Anngee Quinones-Belian
When I was young, my parents called me princess, I was always treated well, and even had a pretty pink tiara with sparkling rhinestones.
As a kid, I remember locking my brother in a broom closet with a mannequin he thought was a deceased person. The story I told him at the time made it seem real to my 3-year-old sibling. He cried, I laughed, mom yelled and dad spanked.
When my father said I was grounded for a week,
I barked back at him that
as a princess I had diplomatic immunity. He added another week to my sentence.
I never forgot that and always wondered what my statement really meant.
Diplomatic immunity basically allows a certain group of people to “get away with murder” and not face the consequences of their actions.
In middle school, I was voted class president, so I thought I should have been eligible for at least the lower end of the immunity privilege, but apparently not. I aced all my history, language and government classes, so I thought I had paid my dues for the special treatment, but that disappointing delusion left me fearing my future behavior.
Another well-known perk, for some individuals like professors and federal judges among others, is tenure. Tenure basically means that for a period of time, including up to a lifetime, one can’t really be fired. This offers a lot of bad behavioral leeway.
Tenure for the person subject to the one who has the privilege can sometimes be like having a scary clown grab your foot without you ever being able to get away – providing you’re not happy dealing with the tenured individual.
My neighbor had five-year tenure as an instructor at a driving school. He also has narcolepsy and often fell asleep on the job, leaving student drivers panicking behind the wheel and other drivers on the road pulling over quickly. Imagine, for a moment, that festive scene, if you will.
Since he didn’t know how to drive a stick shift,
let alone teach kids, the school purchased standard cars for all of their driving course vehicles. That was the only way the school could force him out of his position. He’s still a nightmare behind the wheel, but at least he’s not taking kids with him.
The key to the city was another privilege I strived for. My Uncle Vinny always told me as a kid that it was a physical key that unlocked doors to amusement parks, public bathrooms, ice cream shops and Hobby Lobby. Since I was a crafter, I always tried to be on my best behavior whenever that dope would baby-sit me. Possessing that key was better than any gift Santa could ever leave – or at least I thought so.
I discovered later that it’s not actually a key, but rather an award that’s presented by a mayor, not a baby-sitter. Boy, was I disappointed when that reality punched me in the face.
I feel somewhat cheated, as I’ve always worked hard and have never received any such perks in my life. I received allowance as a kid and pats on the back for a job well done, but I’ve also gotten in trouble without the backing of a special privilege.
As a kid, I remember teachers asking me if I had enough for everyone when I would eat my Cheetos in class. All I’m saying is that if some have these perks, then perhaps we all should.
Anngee Quinones-Belian of Murphy is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Her humor column runs every other week. Email her at anngeeq@gmail.com.