White Privilege
I never knew what white privilege was until BLM became a thing. To me, it sounded like a horrible thing to be white because well, I am white, and all my life I felt far from privileged. That’s the way I looked at it because I was out there downtown in the streets since I was 14 trying to survive. Sounds so rough eh!? Out in the streets since I was 14—well, it was fucking rough! After learning about this white privilege business, I now know that’s why I never went to prison. How I've managed to get away with all the things I got away with that were on the sly. I’ve been to jail. I’ve been arrested—several times, interrogated too many times—but nothing ever stuck, and that’s not because of my luck; it’s because of my white privilege.
I have two looks to me—two sides. One look is classy, educated, smart, and confident. The other look is scary—like tough-scary, don't-fuck-around-with-me scary. And depending on who you are and how you're looking at me, you’d either see one or the other. The white, classy girl got me all the jobs I used to get in an instant, the "get out of jail free" card, and the tough girl with the scar on her cheek got me through a whole bunch of other situations I was in, like being in jail or being in grimy, dangerous places I had no business being in the wee hours of the morning.
The judges and the lawyers saw my white privilege. The government saw it too, that’s why they always gave me such a fucking hard time any time I came to them for anything. Both of these sides worked for and against me. Whatever side I needed to be at the time—just kicked in.
Truth be told, it wasn’t confidence, and I certainly didn’t grow up feeling privileged. Privileged to me meant that you grew up with two parents, in a house that wasn’t poor. Was I tough? For sure! Thick-skinned, from a very tender age. I was determined, no matter the task. Determined to do exactly what, though? Survive? Pretty much!
My little girl dreams of becoming a model, a gymnast, or a synchronized swimmer were all crushed by the time I was 12. And I was ideal for all 3, gymnastics, because of my height maybe not so much but I definitely had the moves, just not in my mother’s eyes. I had surgery twice on my left knee, and even though that was a setback, I was a child, my leg healed. I was tall, athletic, I even broke a track & field record in grade 8 for high jump years after those two surgeries. What ultimately killed my ambitions to do any of those things was my mother’s apathy towards me. She didn’t see it, she didn’t want to see it. She had zero drive to make something of herself and wasn’t about to contribute to any of my dreams.
As strong or as tough as I was, the way I was treated by her—particularly—being shot a piercing glare and hissed at when anyone in the room would comment on how pretty I was—made me cower in the corner. It left me feeling worthless, not wanting to be seen at all. That shit mowed down my confidence every time it had the courage to sprout.
If anybody ever looked long enough, they would see I was lost, I had no direction, no guidance, I was just trying to survive. That’s the type of life I chose for myself or the life that was bestowed upon me. Either way, it’s the life I lived. It’s funny because people always saw me as confident—it wasn’t confidence, it was determination—determined to be NOTHING like my mother!
When I was 14 years old, still living at home, I remember my older brother had a gig somewhere in a warehouse that he got through Manpower. It was a seasonal thing, a two-week expo showing buyers pelts of fur, but the job paid like $16–$17 an hour. This was the 80s, and that was pretty good money. I wanted in. Somehow, I got in through with my brother or one of his friends, and I worked that expo for 10 days I was there, and I made that money—presenting to buyers stinky pelts of fucking fur on heavy-ass racks. One of the more odd positions I worked in my life. But I saw and learned how easy it was to earn.
I was no stranger to work at 14. When I was 11, my mom knew somebody—or someone who was hanging around the house. I don’t know. But I specifically remember going into a factory on a couple of Sundays, where we—my brother and I—were pulling sleeves over jugs of oil, making 5 cents or 10 cents per jug. I don’t know why I was there. I don’t even know if I wanted to go or if we thought it was fun at the time, or if we even got that money—who knows! But when I look at it now, it doesn’t look like fun to me; it looks more like work at 11 years old!
Not much longer after the fur gig—I wanted out of school. I fucking hated school. My mom said you either had to work or go to school, so I thought, you know what, let me go back to that place, Manpower, and get some type of job. For those of you who don’t know, back in the day—damn, I sound like I’m old talking ‘bout back in the day, haha! Well, folks, Manpower was a part-time, full-time, temporary, and permanent employment agency. You would do some tests, write your skills down, they would assess you, and then place you in a position fit for your skillset.
