I grew up with middle-class pleasure and privilege. Sophia didn’t. She came to the United States from Mexico, picked strawberries for white people, and had a boyfriend who got murdered. She got raped, beaten to death, and left in a park. I can almost hear the Statue of Liberty whispering, “I’m sorry . . .”
It’s not fair that I’ve had so much privilege. And by privilege I mean life.
The privilege of surviving doesn’t feel good. It makes me feel guilty. It makes me not want to enjoy strawberries.