When white privilege grabs the remote, it's not asking what you want to watch. It owns the television and the content. You are just mass. Your opinion is unnecessary. Your desires will be scrolled by.
When it grabs the car keys, its not asking where you want to go. Or be dropped off at. Never get in that vehicle.
It will drive by the most beautiful to end you up in a circus. You will be the show.
Hello there Flamingo!
And when white privilege pulls up the DoorDash app, don't dare consider what you might order. Understand that you were always on The menu. The screen is full of versions of you. . .
sopped up with a biscuit?
sitting idle on top of a Triscuit
Dancing ever so calmly next to some boba balls.
Frozen atop an ice cream cone.
Hello there Flamingo,
I hope it feels good to melt.
White privilege doesn't care about you.
It needs no empathy to exist in this space of time and lack; just a mirror to marvel at its reflection, as it glaringly forms lips to speak:
"the world is mine, nigga get back."
Prologue:
Everyone loves a good heist movie. One of the fascinations about them is how you almost always find yourself rooting for the presumed villain in the movie; something in their backstory and reasoning feels more legitimate than terroristic. This is of no mistake. Usually, the victim tends to harbor their own litany of secrets and seclusions that logic would conclude makes them the real villain in the story. Maybe they got what they had coming. The alleged victim’s backward timeline is a vital part of the movie’s storytelling beyond the action.
Every great heist movie needs one thing: a Mark. A target. A victimized villain.
In the movie Ocean’s 11, the Mark’s name is Terry Benedict. As a poetic writer, I often hear words in their most broken-down form; it helps me discover ways to utilize words beyond their original standing. Upon hearing the name “Benedict”, I instantly hear the phrase ‘been-a-dick' - a phrase coined to suggest a person has a longstanding history of being an absolute jerk. The rest of this write-up might read like a literary heist, where just like the movies before it, the victim is actually a villain, and the only thing being stolen is the right to call bullshit when I see it.
As a fan of the Ocean’s 11 franchise, I think it’s fitting to call the Mark of this story Terry Ben'ADik. And it is at the center of his white privilege that it begins:
“How was everyone’s time?”
Silence breeds animosity. When you don’t confront people about their mishandling of you, resentment becomes fertile ground in the heart. If we don't appropriately resist mistreatment or at least refrain from vocal suppression when someone tries it with us, those resentment seeds can sprout self-frustration. Everyone wants to stand up for themselves and it can help reduce the number of future fumbles. I've wrestled with this write-up. I don't have an issue with calling a spade a phony card in the deck but with purpose, not just muddy-word slinging. Me being offended isn't enough. So, there's been a lot of thought and silence preceding this along with many other inspirational tremors. I stand by what I say, but I've been hesitant to say it. Plus, I'm not really in the expose` business anymore. But as I toggled with the what, hows, and whens of writing, I came across someone who is in that business - and I was part of their targeted, but calculated tales and heavy-on-the-Karen misrepresentations. And so, I said,
fuck it - I, too, want to gamble. And when people like to gamble with reducing me, I play a long game of full storytelling. Stay with me for this 16-minute read, please.
As I sat in the middle section, far right passenger side seat of the all-white 2025 Expedition carrying myself, two other young, Black women, and an all-white family of 3, I stared out the window in dismay while silently trying to calm my anxiety. Terry's question hung across the silence in the air like a lying crucifix – he didn’t really care how our time was; this was just small talk in a failed attempt at making the 2-hour drive back to our Koreatown (LA) Airbnb less cumbersome. One of the other Black women confessed that her time in this bullshit beach town we had been stuck in for hours made her feel -
"like a flamingo."
But when the immediate [white] response was a light chuckle from the driver’s seat, I knew I would have to answer to my own silence because what exactly made you laugh about that statement? We (the Black women) had spent an entire day inside an all-white Kaleidoscope that didn’t feel particularly colorful or welcoming. It was almost as if our presence was an infiltration on their trip, and therefore, our completely different, less-than-pleasing experiences were of no concern to the #FamilyThatStaysTogether. At no point in this day-long excursion were the 3 Black people ever vocally considered or asked if we wanted to do something. This was the only free day of a work trip, and it had been completely whitewashed.
Let’s back up to Los Angeles, California, March 2024.
White love for Black people and culture is often met with complicated acceptance due to the number of people who end up mocking and pretending, stealing, and/or capitalizing off us. These guards aren’t up for sport; we’ve all been met with white bullshit packaged in a ‘love/save the whales cliche. These journeys usually end up with the outlier playing the victim while villainizing the very people they were just rooting for and learning from(?). For more on how allies get it wrong, read this.
It is of this cloth that Terry Ben'ADik is cut.
He's high key what I'd call a despicable human and a case study in why Black folks struggle to trust those who come into our community wanting to hold hands, recite Tupac and Mos Def lyrics, and call themselves allies to our cause.
