Let’s talk about privilege…

Molly Gunn, Editor - 14 Jun 23

It was 2007, Tom and I lived in Shoreditch. A good friend ‘G’ texted that he was at a house party in Dalston. Tom & I thought, “yeah, let’s go,” and as we left the flat, I pulled on a cardigan. It was Brora, cashmere, with pastel Neapolitan stripes. I was a fashion journalist, and I’d been gifted it. It was slightly Sloaney, yes, but it was sooo cosy! But that cashmere cardigan would label me for the evening: posh. At the party the female host was unfriendly. “I bet you had horses growing up didn’t you?” I said, no, absolutely not, I came from a cul de sac in Surrey. “Oh Surrey, sorry!” She mocked. I explained that I grew up in Stoughton, a concrete-heavy part of Guildford, in a 1950s house. The only reason I might sound posh is that my parents were big on diction. “Talk properly!” My mum would say, with more than a hint of Hyacinth Bouquet. But no, I didn’t have horses and I didn’t go to private school, in fact, at my Catholic state school, we referred to it as, “Posh School.” This is on my mind as recently, I was labelled as privileged when I wrote some articles in The Times. A few people commented that I was “privileged” as if it was a diss. When I saw those comments, I thought, yes… I am well-off. I am privileged. But not in the way you think. It’s interesting in this country that we equate wealth with privilege, and vice versa. The two concepts feel intertwined. But the privilege I’ve experienced and still do, wasn’t in the private education, yachts, skiing, and trust-fund kind of sense. The privilege I know comes from something else. I am loved. I’ve always been loved. I’m so privileged it’s off the charts. I come from the safe, warm, bosomy, cocoon of a loving family. That privilege can’t be bought, it is beautiful and bountiful. It’s about feeling loved, supported, cherished, and heard. It’s about having safe, stable, loving arms around you and people who believe in you. The reason I’m bringing this up is that sometimes we forget the privilege we have. We think privilege is something else. We think privilege is a dirty word. We can think we are ‘have nots’. We can take love for granted. In the news this week, was the achingly sad story of 9-year-old Alfie Steele, who was abused, and died, in the care of his mother and her partner. I’m finding it hard to stop thinking about Alfie, as my middle son is 9, too. My son’s skin is soft, warm, smooth: I love to hug it and stroke it. Alfie’s skin had 50 separate injuries on it at the time he died. My son has the privilege of a unconditional love, whereas Alfie did not. The gap in privilege between their care is immense. It’s a privilege to have a child, and to be entrusted as their caregiver, and the privilege we can give to them is to love them. Heaven knows parenting is hard, but sometimes we forget the most basic thing our children need is a loving environment. That love will bolster them, and stay with them throughout life, as a cushion of security, whatever else life throws at them. Not all circumstances are fair, or equal, but to love our nearest is a superpower. A superpower we can pass on. We’re all so privileged in ways we forget. It’s not about private education and skiing trips. My parents didn’t teach me to ski, but I know what it feels like to feel loved. Previously my kids have asked if we are rich. It’s all comparative, but even when I’m struggling to afford the gas bill, I say “Yes. You are rich, because you are loved.” There are other privileges and riches: health, a home, food, education, for starters. Life is hard. Life is harder for some than others. But I honestly believe the greatest gift I’ve been given in life is being loved. That is arguably, the best privilege of all. 

Molly Gunn, Editor

Molly Gunn is the founder and editor of Selfish Mother, a site she created for like-minded women in 2013. Molly has been a journalist for over 15 years, starting out working on fashion desks at The Guardian, The Telegraph & ES Magazine before going freelance in 2006 to write for quality publications. She now edits Selfish Mother, sells #GoodTees to raise funds for charity, & writes freelance for Red Magazine and The Sunday Telegraph's Stella. Molly is mother to Rafferty, 6, Fox, 4, and baby Liberty. She is married to Tom aka music producer Tee Mango and founder of Millionhands. They live in Bruton, Somerset.

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