Last weekend, I took my children to a protest outside an ICE office in Detroit, aiming to demonstrate our family’s values and awareness. My friend brought her baby, while I arrived with a red wagon filled with snacks and the small boys I’m raising to be compassionate and open-hearted. I mention their skin color because it grants them privileges they may not even recognize.
For my sons, their skin color means protection—freedom from suspicion when they walk in the neighborhood, joyfully play in the yard, or wear hoodies without fear of police intervention. They enjoy a fortune of opportunities, from easily pronounced names that don’t get lost in a pile of resumes to the sheer luck of being able to navigate the world without undue scrutiny. This realization weighs heavily on me every day.
After the protest, I gathered my boys at the kitchen table to discuss the harsh realities facing families fleeing danger. I treaded carefully with my words, mindful of their young minds, but my heart shattered when my 5-year-old asked if he would be taken away from me. This is the same child who still sits outside the bathroom door to chat while I shower. I assured him, with almost absolute certainty, that we are safe, cushioned by nothing more than fortune.
As I held my toddler in my arms, tears streamed down my face. This is America—the land my family fled during the rise of Hitler, where we learned to care for our flag and respect its significance. Yet, this nation is built on the backs of immigrants and indigenous peoples whose lives were devastated for our comfort and prosperity. I wept not just for the immigrant children in cages, but also for myself, as I faced a counter-protester who stood behind me, hurling insults about my commitment to “law-breaking illegals.”
Even though seeking asylum is a legal right, his words sought to diminish and dehumanize. I chose not to engage with him. No, I will not give you a voice; I refuse to validate your hate. Instead, I’ll stand firm, using my body and my voice to advocate for what is right.
After the protest, we returned to our air-conditioned home and ordered pizza for dinner. We possess birth certificates and social security cards, a privilege that allows us to exist without questioning our humanity. Yet, beneath the political turmoil, I worry about my self-image too. I hesitated to share a photo taken during the protest, feeling self-conscious about my appearance as a tired mother of three. Society often categorizes bodies based on race, size, and perceived desirability, and I grapple with that reality.
In my resistance to such judgment, I choose to perceive myself as powerful, nurturing, and fierce, much like the friend who captured that moment. I cling to hope that there are still aspects of America worth celebrating—communities standing for the rights of children and families. Sharing my vulnerability and discomfort is no small act, but it serves as a reminder that we can leverage our bodies and the privileges they afford us to advocate for justice.
So, thank you, misguided protester, for illuminating the strength and resilience within my body, just as it is.
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