If you’re not careful, the right ally will try to latch themselves onto the very bootstraps their ancestors suggested we pull ourselves up from, in a strategic effort to climb out of their own murky waters and swim right past us.
We don’t have time or patience for ambiguous white folk that we must call into question while collectively and simultaneously campaigning for love, equality, and respect for our lives.
I mean, are you here to help or not???
We can't afford to stop and give verbal dissertations and explanations about premises such as Black Lives Matter, and how it doesn’t mean
‘dear mistuh offisuh, pleez don’ kill us no mo.’
They should learn, on their own time, that the nucleus is how all non-Black people conduct themselves, respect, and care about Black folks – that we, too, deserve to be treated by everyone with dignity and consideration. The murders of unarmed Black people are a symptom of a problem suffered by police AND everyday citizens, like Terry Ben’ADik.
And at the helm of that problem is consideration.
Mr. Ben’ADik’s claims of being community-driven are how we came to work together but were quickly debunked upon traveling across the country with him. . . and his family.
REAL community will always include Black people. Our presence will be there in person or by influence, if not both. Even this Gilligan’s town we had inadvertently become Black castaways in there were a few Black faces sprinkled about like saffron threads. In short, caring about community includes caring about Black people.
(Caring)(consideration) = a hand-in-hand vibe.
But if you can’t be bothered to give a damn about the ones you are traveling with, then I find any proclamation of being community driven questionable at the least, if not (as my grandmother would say) “a flat-out lie.”
A 20 something Black girl has flown to Los Angeles for the first time, and she finds herself hiding inside of a theater in Ventura, CA, because “it was dark.” After having been followed around inside a dusty seashell shop like she was trying to grift something that she could have just as easily walked 4 blocks west and picked out of the sand for free, she found comfort in the theater’s pitch-black offering. The other young lady likened her time there as feeling “like a flamingo.”
Wildlife in the common room. Something to be stared at. This was also her first trip.
If I were white, I would have turned beet red when Terry Ben’ADik’s careless whispered giggle buzzed around the middle seat like a Midwestern knat.
If I had rented a car, I'd have missed this grandstanding show of privilege and disregard for others that Terry possessed beneath his bearded veil of We Are the World campaigns.
As the overwhelming, almost suffocating presence of white privilege blew its savage cold breath across our shoulders and faces in the form of the merciless in-truck air condition (it was 60 degrees in an ocean city), I closed my eyes to sleep my way through all my feelings. I wanted to say something but feared if I parted my lips, a verbal war would commence with words rolling uncontrollably out of my mouth like a rushing tide, knocking all this shit over. Plus, there was a child present, and as much as I didn’t want to care, I’m not like them, and I’m 1000% sure #TheyNotLikeUs.
“white people don’t ever feel unwelcome. . .
...Or unsafe.” -a conversation between poets.
It doesn’t matter what it is or who is being celebrated, white folks are going to show up and partake. Greek festivals, Italianfest, Black Expo, International Fair, Black music events, Black arts events – whatever the case, you can bet your writing hand that you will see more than a handful of white folks who have no roots grounded in the celebrations. I prefer my world with a bit of variety, so this is less a complaint and more an observation that their comfort has few limitations and boundaries.
And oh, what a privilege that is.
They show up in spaces where they are not centered and make the necessary room for themselves; some will even find a way to make it about them. And why wouldn’t they? They are welcomed with ease and open arms. There are no scary, crazy eyes staring them down until they about-face and return to their vehicle. No one fearfully follows them, and there are no flamingo vibes. They get to show up as themselves and never think twice about it. Their voices don’t change, and neither does their dialect or their hair. They become family, immortalized through photos, and invited to bring the beer to the next BBQ
.
Black people don’t enjoy this same freedom with such luxurious ease. Our code-switching asses are still getting our hair legalized in 50 states. Speaking of 50 states, sundown towns decorate all of them with Confederate flags and pickup trucks. You’re far more likely to pass through an all-white town as opposed to an all-Black one. There's a nice number of self-proclaimed allies who come from racist family dynamics that they rejected and unless they’ve completely severed ties, don’t expect invites to their backyard brewha. When it comes to being Black, we gotta be intentional with our friendships, associates, and wherever we choose to travel. Feeling ‘welcome’ is not always a given and being comfortable isn’t always easy. It's up to us to look out for ourselves, but it would be nice if those who come into our circles would consider not aiding to the problem.
True allies understand this notion. Some of them reject the title because when you are a human who cares about other humans, regardless of race/class/ethnicity/orientation/etc..., it’s not about being an ‘ally’ - it’s humanity. The thing we all share. Good humans exercise empathy and selflessness with ease.
