So many people react violently and defensively to that word. I think it's because "privilege", for a lot of people, looks like wealth and when someone mentions "privilege", people have this very visceral reaction, "What? No! That's not me at all!" And that is perfectly understandable; I get it.

So … what if privilege isn't only about wealth? What if wealth is only one of the ways in which a person can be privileged? I grew up in Jamaica. It's a whole other world there. Jamaica is a third world country and was a British colony until 1962 (that's not so long ago, right?). Society, culture, religion … everything about Jamaican society is so very different from the U.S. and while I can't outline all the differences in one single essay, I can give examples relevant to my experience of privilege. You see, I grew up sheltered and privileged in many, many ways. And a couple of those ways had precisely to do with money and wealth.

We weren't rich by any means but my parents have owned their own home for many, many years, from before I was born. That is a home that, by extension, I will always have and can always go home to if I need to. Growing up, there always was at least two cars at home. If one parent couldn't transport me, the other would. I got new shoes for school when I needed. Books were never an issue. I got all the ones I was instructed to get, even if we had to send for them overseas. I had more uniforms for school than most of my peers. There was one girl in one of my classes who had to go home early each night so she could wash her uniform and have it ready to be ironed first thing in the morning when she awoke. I had 5 tunics and 7 shirts; she had one. My brownie and girl guide uniforms were bought ready-made. Some girls had to have theirs sewn to save money. I got to sample ballet, piano lessons, violin lessons, drama classes, and swimming classes plus I got to make my own decisions about which I wanted to continue pursuing. There was never any question about how my tertiary education would be funded; all I had to do was ensure all the paperwork was turned in on time. I was even driving one of my parents' cars to school from aged 17 until I got my own car several years later.

For a third-world country, most of what I just told you is likely jaw-droppingly surprising … and, it reeks of middle-class privilege.

However, there are more subtle ways that privilege manifests itself. Ways in which many of us never give it a second thought; mostly because those "norms" are never challenged and never changed. It changed for me. And that gives me some unique insight into the whole idea of "privilege" that is not specifically attached to wealth.

In Jamaica, if I am refused service at any place of business, I can loudly demand an explanation, tell them off, and take my business elsewhere. In the U.S., I could try the same but I'd be labelled a troublemaker before the service provider is labelled prejudiced. In Jamaica, if someone displayed obvious discrimination, I could wrinkle my nose and proclaim them stupid and backward. In the U.S. it's better to smile and move on (turn the other cheek anyone?). In Jamaica, I have full autonomy to demand equal treatment in whatever space I may be in. If a policeman pulls me over for any reason, I have every freedom to be sullen and barely respectful if he even seems to be corrupt or abusive. I can pull on all my haughty, upper-middle-class upbringing and treat him like the thing beneath me that I think him to be as he tries to extort money from me in exchange for not writing that ticket. And when he does eventually write that ticket, I don't even have to turn up in court. My father can just ping a lawyer friend and have him go in my place and deal with it. (This is an event that actually happened and when that lawyer friend turned up in court on my behalf, he found that the courts had no record or knowledge of said ticket. It had simply disappeared.)

In the U.S., I don't dare. I don't dare behave as if I am better than anyone because in the U.S., I am not. And in fact, for many, I am less simply because my skin tone is darker than theirs. They don't have to hear me speak, or see how I dress when I am in polite company, or know how much education or intellectual exposure I've had. My skin is brown, and so I am, by default, an animal; a thug; an upstart; a thing to be instantly wary and suspicious of; I am guilty, by virtue of racial inferiority, until proven innocent (and sometimes, not even then …). This is a reality I have come to learn as I navigate cultural shifts, by listening to others, and reading the news. I've not met with overtly oppressive behaviour (thank whichever deity you worship), but listening to others who look like me has made me preemptively cautious about how I navigate this society. In Jamaica, I could ask a policeman haughtily, "Why did you pull me over? What do you want?" In the U.S., I have learned that it is better to keep my mouth closed, my face neutral, do what I am told and hope this cop will just do his job and let me go. And if perchance he doesn't, I don't question him because I see way too many people who look like me being treated like second class citizens and animals and I don't want that for myself.

Sure there is no shortage of people who tell me that policemen are the good guys and that if I have nothing to hide, if I've done nothing wrong, then I have nothing to worry about. Being a natural skeptic, I've simply just nodded at that advice and not challenged it. The people telling me this are people who share the same privileges I once had in Jamaica. Their skin colour affords them a default approach that I may or may not get depending on the where and when. In Jamaica, skin colour was merely a superficial social indicator used to judge how societally refined I was (not necessarily a good thing either, but that's another essay for another day) and not political or economical measuring stick used to determine what societal benefits I had access to.

The Sandra Bland story has touched a special chord in me because in some ways, Sandra Bland might have been me. That haughty "I know my rights and you are violating them" kind of attitude is one that isn't alien to me. And there being nothing else evident in the highly publicised video of that traffic stop to indicate wrong-doing, I have to assume that her "crime" was one or a combination of the following: Bland was black, female, and haughty. If that is true, then it doesn't matter how "good" or lawful I actually am, my appearance and demeanour are what determines my lawfulness.

This is what a "loss of privilege" feels like - when the subtle advantages that you once enjoyed are challenged and/or removed. And THAT kind of privilege is NEVER recognized until it is lost. Trust me; I know.

This article first appeared on Medium on August 12, 2015