Last weekend, I found myself at a protest outside an ICE office in Detroit, with my children in tow. It was an event designed for families; my friend had her baby strapped to her chest, while I rolled in with my red wagon, accompanied by the little white boys I’m raising to be aware, compassionate, and engaged. I mention their skin color because it grants them a certain privilege they may not even recognize.
For them, it means slathering on sunblock and sporting freckles, but it’s also a significant advantage in society. They have names that resonate positively on resumes, and they can move freely—walking, driving, and playing without being stopped or suspected. They can wear hoodies without fear of being judged or confronted. The weight of that privilege is something I reflect on daily.
After the protest, I gathered my boys at the kitchen table to discuss what we had witnessed: families in peril who risk everything for their children, and the harsh realities they face upon arrival. I carefully chose my words, mindful of their understanding, but my heart shattered when my five-year-old asked if he needed to be worried about being taken away from me. This is the same child who asks why he can’t marry me and insists on sitting outside the bathroom while I shower. I could assure him, with almost complete confidence, that we’re safe—protected by sheer luck.
I spent a good part of the day with tears behind my glasses, holding a toddler. This is America, a nation my ancestors fled during the rise of Hitler, where I was taught to honor the flag properly. Yet, it’s also a land built on the backs of immigrants and the erasure of indigenous lives. I cried for the immigrant children and asylum seekers trapped in cages, but I also shed tears for myself. A counter-protester stood right behind me, hurling insults at my support for “law-breaking illegals,” despite the fact that seeking asylum is a legal human right. Although I could have countered his narrative with facts, I chose silence—allowing him no voice.
I will not engage, I thought. Instead, I choose to put my body and voice to good use here in America, where we have a duty to stand up for those in need.
After the protest, we drove home to the comfort of air conditioning and ordered pizza for dinner. We have birth certificates and social security cards—multiple copies because I tend to misplace them. When I order pizza, no one questions our humanity based on a credit card or the luck of genetics.
Amidst all this political strife, I also found myself worrying about my own appearance. I hesitated to share a photo my friend took of me during the protest, as it wasn’t flattering. I’m three kids in, feeling tired and a bit overweight, and the heat didn’t do my hair or skin any favors. I strive to rise above societal standards, but I recognize how we often judge others based on their appearance: acceptable skin colors, desirable body types. I am against this yet find myself caught in its web.
In this act of resistance, I choose to see myself as my friend viewed me in that moment—powerful, loving, and fierce. I hold onto hope that there remain aspects of America worthy of celebration, that the fight for children’s rights is a powerful, loving, and fierce cause. It is no small feat to express my discomfort and anger through tears and to share an unflattering image of myself. For many women, setting aside body insecurities is a monumental challenge, but I remind myself that we can use our bodies and the privilege they carry to advocate for justice.
So, thank you to that counter-protester for helping me recognize the strength and power in my body, just as it is.
In summary, my experience at the protest reminded me of the privilege I hold and the responsibility that comes with it. The challenges faced by immigrant families weigh heavily on my heart, and I choose to stand against injustice, embracing my own identity and the power it holds.