White Privilege, Family, and the Cost of Protest

Personal Reflection

Photo by Denise Chan on Unsplash

This reflection began when I read a Reddit comment asking, "Why aren’t there more Black protesters at these demonstrations?" The question sat heavy in my chest—not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I’d always known it. The lack of "diversity" at protests isn’t about apathy. It’s about survival. And I understood this in my bones long before I could articulate it, ever since that day on the Woolworth’s escalator...

I was six years old the first time I understood that my Black father was seen as a threat. We were coming down the Woolworth’s escalator with my family, my father ahead of us, when an older white woman—her face twisted in disgust—began yelling at him, then hurled the n-word. I cried—not just because of her cruelty, but because I couldn’t understand why anyone would hate someone just for existing, just for shopping with his family—the same man who kept me safe. My dad tried to comfort me: "Don’t worry, she’s just a crazy woman." But even at six, I knew this wasn’t about madness–I saw it in my my dad’s face. This was hatred, plain and deliberate, aimed at a man who’d done nothing but exist while Black. That moment never left me.

Decades later, when police showed up at my door looking for my brother—a Black man targeted by his girlfriend’s vindictive white mother—I didn’t hesitate. "No, you can’t come in," I said. "Do you have a warrant?" My voice was steady but firm. The officers backed down. Afterwards, my brother stared at me, surprised. He thought I was brave—but by then, I knew the truth. It wasn’t bravery; it was my white privilege making cops see me as harmless. My privilege was a shield his skin would never give him.

Now, as the Hands-Off mobilization on April 5 approaches—a stand against Trump, Musk, and the complicit Congress’s assault on our government—I will do what that six-year-old on the escalator couldn’t: use my unearned privilege to protect others. I’ve told some of my Black family members to stay home. Not because the fight isn’t theirs, but because this country has never treated their safety as sacred.

I’ve heard Homeland Security’s ads framing immigrants as criminals. I’ve watched ICE disappear green card holders for speaking out. And I remember—with perfect clarity—how Trump’s mob was coddled on January 6th while Black Lives Matter protesters faced rubber bullets to the face and riot gear to the ribs. The rules have never been the same for everyone.

So yes, we need bodies in the streets. But I won’t ask my brother, my father, or any Black loved one to risk what I wouldn’t have to. Instead, I’ll show up—not as a savior, but as someone who knows how to stand between authority and the people it hunts. I’ll boycott, write, document, and yell. I’ll use every bit of my white woman’s privilege to draw fire away from those who can’t afford it.

But I know it’s not that simple. Some Black activists—seasoned organizers, community leaders—will be there, shouldering the risk they’ve learned to navigate. Their presence is vital. Yet for every one of them, there are others who can’t afford to be targeted: the young, the undocumented, those already on Homeland Security’s radar. Protest isn’t one-size-fits-all. Sometimes resistance means standing in the street. Sometimes it means standing in the doorway, saying no to the powers that be. And sometimes—especially if you’re white—it means knowing when to step forward so others don’t have to.

What I learned at six on that escalator still holds true today: protection is a privilege, but solidarity is a choice. My father wore armor just to go shopping. My brother still wears it answering the door. And me? I’ll keep using this unearned shield of mine—not to hide behind, but to stand in front if needed.

Keep Safe.

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Always unfiltered, always fighting—Zorha.

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