What does it mean to be a product of class privilege?  Class and impostor syndrome.

I was asked recently whether I was the product of Class Privilege.  It seems to be a general truth that when asked this question; it really is not to ask, but to state.  There is no question; it is rhetorical.  Implicit as well is the questioner’s bias.

To have class privilege is not very chic.  Especially these days.  Especially in the circles I seem to increasingly move in.  And yet, to have class privilege is very chic if the people you are with also have it.  It is an unspoken comfort that exists between people—of not having to be confronted by the reality of the world for most people.  That is very seductive; it is also problematic.

I don’t say this to earn brownie points.  I am a product of privilege.  I know that.  First, I was born a white male.  The reality of that is present.  Were I still to live my life as a white male, I could just continue to coast through life.  A new friend of mine [I need to find a name for her because she is going to become a permanent or semi-permanent fellow traveller] told me about a very “thrusting” and driven trans woman friend of hers who transitioned in her twenties.  This woman is having career success and is driven like a “man” to succeed at work.  My new friend ascribes this to vestigial male privilege.

Her musing was provoked by me saying that I don’t want to be a victim, that the ultimate revenge for me would be to have career success–that is revenge over discrimination which stems ultimately from toxic patriarchal thinking.  Whilst one can never take a career for granted, I have never really struggled to find work.  But the reality of being trans and having two very good jobs pulled from me when the employer found I was trans, is making me think more about the implications of my choice [not in terms of regret, but in terms of consequences].

I am sitting with a group of women in therapy at the moment, something which is new to me and very precious.  And in this process I realise that my crossing of the Rubicon was post Ayahuasca, deciding to come out no matter what.  I made the decision to become a woman, to be a woman, and even if I am trans woman, the key word is woman, and that choice forces all others.  I am saying that my womanhood is so important to me that I will pay any price for it.  I step into my operation with the full knowledge that I might lose all sexual sensation, that I might become incontinent, that I might have long-term pain…all kinds of bad things can happen, and the surgeon has taken great steps to make sure that I understand the risks.  I cannot downplay them.

My operation will last from 5-6 hours, but requires two surgeons working simultaneously, making it what is effectively a 10-12 hour procedure.  We make this choice because we don’t have a choice.  Transgender comes in a kaleidoscope of flavours.  ‘Transsexual’ is a term that some of my sisters are reclaiming, just as Queer people have reclaimed the slur of ‘Queer’, or perhaps even that blacks have chosen with the n-word.  There are degrees of course, but ‘Transsexual’ became bound up with mental health, and was deemed to be a mental condition, a pathology, and one which was discredited.  But given the fluidity of the term ‘transgender’ and how such a small proportion of trans women end up having sexual reassignment surgery, it makes sense to take this term back.

Am I entitled for embracing the term transsexual for what I am doing?  I cannot fathom being transgender without being transsexual, but I know many don’t feel this way.  Does being transsexual make me more worthy of the label transgender?  Do you get what I am driving at?  Does class privilege, male privilege, extend this far?

I cannot deny that certain aspects of my life have been easier–male privilege, wanted or not, was always there. That isn’t necessarily positive.  Male privilege for a transgender woman does not always sit so easily, however.  At least for this one.  The hardest part of being a male growing up was being seen as being male.  Isn’t that funny?  When a woman perceived me as male, it was like a deep psychic wound.  And the more she mattered to me as a love interest, the deeper the wound would be.  And this was something that sat in hiding, was never voiced, but was a function of my behaviour.  I tried to behave in ways that would ensure that I would not be gendered male…and I don’t mean in the sense of mannerisms or clothes, or other aspects of performative femininity—eg. makeup etc.  But rather, the fundamentals of how a woman is and behaves…of being a better listener, of being emotionally available, of being sensitive, respectful, not being aggressive—controlling those aspects in me which might be classed as “male” and cultivating those which were “female”. There was no greater compliment to me from a woman than, “you’re not like other guys,” or “sometimes I think you’re more like a girl than a guy.”

And this was extended over a lifetime.  It is hard to convey why it would smart so keenly to be seen as a man, when I was so obviously and outwardly a man…but it did, and it always did.  I can only think of it is a cumulative weight, one that gets heavier with the passage of time, with every passing interaction that placed me male.  Is that privilege?  To be male and to hate it, to feel it is killing you to be seen as male?  To be labelled inside that kind of privilege?

To perceive it (privilege) any other way is a challenge, because I benefited from it even if I didn’t like it.

But what of class privilege?  When I think of class privilege I think of the “upper class”, which in America seems to mean people with money, and in Europe means people with pedigree.  To this one must add education.  And as I have learned from some “high-end” escort friends, pedigree means being able to move with ease, effortlessly, in any social situation.  In this sense, class privilege seems that it has more to do with ease and comfort in your position than anything else.  Is that an attitude?  A sense of belonging?  Another way of saying entitlement?

