White

Sunny likes white lilacs. Sunny prefers white roses. Sunny had a white cat and a white dog. Sunny wears white. Sunny… likes white.

But we aren’t here to talk about how much Sunny likes the colour white. We’re here to talk about something people seem uncomfortable acknowledging: prejudice can exist against white people too.

For a very long time, perhaps especially since I moved to the UK, I have found myself in a strange position. British people didn’t always see me as “a white person,” while other foreigners would immediately refer to me as the white girl. I understand why. I look white. Just apparently not “white enough” for everyone. People from other ethnic backgrounds have assumed that because I am white, I automatically get everything I want. That because I am European, doors simply open for me.

Well, let me tell you something.

I am very, very upset with that assumption, and I don't accept apologies that come only after you have decided who I am based on the colour of my skin.

I am Bulgarian.

As far as I know, I am Bulgarian. I know my great-grandparents, and if there is another culture somewhere in my family history, I haven't researched it yet. Culture isn't simply a bloodline. It is also community, upbringing, language, beliefs, rituals, traditions and the environment in which you grow up. So yes: I am Bulgarian.

I am Slavic. I am Balkan. I am an Orthodox Christian. And I am European.

I share historical and cultural commonalities with neighbouring Balkan countries such as Romania, Greece and Serbia. Bulgaria was under Ottoman rule for nearly five centuries and regained independence in 1878. That history is not ancient history to us. It is close enough that it still lives within the memories and stories passed down through generations. And Bulgaria itself is not some monolithic “white” population. The country is home to Bulgarians, Bulgarian Turks, Roma and other communities. Skin tones vary. Hair can be red, brown, blond or black; curly or straight. Facial features differ enormously. Being born in Bulgaria does not automatically tell you how privileged someone was.

And I certainly wasn't born into privilege.

If you know anything about Bulgaria's political history, particularly the socialist period, you will understand that life was complicated. My parents' families weren't supporters of the regime, but they weren't necessarily political opponents either. Yet under a system where not being part of the Party could itself be treated as opposition, families could suffer.

Mine did.

Then there is where I come from. I am from north-eastern Bulgaria, one of the poorer parts of the country. My family struggled to make ends meet. We ate what we grew ourselves. Tomatoes. Potatoes. Cucumbers. Aubergines. Fruit. Vegetables. We looked after animals. We preserved food. We worked the land.I could knit when I was five. I learned embroidery around eight or nine. I knew how to clean, and help around the house and work long before I started school. Labour, labour, labour. That was life. And honestly? One day, I want that life again - not because I want to escape the world, but because there is something beautiful about knowing how to grow, preserve, make and repair things with your own hands.

Only my mother has a bachelor's degree. My father doesn't have one. Neither of them earns a lot of money. It was my family's help, together with my own academic work, that enabled me to come to the UK. I had excellent grades. I worked extremely hard. During my five years at High School, I became Student of the Year in 2017 for my grades and contributions - one student out of roughly 104. I received other awards, including awards from international competitions. But that isn't the point. The point is that none of those things happened because I was white. I was lonely. I didn't have much of a social life. I didn't have friends. We didn't even have Wi-Fi. So I studied. And I danced. I worked for the opportunities I received.

I arrived in the UK with an accent. I didn't speak English fluently. I had to adapt to a different country, a different culture and a different language. And yet I kept going. So when you look at me and decide that my entire life can be explained by the words “white privilege,” forgive me if I get angry.

You don't know where I came from.

You don't know what my family had.

You don't know what we didn't have.

You don't know how many things I had to learn simply because there was nobody else to do them. You don't know what it feels like to come from somewhere and then be told that you are simultaneously too foreign and too privileged because of how you look. 

And this isn't me saying that racism doesn't exist. It does.

It isn't me saying that white privilege cannot exist. It can.

It is me saying that you cannot reduce an entire human being to the colour of their skin. Privilege is complicated. Class matters. Family matters. Geography matters. Education matters. Money matters. Political history matters. Migration matters. Language matters. Social networks matter. Opportunity matters. And yes, race can matter too. But my skin colour does not erase my history. It does not erase my family's struggles. It does not erase the work I have done. And it certainly does not give you permission to tell me that my achievements were handed to me because I am white. We didn't have the same starting point. But I didn't choose your starting point, and you didn't choose mine. So don't project your insecurities onto me. I am no longer the little girl I used to be. I no longer allow people to walk over me.

Sunny has her own back now.

So grow up. Do the work. Work hard. Work smart. Learn. Adapt. Build something. Because whatever your skin colour is, life doesn't owe any of us an easy road. And I am going to keep walking mine.