Oppression and Expression: On Privilege

tyunglebower ♦ February 21, 2026 ♦ Leave a comment

A rush of inspiration leading to a hastily scribbled lyric or poem on a TGI Friday’s napkin is expression.

The first sentence in a year(s) long process of writing an epic 100K word fantasy novel after just as long a time pondering it is also expression.

I’ve said before, as recently as the previous post, that self-expression is vital.

It isn’t universal, though.

My life afford a certain, though limited privilege regarding the most obvious acts of creation and expression. I am working class, and often exhausted to be so. But thankfully for the time being and hopefully forever I have shelter and food, and of course white skin.

I have the room, the time, and partially the identity today that allows me the sacred privilege of usually being left the hell alone.

You, or another reader of this page, my novels, or any of my creations of the past certainly may not enjoy all of those things at once. Even my minimal compliment of these heart-affirming, life-protecting statuses shields me more than a person who lack one or all of same.

Not all born author’s can write their books. Not every dancer hears the music of their life.

But this illuminates a vital truth about creativity and self-expression; It’s only two true components are personal authenticity and lack of shame for same.

If you cannot create a book today, create a path to work that’s more scenic. If you are too afraid to write your song, clamp the noise-cancelings on your head and put someone else’s on repeat.

To partner with expression is to engage in expression.

Those of us that are barely privileged, such as myself, and those who are mega-privileged but retain their humanity express our own thoughts in corporeal form so those that perhaps cannot at the moment can nonetheless feed their hungry souls with our cultural sustenance.

My self expression of a story may allow your authenticity when you read it for snatches at a time behind your desk, or in your temporary hospital bed.

Or worse.

I do not ask everyone, under all circumstances to either ignore their reality by creating constant art. Nor do I insist that her song, my book, their movie be consumed as mere bling numbing agent. I only ask that whether your own or someone else’s you keep the seed of expression buried somewhere within you, no matter how dark it gets, so that when the sun does return, that seed is nurtured.

Art will not cut away every shackle. But the belief in art, anybody’s, will keep the deepest part of you alive long enough to know you cannot be eradicated without your surrender.