My academic path was certainly one of privilege.  I went to the right grade school, high school, university, and graduate school.  I can’t deny it.  I was surrounded by wealth.  Did it matter that we had less money than most of my classmates?  Probably not, and certainly not to the external observer.  I am certain, however, that mine was the only family that didn’t turn its heat on at home over the winter any more than needed to keep the pipes from freezing, which they did sometimes anyway.  We were a broken home: the product of divorce.  My mother certainly flirted with members of the school administration to get us in, and to keep us in, and to ensure we had financial aid, as a single mother on a secretarial salary can’t even begin to afford to pay those kinds of fees.

Is that more privileged than an immigrant family that scrimps and saves so that their child can rise?  Probably yes. Family generations before mine had a access, privilege as residue. Ancestral assets come in many forms, but do leave a legacy of potential value–privilege. Divorce messed things up for us for a generation, and when things get messed up you can fall off the ladder altogether. 

What can I say?  Growing up this way I was acutely aware that my clothes were cheap and ugly compared to those of my friends.  I was acutely aware that we didn’t go on vacation, or if we did, it was to grim locations for short periods.  I was aware that I was not able to attend any kind of the fancier school field trips that required an overnight, because it was too much money.  And yes, I will admit, that I felt this, and that it motivated me in a way, but also a chip on my shoulder.

When I was asked “are you the product of class privilege?” I was unhesitating in saying ‘yes’.  And as a trans woman, my reaction is unusual perhaps: I want this fact to become even more true.  I don’t want to hide it, or be ashamed of it. I want to wear it with pride. One of my children, in their youthful wisdom, said, “the ultimate revenge, the best message you can send, is to be a success’.  They are right. They are aware of the wall of stigma we face.

I admit that this blog has an aspirational intent.  I am not a victim.  I have no desire to feel like a victim.  I have no interest in allowing the victim narrative to creep into my life.  And I say this with profound fighting spirit…so much of the trans narrative is about being a victim.  And in truth, we absolutely are.  The violence against trans people is even higher than it is against cis women, or gays, or minorities.  It is especially acute in minority trans communities.  And this is horrible.  

My only ever experiences of random and strange violence have come at the hands of white men post coming out.  So many trans women become sex workers out of economic necessity, putting them even more into the cross hairs of violence.  I am explicitly dabbling with the prospects of becoming a sex worker myself and am in the process of working out an apprenticeship with an experienced dominatrix.  It is likely to be one of several.  But again, my choice is my choice, and is made from a place of privilege, even if it also contains economic necessity.  It also contains a desire to belong, to build community, to step into the woman I am becoming.

What is her path?  Who is she?  These kinds of musings have come increasingly to the fore as my surgery looms, my identity documents are changing, my birth sex has changed.  I have now filed the documents required for a court order in support of my name change.  And all of it is changing.  And as I went through the selection process, it occurred to me how important our names really are.  We were given a name at birth by our parents, but this choice shapes us.  Being called “Jane” has an impact on who we become.  We wear and inhabit our names.  

Choosing a name is also reflecting a choice of who we want to be.  What kind of person.  What role we will inhabit.  I have chosen a name that is frightfully posh.  I feel okay with it because all of it is family.  That makes it even more posh.  I have a title.  It is a meaningless and worthless title.  All titles are meaningless unless they help you to be a better person.  I’ve never used it.  Its embarrassing.  And yet, now, as I teeter on the edge of stepping deeper into life as a woman, the temptation is there to add it to travel bookings, to my calling card, of being out. I shall quite literally be a Lady.

To be CEO is often mistaken as a right to authority in a company environment.  I had the privilege of sitting in the CEO chair on several occasions in my career, though I think those days are over.  When I did, however, I had this sense instead of honouring the chair.  That it was a privilege and a burden to live up to.  To be worthy of the title.  The last time this was the case, my predecessor had a sense of entitlement.  He swanned through the company and through the industry like a Prince.  He cried like a baby when he was asked to stand down after 10 years.  His legacy was toxic in the company and had created deep wounds.

I had the honour of being asked to sit in that chair.  And my goal was to become the least important person in the company–to heal the company from his toxic tenure.  How does one do this?  By building up the people around you, turning them into leaders, helping them find their voice, supporting them, empowering them, and getting out of the way.  I never spoke at industry events or conferences even though I was asked, instead I asked members of my team to do it.  It was good for them. They’d ask me to cut a ribbon on a new factory we opened, but I didn’t do it–I asked the person who actually did it to go and do it, to be the face of the company and to make all of us proud.

