I've never had any use for white guilt.
To me, the very notion is something synonymous with Seattle. Until I moved here, no one expected me to feel white guilt. Until I moved here, no white person who's never had a black person in their home haughtily corrected my use of the term "black." Nor had I been expected to dance on demand at the pleasure of some young black guy who was spawned on Mercer Island by his two, count 'em, two parents, who incidentally sent him to Stanford. "You'll never know what it's like to be black in this country," he'll prompt gravely, expecting the capitulation he's enjoyed his entire life from sniveling Seatards.
"True enough. Just like you won't know what it's like to be poor." In my experience, nothing offends more.
Survivor guilt, on the other hand, I think we've all experienced at one point or another. I've stared down my share of it these last couple days. As I've gone through the typical spasms, wondering Why him? Why not me?, I've been thrust back in time to our common point of origin. I escaped. Mason didn't. I'm alive. Mason isn't. We started at the same place, with the same cards. I wasn't any smarter than him. I'm certainly not a more worthy human being. I definitely didn't out-hustle him; I don't out-hustle moss. The only difference between us was that he had a family to support, which precluded college.
Well, not the only difference.
It wouldn't bother me as much if it didn't so conform to the Scientific Method, if they hadn't all predicted this result back in the beforetime. The white college kid would be fine. The Haves take care of their own. Meanwhile, the life expectancy of the Have-Nots is 64. Or, as it happened, much less.
I know rage is only the second stage of grieving, but I think I'll camp here for a while.