I went there thinking, I don’t care what job I get—whether I was stacking boxes, sweeping floors, doing labels—whatever, it didn’t matter. But the way I looked that day, when I walked in, I was assisted right away and immediately veered off in a different direction from labourers— the “white privilege” section.
I did a typing test on an actual typewriter, and I could type fast. I had to look, but I was fast. That’s what it was in the 80’s—a typewriter and a calculator test—no computer, no power-point presentation, not even a resume was required. I filled out a very basic application, submitted it, and boom—later that day I got a call to go to this address Monday morning. I got a gig as a receptionist for a few days at a pharmaceutical company. I was 14 fucking years old! I went there looking for a factory job of some sort, anything, and I was placed as a temp in an office. I signed on to work for that company for three days—answering the phone, filing, and taking messages. That part of it was easy.
I can still remember my boss clear as day. She liked me—she kept finding more work for me to do to keep me on. I was getting paid $18 an hour—I was 14 years old! My boss, Monique, wanted me to stay on. I lasted the whole week, and at the end of that week, she was like, “Oh, come to lunch with us. All the ladies go to lunch every Friday.” I thought to myself, I can’t go to fucking lunch with these ladies! I’m not a fucking lady. I can’t keep up with these conversations.
I was struggling enough, saving face with Monique every day let alone more ladies. It was also a lot—sneaking around every day going to “work” not school, it was all too much. When I got home that night, my mom was sitting at the table with that look. The truancy officer called my mom earlier that day. I was in shit for not going to school. I turned around and said— “Well guess what? I got a job and I’m making $18 bucks an hour and I’ve been there for a week already.” She wasn’t too happy about that—not that I wasn’t in school—but that I had pulled that shit off!
My mother never worked a day in her life—not while I was living at home anyway. I was raised in the projects on welfare. My mother would be sleeping on the couch when I came home from lunch. She never worked. I never had a role model, an example of a mother who worked hard to fucking put food on the table for her kids. It was either given to her by the government or by one of her seven brothers.
That’s what I witnessed growing up, and that’s why I grew up never wanting to be like her. Looking back now, I’m pretty sure that’s where all this running shit started for me. Running, running, working, working—always working, always trying to do more, nothing was ever good enough, I always wanted better for myself than what I observed growing up.
To this day, I’m ashamed of my son coming home and seeing me lying on the couch—embarrassed because I never want him to think that I’m lazy or a slug—even after fucking heart surgery! When I hear the keys rattle, I jump up quickly into a seated position. I can rest in my bed anytime; it’s the couch that has the stigma for me.
"So, my mom told me I had to quit. I was like, 'Well, you said I had to go to school or work.' I didn’t want to go to school, so I got a job. The job was too much, and I needed an out, and this was my way out. I called Monique and told her that the truancy officer just called my mom, that I was only 14—she gasped and was like, '14?! You have to be 19 to even be in this building—oh my goodness!' She offered to give me a reference for down the road. I don’t think she really knew what to say; she was taken aback. That was the end of that. But at 14, I had quite the experience—one that never left my head."
Every single job I had in my life between 14 and 17, I must’ve had about 60-70 jobs or more—I did the math! Some would last a couple weeks, some a few days and others only one day. I was always looking for a job. Why? Because life was fucking hard. I couldn’t keep up. Sometimes, I didn’t have a home or food, and getting shelter sometimes involved me being in places I didn’t want to be in and doing things I didn’t want to do—bad decisions—getting arrested.
The lifestyle I was living made it hard to keep a job, and I couldn’t do it—it was too fucking much. I’d either get fired or leave one job, walk right back downtown to the fucking Eaton Centre, walk into whatever fucking store I wanted and asked for the manager. The manager would take one look at me and take me outside for a chat. Ask me three or four questions. I had a social insurance number, had it since I was 11—that being one of the questions. I’d sign at the bottom, and boom—I’d start the next day. And when that didn’t work out, I walked on to the next store and got another job. On and on this went from when I was 14 to 17!
After reading all of that—does it sound like somebody who grew up privileged!? But now, I see how I was able to fucking live. How I was able to eat, how I was able to get by. It wasn’t because I was smart or because I grew up privileged. It was because of my white privilege.
