The critic Maggie Nelson dissects this scene in her new book, ‘‘The Argonauts.’’ It is strange, she writes, that Didion, who has written so brilliantly about suffering, could believe that privilege and pain are mutually exclusive. Like some of the ­#takeusdown demonstrators, Didion holds that hardship negates the privileges of whiteness or wealth. It’s a perspective that obscures — almost willfully — what the idea of privilege was trying to illuminate in the first place: how structural privilege is, and how it manifests in the unexceptional and everyday, in what we take for granted. Think of how personal and pointed McIntosh’s examples were: ‘‘I can easily buy posters, postcards, picture books, greeting cards, dolls, toys and children’s magazines featuring people of my race.’’ And Nelson finds Didion’s use of the word ‘‘cop’’ especially odd and suggestive. ‘‘The notion of privilege as something to which one could ‘easily cop,’ as in ‘cop to once and be done with,’ is ridiculous,’’ she writes. ‘‘Privilege saturates, privilege structures.’’

‘‘Privilege saturates’’ — and privilege stains. Which might explain why this word pricks and ‘‘opportunity’’ and ‘‘advantage’’ don’t. ‘‘I can choose to not act racist, but I can’t choose to not be privileged,’’ a friend once told me with alarm. Most of us already occupy some kind of visible social identity, but for those who have imagined themselves to be free agents, the notion of possessing privilege calls them back to their bodies in a way that feels new and unpleasant. It conflicts with a number of cherished American ideals of self-­invention and self-­reliance, meritocracy and quick fixes — and lends itself to no obvious action, which is perhaps why the ritual of ‘‘confessing’’ to your privilege, or getting someone else to, has accumulated the meaning it has. It’s the fumbling hope that acknowledging privilege could offer some temporary absolution for having it.

It makes sense that we’re fixated on the word ‘‘privilege’’ now: There has never been more ample or graphic evidence of its material and psychological benefits. Studies show that having a ‘‘black’’ name halves your chances of getting a job interview, and that experiencing racism has been linked to developing post-­traumatic stress disorder, depression and breast cancer. A small University of Virginia study showed that by the age of 10, white children don’t believe that black children feel the same amount of pain as they do, the first stage of dehumanization.

It’s easier to find a word wanting, rather than ourselves. It’s easy to point out how a word buckles and breaks; it’s harder to notice how we do. ‘‘Privilege’’ was a ladder of a word that wanted to allow us to see a bit further, past our experiences. It’s still the most powerful shorthand we have to explain the grotesque contrast between the brutal police killings of Michael Brown, Eric Garner and Tamir Rice and the treatment extended to Dylann Roof, charged with murdering nine black people last month in a church in Charleston, S.C. — captured alive, treated to a meal by the arresting officers, assigned a judge who expressed concern for his family. ‘‘Privilege’’ was intended to be an enticement to action, and it is still hopeful, if depleted and a little lost. It is emblematic of the kinds of pressures we put on language, our stubborn belief that the right word can be both diagnosis and cure.