There is not much I can add to this magnificent post over at Sarah’s place. I’ve spoken with the author of it, Sanford Begley, on occasion. And so, for me, there is an extra layer of authenticity to this:

I am privileged. This is true, but not in the way the left thinks. The other day I disagreed on social media with a woman about another program to take from workers and give to parasites. She said that she had been middle class and was now poor and I couldn’t understand because I am privileged. I thought about it and replied that she was right. That answer is the seed of this post. Many of you are even more privileged than I, but I’m going to tell about my privilege now.


I was born in Appalachia in the middle of the twentieth century. Well it was the middle of the twentieth everywhere else, in most of Appalachia it was still somewhere between the nineteenth century and the mid twentieth. Many places were still using “coal oil” lanterns and indoor plumbing was rare. I was an adult before living in a house that had an indoor toilet. Central heat was a coal fired stove in the middle of the living room and a wood stove in the kitchen. Being the first one up in zero weather was an adventure. Could you start a fire before the cold started to hurt?


Many people I knew, much of my family in fact, lived in what were known as tar-paper shacks. This was a wood frame covered with the tar paper used by roofers for waterproofing. I believe I was privileged enough that I never lived in one myself. I’m not sure, we followed the jobs and work was hard to come by then.

There is an assumption that if you’re a white middle class man, you have suffered no pain. That life was easier for you, somehow, or that people conspired to pave your way to wealth and power. The point, of course, is to ensure that the white man is last in line for jobs, and first in line for paying the bill.

I remember some SJW once pointing out to me that I would never understand what it was like to suffer domestic abuse. Except that, growing up, my stepmother (whom my father mercifully divorced eventually) was pretty much every evil stepmother stereotype rolled into one. And she was very physically abusive. So no, I told the SJW. I don’t understand what it is like to be a grown adult who is abused by his or her spouse… but I know what it’s like to be a child beaten and abused by an adult. Does that count?

But unlike SJWs who worship victim status, I look back on my experience with shame. I remember my stepmother punching me in the face when I was 11 or 12, I think, and the fact is, she was a short and smallish woman. I easily had the strength, even then, to stand up to her and hit her back hard enough that she would never hurt me again. But I didn’t, and to this day I am ashamed of this failure. To me, it was a lesson in defending yourself, to never stand idle when you should fight back.

In that I am, like Sanford Begley, privileged.

The point of all this is that SJWs only see a middle class white man who is more successful, perhaps, than they are. Someone who is happier and more content with life. And the envy, the jealousy, grows within them. They will say and do anything to drag you down, and to elevate themselves over you. They think that their experiences in life must be the worst, the greatest tragedy, and that you, by virtue of your skin color and genitals, could not have suffered equal or greater hardship in life.

But SJWs, you need to understand something. I learned from the shame of my inaction all those years ago. The next time someone tries to punch me in the face (physically or metaphorically), it will not go so easily for them.

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