The Price of Equality: Struggle, Identity, and the Systems We Fear to Change

What happens when equality isn’t just about wealth, but about dismantling the very identities we’ve built on inequality’s foundations?

I have listened to “Everything's gonna be alright” from Naughty by Nature (1991) almost on repeat the past two days. What follows is a reflection sparked by this song—thoughts that grapple with what equality really means, and whether we’re truly ready for it.

Let’s start with Treach's drifter—no grand plans, no dreams of upward mobility, no illusions. He “never planned on having so didn’t,” as Naughty by Nature put it. His response to the world is devastatingly simple: "How will I make it? I won’t, that’s how." This isn’t defeatism for defeatism’s sake. It’s an honest reckoning with a world that stacks the odds against him from the outset. His world—our world—is riddled with institutional barriers that don’t just block paths to success; they rewire how we think, feel, and expect. But this isn’t just about one drifter; it’s a reflection of how institutional forces shape the lives of countless others, sometimes without them even realising it.

But here’s the thing: institutional barriers are insidious because they aren't always tangible. Sure, they exist in obvious places—education, healthcare, wealth disparity—but their real power is subtler. It’s in the way they become internalised. The drifter’s resignation is no accident. It's a logical response to a life shaped by structures that have conditioned him not to expect anything more. Philosopher Martin Heidegger might call this Geworfenheit—thrownness—the feeling of being thrown into a world you didn’t choose, with no control over the conditions. The drifter is thrown into a world that tells him one thing: don’t expect too much. These structures are not just abstract forces but deeply personal realities that shape how individuals perceive their possibilities in life.

And here’s another thing: the demand for positivity. Treach of Naughty by Nature has the drifter ask, "You want me to say something positive? Well positive ain't where I live." The drifter’s refusal to perform positivity in the face of oppressive circumstances highlights a deeper truth: forced positivity is a privilege. The notion that we should always look on the bright side, that optimism is a moral imperative, is itself a product of privilege. When you're buried under institutional barriers and daily struggles for survival, positivity can feel not just irrelevant, but like a lie. The drifter’s world isn’t a space where optimism makes sense—his reality is one of limits, not possibilities. But the limits don't stop with material wealth. It's the emotional and psychological ceilings imposed by these barriers that shape not just the drifter’s circumstances but his very perception of what’s possible.

Let’s not sugar-coat it: the poor exist in a different reality. To some, that sounds extreme, but it’s true. Pierre Bourdieu’s notion of habitus explains how the poor and the rich inhabit vastly different social worlds with distinct norms, values, and behaviours. In other words, we don’t all play the same game. For example, what’s "normal" for a wealthy family—expectations of university, career stability, and home ownership—isn’t the same for someone living in poverty, where survival takes precedence. So when we talk about equality, it’s not just about levelling the economic playing field; it’s about navigating entirely different worlds. It’s hard to bridge that divide when we don’t even recognise that we’re living in separate realities. This divide creates a tension not only in the material world but in how we even think about fairness and equality, concepts that are supposed to unite us.

And yet, we keep demanding equality. But consider this: if we actually got it, would we like it? Rousseau had some interesting things to say about this. People want equality in theory but hierarchy in practice. Why, You ask? Because hierarchy, in a way, comforts us—it helps maintain the status quo, the roles we’ve internalised in these different social realities. That’s why, even though we shout for fairness, we’re not always prepared for what it would really look like. This brings to my mind Higher Learning, the 1995 film, which shows us exactly how messy this can get. Different groups—racial, economic, social—come together in a university setting that’s supposed to be an equaliser. But it’s not. Instead, tensions flare, identities are threatened, and everyone scrambles to protect what little they feel belongs to them. The film’s message? We’re not ready for true equality because it shakes the very foundations of how we understand ourselves and our place in the world. This discomfort with true equality explains why, despite our desire for it, both the poor and the rich struggle to navigate what equality would demand of them.

Now, before you get on your moral high horse and say, “How can you talk about these issues—you’re not in that situation!” That’s where you judge a book by its cover. It’s easy to dismiss an argument when the speaker doesn’t fit into a neat stereotype. But here’s the uncomfortable truth: empathy isn’t about needing to experience someone’s exact circumstances. It’s about recognising the structures that shape those circumstances and asking how we can understand, even if we don’t live them ourselves. If we can’t reflect on these things from different vantage points, then we’re not after equality, we’re just after moral posturing. Yet, empathy alone is not enough—if we don’t truly understand the systems that underpin inequality, we risk reducing it to mere sympathy without action.

This brings us to empathy—or, more often, the lack of it. "Walk a mile in my shoes," they say. But can you really? The problem with empathy, as comforting as it sounds, is that it risks becoming shallow—a tool for moral posturing unless it is paired with an understanding of the structures that shape inequality. And even then, empathy is always partial, always incomplete. The reality is, if you’ve never been poor, truly poor, it’s nearly impossible to grasp the deep-seated anxiety, the constant weight of scarcity. And here’s where empathy gets complicated: it’s not just about feeling for someone else. It's about seeing the structures—those damn institutional barriers—that shape their entire world. Empathy can be a starting point, but without a deeper understanding of these systemic barriers, empathy risks becoming superficial—a bridge to nowhere.

