Sitting with the Things I Didn’t Say

On protest, power, and parental restraint

Last week, students across the San Fernando Valley organized a walkout to protest ICE and the administration’s immigration policy. Almost every high school in the area participated in some way, and my daughter helped organize the walkout at her school.

As soon as she announced it, the trolling started. Not anonymous bots or outsiders. Other students. Peers. The kind of ridicule meant to signal that this topic, this action, was going to come with social cost.

By the end of the day, the parent group chat for her grade was also in full swing. In that group chat, what stood out wasn’t the volume. It was the choreography.

No one said they opposed the protest itself. No one said they disagreed with the message. No one said what they really wanted to say.

Instead, the conversation pivoted to attendance.
Absences. Excused versus unexcused. Protocols. Whether the school administration had a plan.

It was a masterclass in political avoidance. Discomfort or opposition translated into bureaucracy. Ideology laundered through logistics.

At one point, I spoke up. I said that the school could not punish students for exercising their First Amendment rights. And that if they did, I would stand by my daughter.

What I didn’t say was everything else going on in my head.

I didn’t say that pretending this was about attendance was disingenuous. That everyone in that chat knew exactly what the issue was and was choosing not to name it. That reframing dissent as a procedural concern is one of the oldest political moves in the book.

And I didn’t say how angry I was. And make no mistake, anger showed up immediately.

Anger at watching adults who loudly champion “free speech” and “civic values” suddenly grow anxious when young people exercise those rights in ways that challenge conservative power. Anger at how quickly a protest becomes “inappropriate” when it doesn’t align with the dominant political comfort of the community.

Anger at how schools claim neutrality while actively pressuring students to soften, reword, or dilute their message.

My daughter was told by school officials that families had called, saying the walkout made them uncomfortable. That the school could not support her. That the flyer needed adjusting. Nothing explicitly prohibited. Nothing formally censored. Just enough institutional pressure to make the protest smaller. More palatable. Easier to ignore.

My son’s school took a different approach. Less pressure, more dismissal. They said they couldn’t stop the walkout, that the law protects free speech, and that there would be no consequences for participating. But they also encouraged students to consider whether protesting was actually helpful. Was it really going to “leverage” change by walking out of school?

That question stuck with me.

Is protest helpful?

Hundreds of students participated across the valley. Students organized across campuses. They communicated, coordinated, and showed up together. They disrupted the school day to draw attention to a political system that is hoping for silence and normalization. And the community came out to support them. How is that not helpful? What adults (and those in power) are really asking is whether protest is convenient. Are they ever meant to be convenient?

And still, I didn’t say all of this.

I didn’t call the school to escalate. I didn’t push harder in the parent chat. I didn’t let my anger fully speak.

Not because the anger wasn’t justified. But because shame and fear entered the calculation.

What happens next? Will this make my kids a target? Will this follow them? Will this cost them safety, opportunity, belonging?

People close to me urged restraint. Said it might not be productive. Said this was bigger than one conversation. Said kids still have to exist in their schools every day.

And, they weren’t wrong at all.

So I stayed quieter than I wanted to be. And I noticed how familiar that felt.

This is the political moment we rarely name. The space between noticing injustice and acting against it. The moment when anger demands expression, shame warns you to stay in line, and fear forces you to assess how much you can afford to lose.

This isn’t apathy. It’s risk management.

It’s how systems maintain themselves even when people see clearly.

I keep wondering what my kids are learning.

They’re learning that political engagement is encouraged in theory and constrained in practice. They’re learning that institutions protect donors, families, and reputations before students. They’re learning that “neutrality” often means siding with the status quo.

They’re also watching how I handle my own anger. How I decide when to speak and when to hold back. What I’m willing to jeopardize, and what I’m not.

I’m proud of the kids who walked out. I’m proud of my kids for how they’ve wrestled with the choice of how to use their voices. There isn’t one right way.

And, right now, I’m still sitting with the things I didn’t say.

Not fixing them. Not excusing them.

Just noticing what it costs to speak in a system designed to punish disruption.
And what it costs to stay quiet in a moment that demands more.