Megan wanted a bouncy castle at a protest, but instead, she got dragged

when allyship starts sounding like entitlement

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Megan rated her first protest experience, which she attended on April 5 (along with 5 million people around the U.S.!!), and wished there was a bouncy castle for her bored child.

Instead of commiseration, Megan met cancellation online.

What Megan didn’t see (and what people with privilege often don’t) was that the protest wasn’t optional for many people. It wasn’t just a Saturday thing, squeezed between brunch and nap time. It was life and death. Generational trauma. A long, unyielding scream for dignity.

But Megan, bless her, thought support looked like marching until the little one got fussy. Then it was time for a snack, maybe an oat milk latte, and yes — why not a bouncy castle to keep the kiddo occupied while the adults chanted, sang, and cried?

Sorta like a camp retreat, no?

Megan didn’t see the irony. That her version of “protesting” still came with the expectation of comfort. Fun. Safety. Something catered to her and her child.

Maybe next time there’d be face painting stations? Clowns handing out balloons? Bouncy castles lined up along the street?

Here’s the thing: Megan didn’t see how asking for joy amid someone else’s pain was the clearest marker of her distance from that pain.

Now, she didn’t mean harm. But that’s the trickiest part of privilege: it often doesn’t have to mean harm to cause it.

It’s the same thing that happened when Lucky Lee’s opened in New York — a white woman promising “clean” Chinese food, as if generations of our families hadn’t nourished each other with MSG, garlic, and ginger long before kale was trendy. Or when Better Boba launched, branding itself as a “healthier” version of a drink our elders have been perfecting for decades, without ever crediting the culture (Taiwan) that created it. Or The Mahjong Line, which tried to give a “modern” facelift to a game born from Chinese tradition, stripping it of its history and spirit and selling it back to the masses in pastel colors with a $300+ price tag.

It’s American Mahjong, they preached.

It’s always the same pattern. Privilege doesn’t necessarily come with evil intentions. It just steps in, takes space, and demands a bouncy house where there should be mourning. Or resistance.

So Megan dreams of balloon animals and toddler-friendly protests when young Black and Brown protestors have been arrested, beaten, and tear-gassed simply for showing up at past demonstrations and rallies. We've seen young people of color slammed to the ground, handcuffed, or pepper-sprayed for holding signs. We've seen teens dragged into vans by officers in riot gear. No one offered them juice boxes and a safe place to cry.

The thought of bouncy castles at protests probably never crossed their minds, and I can assure you that it would not have crossed their minds even in an alternate or parallel universe.

The system doesn’t ask if their feet hurt. Or if they’re fucking bored. It doesn't bring them snacks. It sees their bodies as threats, not as precious, bored kids needing entertainment. They don’t get this luxury.

Protests have never catered to their comfort.

So no, Megan. This isn’t the place for a bouncy castle. This is the place for your child to learn empathy. To learn why people are protesting. To understand why they’ll never bounce joyfully at a protest. A protest is not a playground. It’s not a catered event. It’s a demand for change. It’s where we fight. It’s where we shout.

But hey, once you do understand all this, you’re more than welcome to march on. Protest. Stand up and fight for those still fighting just to be seen.

One more thing: what people with privilege don’t get sometimes is that it’s a privilege not to get it. And an even bigger one to double down when called out.

It’s about damn time they start trying harder to understand.