I can’t even explain how nostalgic it felt to walk right into the Eaton Centre, up to the 3rd floor and get myself a job at “Big Bag” effortlessly 35 years later. I didn’t even think about it—the shit just kicked in—survival mode. The Eaton Centre; the home of jobs for me and much much more!
I had started dabbling in crime when I was 15. I’m not able to write about all of the shit that happened to me when I was 15. Not at this time. That year, for me, is a book in itself! Actually from 15-17, those years were dark, soul breaking, grim for me, in a snippet—drinking, drugs, rapes, jail, abortions, attempted suicide and fucking jobs lots of fucking jobs!
I met a girl somewhere along the way, when I was 15 she was few years older than me and she wasn’t just any girl! She was tough as fucking nails! She was short, stunning, with her long, thick hair, a Heinz 57. She was a glowing fireball—glitz and glam, a force to be reckoned with and not someone you wanted to fuck with.
Everybody I hung out with when I was 15-16 was 2-3 years older than me. A 2-3 year age difference in your 20’s and 30’s ain’t shit but between the ages of 14-19 those 2-3 years are A LOT! A lot can happen in a year—shit a lot can happens in 6 months! Shit that could change the way to see things or feel for the rest of your life. I know, because by the time I was 20 I had done, seen, and been through things women in their 50’s-60’s had never done or even seen before!
I looked older. I was tall and everybody thought I was older. This girl was the hustler of all fucking hustlers. She took one look at me and with her eyes blinking dollar signs she said—you’re fucking hired! I wasn’t even asking for a job. She saw the light in me and the darkness—she actually saw me. And I saw that she could change my life—and she did! I didn’t know what was really coming next with her but I was in the early weeks of pregnancy with Kayla and now I had a reason to live, someone to live for.
I was working at a store called TiAmo at Spadina and Queen, I was sick–morning sickness every day. I had no where to go, no address. The last friend’s place I was staying at—well, her boyfriend who was a psychotic pimp took a butcher knife to all of my clothes straight through the middle of everything I owned. I was left with nothing but the clothes on my back and nowhere to go.
I went to my nanny’s for a week or so and then to an uncle’s boat—bad uncle. I had nowhere to go, so I fucking stayed with him on his boat. It was damp, cold, and I had morning sickness all the time. He looked at me one day and said, “I know you're pregnant and I don't care as long as it’s not black!” Well, my baby was black, so I knew I had to get the fuck out of there!
Ultimately, that uncle disowned me!! A fucking pedo who lived in our home pretty much all my life, doing things to me he should never have done!!! Most of it in plain fucking sight! And he disowned me!! HA! Ain’t that some shit!
I was 17 when I came across that girl again, somehow our paths had crossed, outside of the friend group I originally met her in and the timing couldn’t’ve been better! It’s almost like she was waiting for me whether she knew it or not. She was notorious in her day, fucking legendary at her craft and she was way out of my league. Watching her in action whether it was shooting pool or making a move, her stealth and precision was something to see! If you didn’t know what was going on, or you weren’t involved—you wouldn’t know.
She wanted to hang and I was fucking down—I was in—all fucking in!!! Show me thy way!
I had enough of the rough, I needed help—clothes, shelter, food, a proper home for my child. I was motivated, to say the least, and she showed me the fucking ropes. She taught me how to survive, thrive without having to sell my ass—that line of work really wasn’t for me. I had been around that game in several different capacities—but it wasn’t my bag. Like I said, I caught on quick. I wasn’t book smart, but I was fucking street smart, and I had common sense like a motherfucker! We came together that day, got some paper together and moved in together right away.
Her and I were glued at he hip for the next several years. She turned my life around. She became the big sister I never had, my best friend. She took me under her wing. Her and I never talked about our childhood lives. We were both from the projects—there was an unspoken understanding between us that she had a rough childhood and that mine wasn’t honky dorey either. Our conversations were never about the past or about people.
We were always making plans, moving from project to project, like wallpapering or painting a room or fixing up our kitchen cabinets and Kayla—everything for Kayla was a huge focus. It was like her and I were having a baby together and well we did. She was there for my entire pregnancy, for Kayla’s birth and ultimately she became her Godmother. Looking back—it was the most significant friendship I’ve ever had. We loved each other, like family, we came together and instantly began a very tight knit friendship like we had known each other our whole lives. Our friendship was guided—it was meant to be.
