My name is Kendall. I was born into privilege, a world where my skin color was my first advantage, though I never gave it much thought as a child. I grew up in a neighborhood where people like me surrounded me—whites with power, influence, and a deep-rooted sense of superiority. We were told, directly and indirectly, that we were better. That the world belonged to us. And I believed it.
But beneath that privilege festered a hatred, an unchallenged resentment towards those who were not like me—particularly Black people. I never questioned it. It was part of my upbringing, part of the casual remarks at dinner tables, the whispered warnings, the way my parents locked the car doors when driving through “certain areas.” It was in the lessons I learned not from books, but from watching the world around me.
I carried that hatred with me into adulthood. It wasn’t loud or violent; it was quiet, insidious. It showed in the way I dismissed Black colleagues at work, assuming they got there through handouts and diversity quotas. It was in the way I sneered at protests, scoffing at demands for equality. It was in the way I refused to see them as anything but “other.”
Then came the moment that shattered my world. The moment that forced me to confront what I had so comfortably ignored.
One night, I was driving home from an office party, my mind fogged with alcohol and arrogance. The streets were nearly empty, save for a young Black man walking along the sidewalk. I barely noticed him—until the flashing red and blue lights illuminated my rearview mirror.
I was confused when the officer approached my car. Drunk as I was, I still carried my privilege like armor. I rolled down the window, already forming my excuses, expecting nothing more than a slap on the wrist. But then, something happened that I never saw coming.
The officer ignored me.
Instead, he turned his attention to the Black man walking nearby, barking orders at him. Hands up. Get on the ground. I watched as the young man obeyed, fear in his eyes, trembling under the weight of suspicion he hadn’t earned. And then, without warning, the officer struck him. A baton to the ribs. A knee pressed into his back.
My drunken haze cleared in an instant. I sat frozen, gripping the steering wheel as the scene unfolded. The officer never looked at me, never questioned why I had been swerving, why my breath reeked of liquor. He didn’t see me as a threat. But the young man—he hadn’t done anything. He was simply existing in a world that had already deemed him guilty.
For the first time in my life, I saw it. The raw, brutal reality of the divide I had always accepted. I had always thought my success was earned, that Black people complained too much, that racism was an exaggeration. But as I watched that young man get beaten for nothing, I realized the truth.
I had been on the winning side of an unjust system all along.
I wish I could say that moment changed me instantly. It didn’t. Change is slow, painful, and messy. I wrestled with guilt, with the weight of my past beliefs, with the realization that I had been part of the problem. I had to unlearn everything I had been taught, to listen to the voices I had ignored. I had to face the ugly truth that I had been complicit in a world built on oppression.
Conflict is not always fought on the battlefield. Sometimes, it is fought within us, a war between who we were and who we choose to become. And that night, the battle inside me began.
I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t expect redemption. But I know now that the real struggle isn’t just about acknowledging privilege—it’s about dismantling it. And for the first time in my life, I am ready to fight the right fight.
But beneath that privilege festered a hatred, an unchallenged resentment towards those who were not like me—particularly Black people. I never questioned it. It was part of my upbringing, part of the casual remarks at dinner tables, the whispered warnings, the way my parents locked the car doors when driving through “certain areas.” It was in the lessons I learned not from books, but from watching the world around me.
I carried that hatred with me into adulthood. It wasn’t loud or violent; it was quiet, insidious. It showed in the way I dismissed Black colleagues at work, assuming they got there through handouts and diversity quotas. It was in the way I sneered at protests, scoffing at demands for equality. It was in the way I refused to see them as anything but “other.”
Then came the moment that shattered my world. The moment that forced me to confront what I had so comfortably ignored.
One night, I was driving home from an office party, my mind fogged with alcohol and arrogance. The streets were nearly empty, save for a young Black man walking along the sidewalk. I barely noticed him—until the flashing red and blue lights illuminated my rearview mirror.
I was confused when the officer approached my car. Drunk as I was, I still carried my privilege like armor. I rolled down the window, already forming my excuses, expecting nothing more than a slap on the wrist. But then, something happened that I never saw coming.
The officer ignored me.
Instead, he turned his attention to the Black man walking nearby, barking orders at him. Hands up. Get on the ground. I watched as the young man obeyed, fear in his eyes, trembling under the weight of suspicion he hadn’t earned. And then, without warning, the officer struck him. A baton to the ribs. A knee pressed into his back.
My drunken haze cleared in an instant. I sat frozen, gripping the steering wheel as the scene unfolded. The officer never looked at me, never questioned why I had been swerving, why my breath reeked of liquor. He didn’t see me as a threat. But the young man—he hadn’t done anything. He was simply existing in a world that had already deemed him guilty.
For the first time in my life, I saw it. The raw, brutal reality of the divide I had always accepted. I had always thought my success was earned, that Black people complained too much, that racism was an exaggeration. But as I watched that young man get beaten for nothing, I realized the truth.
I had been on the winning side of an unjust system all along.
I wish I could say that moment changed me instantly. It didn’t. Change is slow, painful, and messy. I wrestled with guilt, with the weight of my past beliefs, with the realization that I had been part of the problem. I had to unlearn everything I had been taught, to listen to the voices I had ignored. I had to face the ugly truth that I had been complicit in a world built on oppression.
Conflict is not always fought on the battlefield. Sometimes, it is fought within us, a war between who we were and who we choose to become. And that night, the battle inside me began.
I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t expect redemption. But I know now that the real struggle isn’t just about acknowledging privilege—it’s about dismantling it. And for the first time in my life, I am ready to fight the right fight.
