“Well they would do that! We’re four white girls. We stick out like a sore thumb.”

Problem with that statement. Only two of us were white. I and another were obviously asian. Yet, I wonder what it was that made this statement flow so assuredly and unremorsefully. What was it that made her think we were white?

For our class, one of our assignments was to create a new metaphorical word. My word: Moonburn. The process of becoming white. Obtaining whiteness, with all the privileges that come with its identity in a white dominated world. Unlike a sunburn, a moonburn feels good.

My moonburn felt good. In this context, I was no different than other muzungu (foreigner/white person). I had grown up with the privileges of the Western world. I spoke English fluently. My friends were white. In this context, I was just as privileged as if my skin were white.

While the thought of my privilege made me uncomfortable, even almost resistant, I knew that it felt good. It felt good when people in the market pulled me towards their stall, assuming I could afford to buy what I liked. It felt good when small children came to me with open hands, assuming that I was good, assuming that I had enough money to give away. It felt good to so easily get past security at high end hotels and restaurants, and to be so out of place in the poor villages.

It felt good. And while I don’t want to admit it, I must. I must admit that in this place where I am, I have “white privilege.” Not really, but basically.

I could spend all my energy fighting this. And I did for a few days. Frustrated that she dared call me white. Frustrated that she dared compare my privilege to a white person’s. I’m not white. I’m not white.

But I’m privileged. And I must admit it, because only then can I use it for good, rather than merely for self-promotion. I can use my privilege to lift the underprivileged, my power to lift the powerless.