(This never happened, but based on an article in the NYT, it easily could have.)
I was grinding my way through an unbearably long TSA line at the airport when I saw a middle-aged African-American woman coming to join the line. Even from a distance, I could see that she was checking me out. She was stereotyping me. She saw me as an oppressor. I was the kind of guy who would flaunt his white privilege.
I considered my options. Should I speak to her? If I didn’t, she might interpret my hauteur as a form of white privilege. If I did, however, she would probably think I was trying to dominate the situation, which was just another form of white privilege.
And then there were her possible reactions. Would she think my place in line ahead of her was another form of white privilege? Would she believe that I had stolen it from a worthier African-American? Would she assert her black privilege to attribute what I considered my earned place in line to racism, and play the victim card?
I temporized. I decided I would speak only if she spoke first; that was the ideal outcome. In the event, she didn’t, and I could only hope for the best.
Meanwhile, the line trudged on. When I finally got to the front of the line, they asked me to take out my tablet, but no one demanded to check my white privilege. Thank God.