Those are two things Terry Ben’ADik knows nothing about. And honestly, neither does Mrs. Ben'ADik2. Terry had control of the only vehicle and used it only for our work transportation and his personal #FamilyTies episode. Let the niggas Uber I guess. I wish I had realized that sooner. Mr. Ben'ADik let three Black women hop in the truck with him, his wife and kid, under the guise of going to "the mountains and the beach." In hindsight, we all should have asked some followup questions and not been so quick to put our Black trust in this all-white truck's final destination. Mistakes were made and I contributed. But when Mr. Ben’ADik mentioned that they were going to the “beach and mountains”, it was a no-brainer. I mean, how do you mess that up? There are tons of beach towns and as many mountains to drive up. In my head, you can’t go wrong with beach and mountains.
About those mountains . . .
I stared confusingly out the window watching as we had drove by every beach and mountain along the PCH. When we got by Santa Monica with their amusement rides, lights, and multi-cultural people walking everywhere, the Berenstein daughter begged to stop there but was adamantly denied by Momma Ben’ADik2. We kept driving. We drove until the ocean completely disappeared, the highway forked, and the land around us became Midwestern flat. We turned into a tiny rural town, perhaps at the bottom of a mountain, lined with trees and small houses that sat low to the ground. It looked like a compound for farmers and different servicemen but someone stuffed an ‘art exhibit’ in one of the little spaces. And that’s where we were headed.
It was too small for imagination inside – about the size of the shadow box in the photo. There were a few of these on the wall and a white man getting a tattoo off to the side. It was not a welcoming space for the 3 Black women, one with Africa on her hat, one with big natural hair, and another with a Thug Life Pac shirt on. Our arrival triggered stares from folks whose eyes were suddenly watching GODdesses with no idea why. No welcoming smiles and hellos – just stale cracker stares and confusion. I left after about 5 minutes, and the other two ladies soon followed me to the locked truck. There was nowhere else for us to go and nothing for us to do. After one of the ladies retrieved the keys, we discussed our compromised comfort for the 20 or so minutes it took them to finish pursuing the small one-room tiny house and front yard coffee truck. They took their time and made sure to make each step count. I mean, I'm sure they felt like they didn’t drive all this way just to have to be considerate to the blacks in the back of the bus,
I mean truck.
There were two separate experiences during this day long, tiring excursion.
#TheFamilyThatStaysTogether had a great time, dripping in the privilege of being well-received through stranger eyes at each stop. They walked, shopped, ate, and lolligagged with no second guess. They were amongst brethren and family. There were no strange, zoo animal stares and they didn’t feel a bit out of place. I wonder if it ever crossed their minds about us –
these Black women
– actually, no I don’t. I know the answer. Don’t ever wonder, or whatever Maxwell said.
And then there was us. As I said, we were in charge of asking more questions and didn't. But I also believe, based on the ski mask Mr. Ben'ADik had been wearing for as long as we'd all known him, it's safe to assume we expected this day to be more inclusive. We didn't realize we'd be gone for the entire day or that the day would be spent feeling awkward, cold, and bored in a city with so much more to offer. Our silence was improperly condoning their behavior. In plain sight, they didn't give a fuck about us and didn’t have to. Even when they got back in the truck from the tiny house, there were no questions or conversations that suggested these were human allies. As a matter of fact, the white silence was so thick, I could have cut it with the darts in my eyes, but I chose to stare out the window in proverbial silence, hopeful that we would be heading to the beach after this phony trip to the mountains.
Upon official arrival in Ventura, I was greeted with a beach lined with dead sticks and tree limbs in both directions as far as the eye could see. It was already cool that day, so the beach's air, coupled with her heavy winds, made it unbearable to stay. It was inviting as a whites-only water fountain surrounded by bobbed wire. I was there for less than 5 minutes. My magic number on this trip. Everyone went their separate ways with no discussion on what time to be back. I ended up walking the same 4 block square about 5 or 6 times, front and backward. The town couldn't have been more than 1 mile long and wide. I sat on stoops that were in the sun as both hands turned numb, inducing more of an attitude. There were no fun, random beach stores and shops like, say, Santa Monica, Venice, or Manhattan Beach. No one was selling cut up fruit cups with Tajin and hot sauce out on the corners. There wasn't even ice cream - what beach doesn't have an ice cream shop??? There was zero culture here. It was as white as a lost pearl necklace and as boring as a half-baked rice cake. I imagined the #DikFamily were snapping pictures and collecting reasons to laugh. Meanwhile, as time pressed forward with no end in sight, I looked up a Lyft price back to the city: it was $120.
But I was angry enough to pay it and considered taking one to another beach - – a clean one -
One of the ones we drove right on past to get to this saltless, numbing part of Earth. But I couldn’t make peace with leaving the other two Black women behind.