In a public conversation with a well-known lifestyle dominatrix and author, I mused that I was able to become a CEO at a young age because I am submissive.  That I was and am “good” at the job precisely because I am submissive.  Many have posited that the high-profile executive who turns to submission and BDSM does this out of a desire to relieve themselves of the burden of responsibility.  To be for just a while without authority.  Perhaps this is true, but not for me, and it doesn’t seem right.  I distinguish between the fetish-submissive and what I would regard as someone who is more existentially submissive.  Is such a definition another form of privilege? It doesn’t take much time in the Twittersphere to see that the pro-Domme circuit makes the distinction, as do many FSSW’s…the fetish-submissive and his brethren objectify the woman. This strikes me as no different than what happens in the corporate world. The assertion of yourself to get what you want in society, which is how we are taught to be in society, is a fundamentally entitled act. The meek really do inherit the earth even if the so-called “alpha” gets to ride rough-shod over them–the seeming success is short-lived. But to say that I am an existential submissive, ie. that I really mean it, is a value judgement about myself–and isn’t that just another form of privilege?

One of my nearest and dearest who knows my professional self as well as my personal and submissive self believes that I operate without ego, and that is why I am able to be so effective in leadership roles.  The “servant leader” is not just a random thing but is now a whole genre of leadership books.  Of course I am not without ego, but in relative terms, it makes sense.  A true submissive is also without ego.  Service, when genuine, is about the person you serve.  This idea that submission is a gift feels all wrong to me.  It is a responsibility.  We are asking others to hold us.  And it is the same in the leadership context.

I ask of my team that they step up and make decisions and fulfil roles that require them to do parts of my job as a CEO.  Perhaps.  But what if my job is to simply get out of the way, stepping in only to keep things in balance, to arbitrate disputes, to ensure alignment and purpose and direction. Isn’t that a privilege to think that way? Is not the ultimate privilege to use it well?

This may seem a wild wander away from the core idea, but it seems all very inter-related.  In this sense, privilege becomes an attitude, a mindset.  To wear privilege lightly is the ultimate privilege.  To wear it lightly means to eschew entitlement or expectation.

To aspire to a state of Grace could be regarded as entitled thinking, one that is born of privilege.  And yet, the essence of Grace lies in letting go.  Does it take a sense of privilege, or the comfort and confidence of being born from privilege to have the strength to let go of everything and find a state of Grace? After all, Buddha came from wealth and comfort in a society that had a caste system–he came from the very top. We tell his story with reverence because he let go of privilege to pursue a holy path. And we revere that.

Isn’t that what a trans woman does? She gives up male privilege. I ask myself, what for? As Billie Eilish sings in Barbie, what was I made for?

In all of this, I guess that what I am getting at, is that what we are at birth is pretty meaningless.  Accidents of birth may confer advantages or disadvantages.  That might be easier to say as someone who has had more doors open than closed in life.  But it remains true.  I have tried to teach my children that none of these accidents of birth define them.  The ‘what’s’ of who you are.  They are superficial.  What matters is conduct.  How we conduct ourselves.

If we allow ourselves to be ruled by accidents of birth, either good or bad, we cede control of our lives–we lose our purpose.

What I am saying is that privilege is like the chair of the executive.  It is not an entitlement, but rather a responsibility.  The bar is set higher for you–as it should be. It isn’t the country club. It should be a call to action.  The measure of your worth is how you relate to and treat other people.  That is universal, but the more you have, the more important it becomes.

This is why I am so drawn to charity work.  A cynic might say that I do it to be holy, or that I bask in the reflected glory of good works.  Maybe, but it doesn’t feel like that.  Instead, it feels like there is a person on the other end, someone I get to know, someone whose life is visibly impacted by what get’s done.  And I like to do this one person at a time as much as on an institutional basis.  I don’t like to give homeless people money (I do, however, give money to homeless charities), but I do like to buy them food, to sit with them and talk to them, and to hear about their lives.  I have found the truth often sits very close to the surface in such people.  That the circumstances of their lives is such that there is no room for artifice, and they see things far more clearly than others who have all the comforts might have.

The person who asked me if I had class privilege unavoidably had some malicious intent in the question.  That speaks of them, not of me.  I cannot be responsible for the judgements and feelings of others, indeed, it is not even my business.  What is my business?  To behave to the greatest extent possible in ways that nourish the people around me.

And that leads to a final question. Does privilege come from within or without? Is there a value difference between the two? Another rhetorical question? Yes. Privilege in the sense that I mean it, a positive one, can only come from within.

What of impostor syndrome? Every now and again I am confronted with words like “you will never be a real woman” or “your vagina won’t be real”. In other words, the ultimate impostor, and perhaps not even a ‘good’ one. I can accept that, which is why I prefer the term trans woman to woman for me. I am different. But I am not a man, and I will dedicate the rest of my life to being with women, supporting women, learning what it means to be a woman, suffering as a woman (whether trans or not), and fighting like a girl. I couldn’t ask for more. And in this sense, I have found true privilege. True privilege is what we make of it.