White Husband Privilege: Where I Do and Don’t Take My White Man

I’ve got a white husband. Blue eyes, pale skin, uses ten-dollar words, drinks cider. His pants have a minimum six pockets, and they come in one colour — beige. He votes left of left, and he marches alongside his brown spouse at TBTN and Pride. He looks like a stereotype from a smartphone ad: white, male, moneyed, and confident. That’s my man.

No doubt, my white husband is privileged. When he speaks, people listen to him — and they hear him! Even when I’m the one talking to them, they still respond to him. So, when I dialogue with the [male] plumber or the [male] mechanic, I ask my white husband to make himself scarce. Otherwise, these men will direct their questions to him, long after my husband explicitly declares that house and car repairs are my jurisdictions.

Yes, I could take my money somewhere less sexist and racist, find another plumber, electrician, mechanic, painter, landscaper, mover… but this form of discrimination happens all the time, everywhere. I prefer to make a stand. Alone, I force these [predominantly white] men to engage me. After all, I’m the only one here— my white husband is off researching organic thermal socks.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not interested in drama. It’s exhausting being a brown woman, especially one who is more butch than femme. White people don’t see me, and heterosexual men are baffled in general. To receive the same service and courtesy that my white husband receives, can take repeat visits and conversations.