I almost did not write today.
Not because I did not have something to say, but because some days it feels exhausting to keep naming what feels so obvious to me. And then I look at my son, and I remember why staying quiet is not an option.
I am not ashamed of the mother I am being right now.
I grew up with a mother who had a fight in her. Not a loud one. Not a cruel one. It came from empathy. From seeing people clearly. From caring deeply and refusing to look away when something felt wrong. As a kid, I did not always understand it. I thought she was intense. Or stubborn. Or overreacting.
I understand it now.
The last few years have clarified so much. Who gets protected. Who gets punished. How easily people are encouraged to look away and call it normal. How quickly harm becomes policy when enough people decide discomfort matters more than humanity.
My mother raised me for this moment, even if none of us knew what it would look like. And now I am doing the same for my son.
I am not ashamed that we pull up to elementary school drop off blasting Nipsey Hustle’s FDT, full volume, with a five year old in the back seat who knows every word. I am not ashamed that his favorite song is American Idiot, and that he understands why it was written. Not just the lyrics, but the frustration behind it.
I am not ashamed that at five years old, he already knows what ICE is, what they do, and why we do not excuse it, justify it, or pretend it is normal.
That is not fear. That is context.
I am not raising him to be afraid of the world. I am raising him to notice it. To recognize abuse of power. To understand when people are being targeted. To stand up for the underdog and take care of his neighbor, even when it would be easier not to.
Especially when it would be easier not to.
This is what parenting during fascism looks like for me. It is not dramatic. It is not performative. It is deeply practical. It is teaching a child how to stay human inside systems that reward silence.
This is what raising a disruptor looks like.
Not a kid who breaks rules for attention, but a kid who knows when something is wrong and refuses to go along with it just to keep the peace.
Today is an ICE OUT boycott day. And I want to be honest about the tension that comes with that. I cannot afford to miss work. My son still has to go to school. Survival still exists inside resistance, whether people want to admit that or not.
Resistance is not a single action. It is not one perfect day. It is how we live. What we normalize. What we refuse to laugh off. What we teach our children when no one is watching.
I was raised with the belief that charity should be quiet. That you take care of people without being noticed. That you serve without applause. And I still believe in that.
But this is not a moment for quiet charity.
This is a moment for visible courage. For naming what is happening. For refusing to be polite about injustice. For understanding that love sometimes looks like resistance.
That is where Grunge Luxe lives.
Grunge Luxe was never about clothes for me. It was about armor. About identity. About wearing your values on your body when the world would prefer you blend in and stay agreeable. It is for people who know that resistance does not always look loud, but it is always intentional.
When I wear pieces like the FAFO tee or our resistance slogans, I am not trying to provoke. I am reminding myself who I am. I am modeling for my son that you do not have to be cruel to be firm, and you do not have to be silent to be kind.
Clothing does not change the world by itself. But it can remind you who you are when the pressure to forget gets heavy.
So no, we did not stay home today. But we are not asleep either.
We live these values daily. In our home. In our conversations. In the way my son already knows to stand with people who are vulnerable and question authority when it causes harm.
That matters. All of it matters.
And I am not ashamed of how we are navigating this moment.
