I can’t sit and actively engage with a person—even if it is my mother, whose blood is running through my body—if she doesn’t care about me, my story or what I live through. If she can’t see past her own appreciation for a bigoted, dangerous man, who, because of the position people like her have placed him in, has the ability to do significant damage to my civil liberties, then I don’t know what place she can have, reasonably, in my life. It’s sad. It’s disappointing. It’s my mother.

Blood is not thicker than freedom and it’s not thicker than safety. Sometimes blood is just that, blood. I know my mother loves me; I’m her son. But, honestly, I don’t think my mother cares about what that really means.

Privilege is real. White privilege is real. It turns out, it can even trump blood. That reality is harsh. But it’s real.

Welcome to my reality.