I’ve been white my whole life (and, believe me, it’s never been this embarrassing), so I understand white privilege.
As a young teenager, I got into some minor hijinks involving snowballs and cars that landed me in the back seat of a cop car for about five or 10 minutes. The cop sweated me for a while before I finally admitted my guilt, and then he drove me home to face my parents. My mom grounded me and my dad smirked—perhaps amused and maybe secretly pleased that his shy, quiet, studious milquetoast of a son had some piss and vinegar left in him. (I did, but after facing the cop it was mostly just vinegar.) But I didn’t give up my accomplices! Not yet, anyway. (Be ready for a knock at your door any day now, Mark and Larry.)
I can joke about this now precisely because of white privilege. I didn’t get wrestled to the ground, hauled downtown, Tased, beaten with nightsticks, or shot in the belly. Nor did I ever—even for a second—worry that any of those things might happen.
My white privilege is why this super-entitled Capitol insurrectionist story rings so true to me.