Black Privilege or Mykel's India Trip Entry 7

Black Privilege

The cliché about privilege is that you don’t know you have it because it’s just part of you daily life. The only way you can learn about it is when you see someone who DOESN’T have it. That cliché is half right. There is, however, another way of finding out about privilege… when you discover that YOU don’t have it.

It’s like driving on the highway. A classic example of white privilege is the number of times the local black guy is stopped “randomly,” versus the number of stops for non-white guys. (My Japanese friends get stopped all the time.)

I write this lying on the top bunk of a double decker bus. Parked to load up on its second crew of people. Vendors walk in and out selling water and chiplike snacks. I have both in my bag and don’t need any. One guy just dropped a bottle of water in my little compartment, then came back a few minutes later asking for money… like those guys on New York streets who hand you a CD, then follow you down the street demanding money for it. I gave him back his bottle.

The constant barrage of aggressive vendors and beggars is what I hate most about India. If someone asks me for money.. fair enough. I give when I have it… when I don’t, I say sorry. The vendor/beggar moves on to the next person. That’s how it should be… and how it is... unless you’re white in India.

One after the other they latch on to you… refusing to leave. If you’re walking they follow you. If you’re sitting they just don’t leave. I’ve had to resort to growling, barking, howling like a dog… taking out the camera and shooting multiple pictures… with flash… in the middle of the day. They’re like mosquitoes. Pity, empathy, quickly vanish when you find yourself followed and pestered every time you step out of the door… just because of the color of your skin. It almost makes me understand how horrible life must be for beautiful women who have to face this pestering every day-- almost anywhere in the world. Pass the burqua... please!

Attractions, especially old forts, palaces and museums in India all have a two tiered admissions price. The price for Indians is between 10% and 20% of the price for “foreigners” (sometimes they say “tourists”). At first I resented this, then I saw the reasoning that says locals are enjoying the sights that belong to them. Anyone who has the money to travel to India has the money to pay more to see the sights. Those sites belong to India, and it’s not bad if they’re supported by others.

Some places (like the Taj Mahal), offer benefits to the higher price payers. A separate/quicker admissions line… better seating at events like waggah… etc. (More about that later, I hope.)

Flash to the rooftop lounge in the hostel in Amritsar… where the mostly young hostelers gather. Tom (I don’t know his name yet) is sitting at the table. They’re chewing the cud about their adventures in India…. I’ve walked in in the middle of the conversation.

As words pass, hostel conversations always circles back to Where you from? I answer New York, never The US… and not even America.

I’m anxious to talk to Tom. He’s interesting, because he reminds me of Esty… a great friend I made (and stayed with) in my trip to The Gambia. I’ve never met an African traveling in India, and want to find out his story… and surprise him with a bit of walof.

“My name’s Mykel,” I say, extending my hand.

“Where you from?” asks Tom with an accent more like George Harrison’s than Fela Kuti’s.

“I’m from New York,” I tell him. “And you?”

“I’m from Liverpool,” he says.

“Famous for The Beatles,” I tell him.

“Football,” he answers.

“This guy gets all the breaks,” says a twenty-something Indian guy at the table with us. “Tell ‘em your stories, Tom.”

Tom smiles a fake-sheepish aw-shucks kind of smile, “Yeah, people think I’m South Indian. Folks are darker there. I always get the Indian admission prices. Then, when I get inside, I shift to the foreign lines. At first they stop me… ask what I’m doing there… I wave my British passport. They shuffle me over to the foreigners’ line. Best of both worlds.”

I laugh.

At the time I don’t think to ask him if he gets beggar bugged or vendored out by guys offering to be tour guides or by tuk tuk drivers following you around asking if you need a ride… when you’re obviously walking. But I bet he doesn’t get half the bugging I do. He probably can say “no thank you” and people leave him alone.

Black privilege, I say.

--More Mykel at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com