A Collection of Poems and Writings of a Madwoman

Pretty Privilege

I've never had pretty privilege. I didn't know what it's like to have the door held for me just because of my smile. I've never had someone look into my eyes and say, "You really are delightful to be around." I've never been anyone's first choice when looking around a room. I don't have smart privilege. I'm not smarter than a sixth grader; I can barely do basic math. I love to read, but not the kind of reading that would get me into Harvard. No one would ever ask me to join a debate team because they fear I have too little in my mind to make an argument, and not a nice enough face to win the crowd over, because I'm just not beautiful.

The closest thing I've known to these feelings is pity. The kind where you no longer care what people think about you, so you tell all of your pain, hurt, and sorrow in hopes someone would hear your plea and know that you want to die. Then the people listen. They wouldn't listen when they thought I wasn't beautiful, and they wouldn't listen when I needed to plead my case. But now they listen when they realize that the glue holding my pieces together is melting, and they are the ones that are melting it. When they realize I've been boiling inside and can no longer contain what is left, now, when the people listen, they hear of my trauma and my pain, and they listen like they've never listened before... they've never listened before. They tell me now that my eyes are so pretty, and that my mess of curls is quite nice, and that they didn't know I thought so deeply... because I've never been that privileged.

You see, I've never had pretty privilege or smart privilege, but pity privilege feels just the same until you remember that is all it is... pity. And in a week's time, they will move on, and the voice that you held is gone. The power you held for a minute is gone, and all that you are left with is yourself... your self-pity.