I grew up in a world shaped by privilege — a safe neighborhood, access to education, and the expectation of a stable, respectable career. I never had to consider selling drugs to survive, and I moved freely through places many residents couldn’t leave, thanks to the protection afforded by my race and class.
In 2010, while attending college, I spent a semester in Tucson, Arizona. It was the era of SB1070, the infamous “Show Me Your Papers” law, when ethnic studies were under attack and then-Sheriff Joe Arpaio — later pardoned by President Trump for criminal contempt — aggressively targeted undocumented immigrants. Just an hour from the Mexican border, law enforcement officers acted like bounty hunters, chasing down residents with the zeal of professional athletes. As a newcomer from the East Coast, it felt surreal — a twisted mirage of cowboys and Indians, where officers seemed to model themselves after the rugged protagonists of Westerns, films that glamorize violence while whitewashing genocide.
During my time there, some of the most meaningful moments happened in the Sonoran Desert, alongside young men already entangled in lives marked by struggle and loss. Many of them came from Indigenous communities with roots far older than the U.S.-Mexico border that now slices through their ancestral lands. Despite my outsider status, I was welcomed — a square among soldiers of another kind — by youths wearing monochromatic outfits and inked with tattoos that often carried the weight of identity, allegiance, and survival.
In that space, I began to confront uncomfortable truths about colonial violence, learning from Indigenous voices what it means to honor both the Creator and veterans — not just military personnel, but those who have fought, and continue to fight, for their communities in other ways.
Years ago, reading Are Prisons Obsolete? by Dr. Angela Davis instilled in me a belief in the transformative potential within every person. I honor those who risk their lives for others — including those surviving violent systems, incarcerated for what are often the vaguest of reasons.
In the U.S., gang affiliation has long been used as justification for imprisonment. Tattoos are frequently cited as primary evidence — vague symbols reinterpreted by courts to suggest criminal intent. In recent months, several Venezuelan refugees were deported from the Southwest, accused of gang ties based on tattoos. One man was forcibly removed after officials misread his “Autism Awareness” tattoo — dedicated to his brother — as a gang symbol. I know of at least three similar deportations based on tattoo misinterpretations that had no links to gang violence or crime.
Such misreadings echo a troubling history. Germany’s first concentration camps weren’t created for Jews, but for Herero and Nama people in colonial Namibia. Similarly, the systemic dehumanization of Black and Indigenous people in the U.S. predates MAGA slogans and continues to evolve. Even today, it becomes clear that the wolf has shed some of the sheep’s wool it once wore to disguise its intent.
Consider Pete Hegseth, the new U.S. Secretary of Defense. A self-described Christian, he sports a tattoo bearing the Arabic word “Infidel” — a label that marks him as an enemy to millions of Muslims. It’s hard to imagine a gesture more contrary to the teachings of Christ, who preached peace and love. Such branding doesn’t reflect devotion to Christ but rather recalls the Roman brutality that crucified him.
In contrast, my Muslim teachers — especially those from Black communities — have shown me deep compassion and insight, offering guidance based on our shared humanity. My whiteness didn’t make me an “infidel,” nor did my Christianity. We connected beyond those boundaries.
Not all tattoos worn by so-called gang members symbolize violence. Some represent communities, streets, or even nations. But the Secretary of Defense’s tattoo sends a clear message of division — one rooted in religious antagonism. If a gang tattoo is defined by opposition and threat, then his branding qualifies.
Gang members, too, are human — just like the officials who sit in power. Respect, in its truest form, comes not only from admiration but also from understanding someone’s capacity to act, for better or worse.
My ongoing education includes conversations with Kanien’kehá:ka elder Roger Jock, who’s helped me better grasp the legacies of war and colonialism. I’ve come to believe that dehumanizing those we oppose erodes our own humanity in the process. If we lose sight of the humanity in others — even those complicit in systemic violence — we risk losing ourselves.
Unless one is willing to take up arms and fight to the death, there must be another way forward. That path, difficult though it may be, starts with love.
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