When we finally all linked back up, #TheRoyalFamily seemed about as put together as Prince Harry and William. “Do they even like each other, I thought.” Inside the truck, the first thing they do is blast the air conditioning, as if we hadn’t just spent at least 2 hours in nature’s air, before the good ole boy himself, Mr. Ben’ADik proposed his ice-breaking question:
“How was everybody’s time”
What a bunch of Santa Clause malarkey we bit into that day. We had been taken, and there was no friendly white man claiming a special set of skills to bring us back to inclusion and consideration. I closed my eyes quickly as I couldn’t be burdened with watching us pass by the mountains and beaches once more on the way home.
At least we had dinner to look forward to. There was one other colleague on the trip with us who neglected to join us. Smart human. We were all supposed to have a group dinner that evening and this had been repeatedly communicated.
It was 9/10 AM when we left that morning; it was nearly 6pm and dark when we returned.
When we got back, I sat at one end of the dining table while Mr. Ben'ADik sat at the other. As I scrolled on my laptop waiting for the word on dinner, I overheard Mrs. Ben’ADikToo quietly tiptoe over to him and discuss where she was taking the truck and how she would bring food back for them because she “knew he was tired of all that driving.”
BITCH what-
I was baffled. What about dinner? What about everyone else?
What about the niggas!!!!!!!!!???
Not once did she offer her voice or about-to-go travels to inquire with anyone else about food. In hindsight, I can't believe I didn't snap at that exact moment, and rightfully so. So after we've spent all day starved for culture or at least public acceptance, we are also going to be hung out to dry for food. Get it how we live - via Doordash or Uber?
So, there went dinner. And nothing was said to anyone else about it.
Just like nothing was said to provide true clarity about what we were latching onto when we got in the truck. Similar to nothing being said when we got back in the truck from the tiny house debacle. And close to the nothing response to a Black woman professing the place you had her stuck at made her feel like a flamingo.
Heavy on the f**k the nERs on this trip on full display.
This level of blatant and direct inconsideration for others and its lasting effects should be studied in the schools he used to work in.
But for Terry, the simplest conclusion is that he has always been a dick. This behavior is nothing new. It's small dick energy with a suitcase. Dirt dickler. His actions and unproven sincerity were always going to come out in the wash and at the expense of others who wouldn't look like him. This story isn't about WHAT Mr. Ben'ADik did -
-it's about what it meant.
Terry and his partner in white, Mrs. Ben'ADikToo, believe they are who they appear to show up as. You'll be hard-pressed to convince them that anything they did was wrong or could have (read: should) gone differently and better. Neither will read this blog and offer an apology. They won't look in the mirror and SEE themselves as anything other than good people who want to help create and sustain communities that thrive in abundance with opportunities for all. These are the type of folk who feel like they have THE plan; a far better plan than those living the lives they want to step in and Cap't Save for future funding purposes.
The irony is their way is nothing more than broken chips of scarred glass they've snatched out of the (Black) backs of those they've rubbernecked with long enough to pilfer a lil' blood from. These types of people piece together a curio cabinet of personalities and ideas that they hope folks will buy into so they can use those folk as ladder steps for their next big adventure.
Mr. Ben'ADik showed me in California that he is devoid of any ability to exercise selflessness in particular situations (read: regarding Black folks). Despite the numerous gatherings and Black spaces that he'd frequented and been embraced in, he either hadn't or didn't care to learn the importance of being mindful when in relationships with us. It's not about putting yourself last as much as it's about consideration of the crowd. Read the got damn room, fam! Black folks shouldn't be the only ones required to do this, and I shouldn't even have to give an example -
And you know what? The people who I have great relationships with who are of other backgrounds, races, and nationalities, don't need any. They understand it. They learned it. They feel it as human beings. They respect it in the organic sense of camaraderie. It's not hard to look around you and give a fuck about how you leave people feeling.
Epilogue:
As long as there are white folks who position themselves around Black people with bad intentions and an unfilled education on what it means to have and to yield white privilege, there will be Black doubt. Tension will exist in trying to build and make connections. There will be static. Trust issues. As I draw this write-up to its end, I just came across a post that said, "Don't expect a person without values to value you" (Storie Devereaux on FB), and that hit the nail on the head.
Terry Ben'ADik might have some values, but they don't include or align with Black folks. We never stood a chance against our invisibility in his real world. Our only resolution was in our voices - and none of us used them that day. THAT was on us. Fuck that kid - we should have let the 4 letter hammers fly in the truck! They should have been told about themselves.
But much like this blog, it wouldn't have really made a difference. Terry Ben'ADik will continue forward, pushing trendy language to anyone willing to believe his temporary babbling, including Black people. But when faced with the difficult task of putting those same Black folks' needs above his own, or even consider them, he will fail.
And it will be effortlessly and very unattractive on him, unlike the mark in Ocean's 11.
It's a value he does not possess,
and a privilege that he doesn't have to.
"...the world is mine,
nigga
get back. "
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