Last weekend, I found myself at a protest outside an immigration office in Detroit, accompanied by my children. It was a family-friendly demonstration, filled with supporters advocating for human rights. My friend was there, cradling her baby, while I brought along my trusty red wagon and my small boys, whom I am raising to be aware and empathetic. Their pale skin is a privilege they don’t even realize they hold.
For them, it means requiring less sunscreen and sporting a few freckles, but it’s also a form of unearned advantage. They possess names that are easy to pronounce, and they can move through the world without fear of being stopped or questioned. They can play in the yard, walk to the park, or simply wear a hoodie without drawing unwanted attention. This privilege weighs on me heavily every day.
I gathered my boys at the kitchen table to discuss the struggles faced by families fleeing violence and persecution—those who risk everything for a chance at safety and a better life. I chose my words carefully, aware of their young minds, but my heart broke when my five-year-old asked if we were safe—if someone might take him away from me. This is the same child who wants to marry me and still waits outside the bathroom to chat while I shower, despite starting kindergarten soon. I could confidently assure him that we were safe, thanks to sheer luck.
As I sat there, I found myself tearing up behind my glasses while holding my toddler. This is America—a country for which generations have fought. Just a few generations ago, my family fled the rise of fascism and learned how to care for our national symbols. Yet, this land is built on the backs of immigrants and indigenous peoples, and I felt the weight of that history deeply.
I cried for the children and families seeking asylum, but I also cried for myself. A counter-protester stood directly behind us, shouting hateful rhetoric about my support for “law-breaking illegals,” despite the fact that seeking asylum is a legal right. I could have countered his lies with facts, but instead, I chose silence. I would not give him the satisfaction of a response. His hate was loud, but I stood firm with my body and voice, knowing that accountability is essential in this country we share.
After the protest, we returned to the comforts of our air-conditioned home and ordered pizza for dinner. My children possess birth certificates and social security cards, and I have multiples of each because I’ve misplaced them. But when I order food, no one questions my identity or worth.
As I navigated the emotional turmoil, I hesitated to share a photo my friend captured of me during the protest. I felt tired and unflattering—three kids in, and the heat wasn’t kind to me. I struggled with societal pressures that judge women based on appearance, and yet, I am part of this fight against such oppression, both externally and within myself.
In this spirit of resistance, I choose to embrace how my friend saw me in that moment—powerful, loving, and fierce. I hold on to hope that there are still beautiful aspects of America to celebrate—that our collective efforts for justice can be strong and loving. It is no small feat to share a vulnerable image, and for many women, setting aside body insecurities is a challenge. But in this moment, I recognize that we can channel our bodies and the privileges they carry to stand up for what’s right.
So, thank you, misguided protester, for helping me realize the strength and power inherent in my body, just as it is.
For a deeper look into related topics, you can check out this blog post which offers valuable insights. Also, if you’re looking for ways to enhance your fertility, this resource might be helpful. For more information on pregnancy, visit the CDC’s excellent resource.
Summary:
In this reflective piece, Emily Carter shares her experience at a protest advocating for immigrant rights, highlighting the privilege her children possess due to their white skin. She grapples with the emotional weight of injustice while also confronting societal standards of beauty. Ultimately, she embraces her own power and the strength found in vulnerability, encouraging others to use their bodies and privileges for good.