She had a talent for navigating challenging situations and acquiring things discreetly. And I became highly skilled at achieving my goals without drawing attention. We looked like we had money, old money. We made a great pair! I went from starving, wearing rags and homeless—to wearing clothes from Lipton’s and living in a 3 bedroom house! I did a 180! No more off and on petty jobs for me!
Kayla and I lived a pretty luxurious lifestyle with her—from the clothes we wore to the food we ate right up until I moved out west to BC, which was in the early to mid-90s—in my 20’s. Kayla grew up wanting for nothing. She had the clothes, the toys and the dolls, a very large collection of porcelain dolls. I’ve had big money, some money, lots of money, little money and no money—money is money, sure life is a lot easier with money—but it never changed me. I was always frivolous with it—always humble.
She and I kept in touch throughout my time in BC—I still have a box of letters and cards from her from over the years. When I moved back to Toronto—we still hung out. She was even there in the delivery room with me and Kayla when I gave birth to Trent. The disconnect between the two of us came not too long after he was born.
I was introduced to a whole new world and in that world were all sorts of different types of characters with a wide variety of skill sets. I was subjected to a lot of things—always in the company of criminals, career criminals that were doing A LOT more than I was! Nonetheless, I was affiliated, I did a lot of things for some very ruthless, dangerous people when I lived out west, but I got paid and they had my back and to this day—some are just a phone call away!
Did I get arrested? Yep, several times. Did I go to jail? Yep—three times, to be exact. Some stays were longer than others. However, every single time I came before the court, I was dismissed—and fast. The first time, I was arrested I was 15, brought to the cop shop in Regent Park—fucking gross, all of it! I had a horrible experience there with the two asshole cops that arrested me. They judged me in accordance with my girlfriend’s choppy criminal record. They strip searched me, a female cop with the two male cops that arrested me standing just outside the window—a glass fucking window watching as the sun was just coming up. It was a dehumanizing experience to say the least —I didn’t make it into work that day or the next. Couple weeks later I went to court, stood before the judge—he took one look at me and released me on my own recognizance.
The last time I went to jail, I was 18 and in my second trimester pregnant with Kayla. I had warrants out for my arrest for not complying with my previous charges. They came and got me over the holidays in 1989. So I sat in jail for a while, pregnant, because it was the fucking holidays. There was no JP (Justice of the Peace) around, but when I finally got in front of the JP, he didn’t even let the Crown finish his sentence—I was six months pregnant. My girl brought me a proper maternity outfit for my appearance in court—accentuating my baby bump. He took one look at me and said, “This is disgusting! Let this girl go right now!” Boom, I walked right out of the courtroom right then and there. The security guards were all sitting there—eager beavers, ready to testify against me, but they just sat there with their mouths open and their tails between their legs.
How did this happen? White privilege. That was the second Absolute Discharge for me. That means no conviction. Basically, I pleaded guilty, apologized, and the court felt that the whole court process was punishment enough. Case closed. No criminal record.
I got in trouble one more time when I lived in Vancouver. I moved to BC with Kayla when she was about four or five years old. I wanted to change my life, get a job, and stop being so reliant on the deeds. My daughter and I had everything we needed or could possibly want as far as material things go. I wanted a job, and in the early ’90s in Toronto, there wasn’t one to be had. Even the hustling was drying up. I wanted the fuck out of Toronto.
We got to BC and everything was just better there—including the ability to do the deeds I knew all too well. Vancouver was a cakewalk compared to T.O. I couldn’t help but notice. After years of living how I lived, you don’t look at things the way other people do anymore, you notice a lot of—all sorts of things and that never goes away.
One busy night—I made a move—and I got caught. I had just moved there. I didn’t know the streets, and I didn’t know the distance from New Westminster, where I lived, to downtown, which is where I got caught. It was quite the distance, so when the court date came around, I said, “Fuck it—it’s too far,” I didn’t know where to go—so I didn’t go. A warrant was out for my arrest.
Many years later, Kayla and I were on our own after walking away from a very toxic relationship I was in that had gone on for far too long—years. Someone in the building across from our apartment was shooting off a BB gun. The police came to check it out, ran some names, and there I was, flashing red. They knocked on my door—like cops knock—bang bang bang! I looked through the peephole, saw it was them, and thought, “Fuckkkk!”
