled over for speeding three or four times. I got tickets, but that was it. I have never been asked to get out of the car or been searched or handcuffed
This is white privilege. Irish people can be blind to it because of our history. Make no mistake, though: my freckly white skin and my accent grant me all kinds of privilege. In the 16 years I’ve lived in Los Angeles — I teach yoga here: it’s a fantastic city with opportunities galore — I’ve been pulled over for speeding three or four times. I got tickets, but that was it. I have never been asked to get out of the car or been searched or handcuffed.
Ask any black person about their experience of “driving while black” and they’ll tell you a different story. Black people have been shot during routine traffic stops. In fact, police brutality against people of colour is standard in the United States. Black people dying at the hands of the police is commonplace. It is just part of how things are.
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The murders, in the first half of 2020, of Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd hit hard here, and protests were widespread. The National Guard was deployed to keep the peace, and helicopters patrolled the skies. Los Angeles had a citywide 6pm curfew for four days. Things felt pretty tense.
I had been aware of my white Irish privilege for a long time, but the lynchings, near Los Angeles, of Robert Fuller and Malcolm Harsch within days of Floyd’s death caused me to consider it more deeply and to become more involved in the movement for racial justice.
Black, indigenous and people of colour, or Bipoc — this US term aims to foreground the experiences of everyone in these groups and demonstrate solidarity between communities of colour — simply aren’t afforded the kind of leeway that we, as white people, are in the United States.
I knew I had done nothing wrong and had all the correct documents, so I refused to move. I just stood there and said no, absolutely confident that the law was on my side and that I would be protected
Here’s another example of the differences in the ways people are treated. Four years ago I was re-entering the US from overseas. I had my Global Entry card, which allows me to fast-track through immigration. When I got to the immigration agent at Los Angeles International Airport and showed him my Global Entry pass he was unsure whether he also needed to check my passport and green card.
He wasn’t particularly polite, and after a couple of minutes he told me to go to the end of the line and wait to be seen by another agent. I knew I had done nothing wrong and had all the correct documents, so I refused. I just stood there and said no, absolutely confident that the law was on my side and that I would be protected. Another agent called me over and sorted things out, and I was free to go.
Do you think a Bipoc would have done what I did with the same self-assuredness? Hell no.
As I walked through LAX to collect my baggage I saw another, clearly more senior immigration officer. I stopped him and made a complaint about the first agent for being an asshole. Again, do you think I would have done this if I did not have white skin? This is privilege.
The year after my airport experience I became a US citizen, so I could vote and do my part to prevent the re-election of Donald Trump, the president who referred to white-nationalist protesters in Charlottesville as including “some very fine people”. (The citizenship ceremony was a joyless affair, and I deeply regretted not becoming a citizen while Barack Obama was in the White House.)
I think many of us Irish immigrants take quite some time to see our privilege, because we don’t identify as racist and don’t think less of people because of their skin colour. But it is not enough to not be racist
I think many of us Irish immigrants take quite some time to see our privilege, because we don’t identify as racist and don’t think less of people because of their skin colour. But it is not enough to not be racist.
Over time I came to see that, despite the fact that my forebears had no part in the oppression of African Americans and the systematisation of racial inequity and injustice, I benefit from white privilege.
It doesn’t matter that I’m not from the United States. I live here and I am part of a system that gives some people advantage and disadvantages many others.
If you live overseas and would like to share your experience with Irish Times Abroad, email abroad@irishtimes.com with a little information about you and what you do