What happens then? Apathy creeps in. Not necessarily in a cruel or malicious way, but in the quiet, insidious way that allows us to disengage. We might care, but not enough. We might sympathise, but from a distance. The rich might advocate for equality, but only insofar as it doesn’t disrupt their comfort. Empathy has limits when it’s not backed up by lived experience. After all, the rich live in a different world, one where those same institutional barriers are invisible. For them, there’s no limit situation in Karl Jaspers’ sense—no existential crisis that forces them to confront the brutal realities of the system they benefit from. But this raises a question: if empathy is always partial, how do we move beyond it toward real change?

For the poor, however, these barriers create constant limit situations. These are moments when the drifter—who already knows the score—comes face to face with the harsh truth that his life is shaped by forces beyond his control. It’s not that he doesn’t want to make it; it’s that the system was never designed for him to succeed. And that’s the crux of it: success, for the poor, often means navigating a world that wasn’t built for them. In these moments, the poor confront what Jaspers might call the non-being—the profound exclusion from the opportunities and privileges that the system reserves for others. This isn’t just about material success; it’s about a fundamental exclusion from the human possibilities that shape meaning and purpose in life.

And yet, there is a manifest irony here. If true equality were to materialise, it wouldn’t just upset the rich. It would upset the poor too, in ways that are less obvious. The rich would lose their privilege, yes, but the poor would lose the very structure of their struggle. And for some, that struggle is not just a condition; it’s an identity. If everything were suddenly equal, the existential weight of scarcity, of being excluded, would shift, and with it, the very meaning of their world. The drifter might no longer be a drifter—but would he still recognise himself?

So, we demand equality. But here’s the thing—equality doesn’t just redistribute wealth or opportunities. It redistributes meaning. True equality threatens not just the privilege of the wealthy but the very identities of the poor, whose lives have been shaped by struggle. For some, that struggle has become a source of meaning—what happens to identity when the struggle disappears? We may think we want equality, but do we truly understand what we’re asking for? Are we ready to confront the fact that we are all—rich or poor—tied to the systems we claim to despise?

But, not everyone would agree with this critique of inequality. Some might argue that inequality fuels personal growth, claiming that individuals can construct their identities independently of societal structures, through relationships or personal achievements. They may also suggest that attempts at true equality risk suppressing freedom and innovation, leading to mediocrity rather than progress. They’d claim that inequality, while pervasive, is not inherently tied to personal identity in the way you suggest. They could claim that individuals are capable of constructing their identities independently of societal structures, finding meaning and purpose through personal relationships, achievements, or inner moral compasses rather than external systems of inequality.

Furthermore, critics might assert that attempts to equalize society often lead to a suppression of individual freedom and creativity, where the drive for excellence is sacrificed for mediocrity. In this sense, inequality might even serve as a necessary and productive force—fueling competition, innovation, and personal growth. The drifter’s foresight could then be interpreted as resignation to a defeatist worldview, where systemic inequality is seen as inevitable and thus unchangeable, making their perspective one of passivity rather than profound insight.

But this argument overlooks the fundamental truth: even personal growth and freedom are constrained by the structures that determine who has access to opportunity. Inequality doesn’t spur innovation; it creates a rigged game where only a few can thrive while the rest are locked out from the start. While it’s true that individuals can derive meaning from personal sources, those meanings are inevitably shaped by the structures that grant some people more opportunities than others. The notion that inequality drives progress overlooks the human cost of that progress—those who are excluded, marginalised, or oppressed by the very systems that claim to reward merit. Far from being a necessary force for innovation, inequality stifles potential by limiting who gets to participate in the game in the first place.

Moreover, the idea that equality suppresses individual freedom misconstrues equality’s purpose: it’s not about reducing everyone to the same level but rather ensuring that everyone has the same chance to thrive. The drifter’s perspective isn’t one of resignation; it’s a recognition that the system, built on inequality, creates winners and losers before the game even starts. Equality isn’t about mediocrity; it’s about stripping away the comfortable illusions that allow us to ignore the realities of privilege. If equality were to take root, it would force all of us—rich and poor alike—to confront a transformation in how we understand ourselves and the world.

Equality isn’t some utopia where everything is set right. It’s a reckoning. It’s the moment when we all realise that we’ve built our lives, our struggles, our very identities, on the foundations of inequality. And when that moment comes, it won’t be the system that’s shaken—it’ll be us. Because if equality means anything, it means standing naked in front of our own contradictions. And that’s something not everyone is prepared to do. In the end, it’s not just about changing systems but about changing who we are—something far more challenging than we may be prepared to face.

True equality, then, forces us to confront the uncomfortable reality that our identities—whether rich or poor—are intertwined with a system we claim to despise. It’s not just about changing systems but about dismantling ourselves, facing the contradictions we’ve long ignored. Treach's drifter, who never planned on having, saw this coming long before the rest of us.