I had a friend over who was willing to say I wasn’t home, so he answered the door. I listened to them talk for a minute and then I just said, “Fuck it,” and came out. They didn’t take me to jail or even to the cop shop downtown Vancouver
The whole thing was weird as fuck—the whole police system out there, actually. Every time I’ve been arrested, I’ve been taken in except for the very first time. The cops in Vancouver were all gentle, short, and lenient, they were nice. Definitely not what I was used to in T.O.
This was a bold-ass move, even for me that I made, but I did it. I saw my chance and took it. Nobody fucking saw, not even the people I was with and I would’ve gotten away with it if the people I were with weren’t so fucking drunk and got me out of there when I said, “Let’s go!” I didn’t know my surroundings, and the time spent waiting around was wasted.
The club security flew out and was looking around right outside where I was standing—I could see them tripping out! It was like a scene from a movie. They definitely weren’t even considering me. I was just standing there like a sitting duck, waiting for anyone I knew with a ride to come out!
None of this was planned; everyone was drinking, and it just fucking happened! So during the time wasted—like a fool—I was still outside. I shoulda just walk away—anywhere instead of standing around. Shoulda, woulda, coulda!
They were upstairs running the tape back and saw me in action. They came back outside for me and got me. They were holding my friend upstairs because they thought it was him. Hahaha! We were together—there were plenty of us—but my boy, who they grabbed, didn’t know what the fuck had just happened. They nicked him quick—a regular black dude who just happened to be in the area.
I gave them what they wanted. It was either me or my boy taking the hit—he had a record five miles long, and, well, I did it. So, I slapped it on the table and was like, "Let him go," and they did. The security guards and bouncers were all hyped up, like they’d never seen anything like that before. Vancouver was way behind when it came to those type of movements, they were shocked. They were all just staring at me while we waited for the cops.
The cops showed up and gave me a blue piece of paper—“Promise to Appear”—and told me to show up in court. Even after I got caught—I had prior arrests, and the incident was recorded on fucking tape! They let me go. Definitely nothing like the cops I’ve encountered in Toronto. I would’ve been sent straight to jail and held, 100%! Back in the ’90s, the police in T.O. were no joke! They were big, tall, burly, rough, mean mutherfuckers—always over the top! The complete opposite of nice.
After showing up at my door years later and receiving yet another blue piece of paper promising to appear in court after failing to appear for my original charges—I finally went to court. I was gonna plead guilty and take my licks. I got caught—boom—it was all recorded on video my boy watched it, I asked him when I got upstairs otherwise I wouldn’t’ve copped to it—at all. Seemed to me like it was an open and closed case, and I had already been lucky before. I expected to take a hit.
The duty counsel defending me ended up being an actual lawyer and a good lawyer. Their firm was rotating lawyers for duty council, and he caught my case. He met me, saw the white privilege, and said, “I can get you off. You don’t need to plead guilty.” I was like, “OK.” He said it’d cost me $300. A date was set for a couple of weeks later. I gave him 300 bucks and showed up to court on the date that was set.
The bouncers and the club’s security were all present and excited—ready to take me down. Hoping for an audition! Hahahaha, I’m laughing because some of the characters in Vancouver really are comical, they think they’re in Hollywood—everything was so extra! That’s what we used to call those characters “Hollywood.” My lawyer spoke on my behalf, said that I work for an entertainment company, that I fly back and forth to Toronto (which I did), and that I couldn’t have a criminal record. He explained that I needed the freedom to move around because of the entertainment business, and the Crown agreed with him.
I didn’t even say a word. The judge looked up and said, “Three Absolute Discharges. I’ve never seen anything like it, but if the Crown doesn’t object, why should I?” Boom! Down with the gavel—dismissed.
Today, I know—that was my white privilege.
Let me be clear—any of the dirty deeds I’ve done in the past were for survival. Nobody was directly affected by my actions and nobody ever got hurt other than myself. Yes, I ended up with a lot more than I bargained for—but make no mistake: this story is about survival.
This whole white privilege business—I was ignorant of it my entire life until recently, when I started reflecting on the events that have taken place in my life. I always thought I had someone watching over me, and with or without the white privilege, I still do.
