Privilege is an accident of birth. Either we are born into a situation where wealth and power give us a leg up, or we are endowed with qualities (talent, beauty, extraordinary intelligence) that allow us, with effort, to rise above the common herd.

Many today have an attitude that privilege invalidates suffering. They feel sorry for abused children, but if the abused child is sleeping on designer sheets and vacationing on Lake Como, the sympathy is only begrudgingly bestowed. They almost take comfort in the suffering as a form of rough justice. “Sure Drew Barrymore had a hellish childhood and her mother locked her up in a mental hospital as a young teen, but she got to be a movie star so what’s she complaining about?”

I sometimes find myself apologizing for my privilege, especially if writing about my struggles in life. It may be tougher to be smacked around if you’re also blind and starving, but I’m not sure it makes you any better at telling your story in such a way that it informs and enlightens others.

Disadvantages can provide motivation. How many rags to riches stories would not exist if the person in rags had been born wealthy? Would Dolly Parton have ever picked up a guitar? Probably, but she might not have become the Dolly we know or had the career she had if she’d been born into a family of oil tycoons. It might be argued that rising out of privilege to do something remarkable may be the more impressive accomplishment. The comfortable may be more likely to be complacent.