Walking While Brown

A reflection on fear and revolutionary love that teaches us to show up

Photo by Anthony Vazquez- Chicago Sun Times

I was talking to a friend of mine from Chicago the other day. He owns a landscaping company. Hard, honest work. His team includes many Hispanic workers. When I asked him how things were going, his response wasn’t about profits or weather or even labor shortages.

“It’s worse than it looks,” he said quietly. “People are scared. They’re afraid of being detained for the crime of walking while Brown.”

Let that sink in.

Not for protesting. Not for breaking any laws. Just for walking. For showing up in public spaces with the “wrong” skin color.

This isn’t new, and it isn’t limited to one city. This fear lives closer than we think. It walks beside many of our neighbors, students, and coworkers every day. And if it hasn’t reached your community yet, I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time.

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed. Or worse, paralyzed by the weight of it all. But in these moments, I remind myself: the world is still a classroom. And my role, as flawed and small as it may be, is to keep showing up and teaching love, not as sentiment, but as action.

Valerie Kaur calls it revolutionary love. . Not soft, performative love. Not love that turns away or plays neutral. But love that faces injustice head-on and says, “You are part of me I do not yet know.” Love that chooses to see others not as threats, but as future. As kin.

Injustice went on before I was born, and it will go on after I die. But if I can find joy in the labor of love, if I can be faithful to the work even when the outcome is uncertain, then I can make it through. Faithfulness to the labor of love becomes our resistance.

This kind of love isn’t glamorous. It doesn’t wear a cape or come with applause. It looks like showing up on a tough day. It looks like asking hard questions in a meeting, even when your voice shakes. It looks like refusing to be numb.

And most importantly, it looks like standing beside the people who are most at risk, not out of saviorism, but solidarity.

I don’t always get it right. But I believe every act of courage, no matter how small, is a ripple. And maybe if we ripple together, we become the wave.

So here’s to the employers, the teachers, the mentors, the neighbors, the friends. The ones who hold steady when the air is thick with fear. The ones who turn our sidewalks into places of belonging.

We need you. And we need each other.

Let’s keep showing up.

What’s your labor of love?

We all have a role to play in these uncertain, complicated times. Maybe it’s parenting. Maybe it’s quietly showing up with kindness and color, carrying positive energy into a space that desperately needs it. Maybe it’s more. Whatever it looks like for you, large or small, it matters. So I’d love to hear from you:
What’s your labor of love right now?
What are the ways you’re showing up with courage, creativity, or care in your corner of the world? Let’s gather these stories. Let’s ripple together.