A Letter to My Fellow White Men: You Aren’t Safe
A personal letter to the men who’ve been told they’re safe—as long as they stay quiet.
I want to talk to my fellow white men for a minute—man to man.
You might not like what I have to say, but I believe it’s necessary. And long overdue.
We need to face something that’s been true for a while, and is getting more dangerous by the day:
We are not safe.
Not because we’re white men—but because the systems that handed us unearned privilege were never about protecting us.
They were about protecting power.
And power doesn’t love you.
It doesn’t care about you.
It will turn on you the second you speak up, step out of line, or dare to defend someone who’s being targeted.
Now, before I go any further, let me be clear about something:
This is not a cry for help. This is not me trying to center our experience or pretend that we’re the real victims here.
I know that Black, Brown, queer, immigrant, and trans folks—especially women and nonbinary people—have been facing this danger forever.
This isn’t about ignoring that.
This is about finally waking up to what so many others have tried to warn us about for years.
The walls are closing in.
And no, we’re not at the front of the line—but we’re not immune either.
This truth hit me years ago, in a moment I’ll never forget.
My ex-partner was pulled over while driving with her daughter. She didn’t flirt with the male cop (as if that should matter), and he gave her a ticket for a “dangerous lane change.” She was just trying to exit the highway.
Not long after, I got pulled over in the same area. The cop asked me when my last ticket was. I told him it had been over 15 years. He let me off with a warning, then added, “Be careful, I’ll be in the same place tomorrow—so slow down if you come this way.”
That’s privilege.
Not getting off easy—but being warned ahead of time so I wouldn’t get caught again.
It’s not always about money or promotions or VIP treatment.
It’s about what we don’t have to worry about. The fear we never feel. The assumptions people make in our favor.
The system often works for us—until it doesn’t.
And if you’re paying attention, it’s starting to break for everyone.
Recently, Charlotte Clymer wrote a powerful piece after Rumeysa Ozturk—a 30-year-old grad student at Tufts—was grabbed off the street by six plainclothes ICE officers.
No uniforms. No explanation.
Just thrown into an unmarked vehicle and disappeared.
Charlotte’s words hit like a gut punch:
“Right now, it’s a witch hunt against campus protestors who have spoken out in support of Palestinian liberation, and very soon—much faster than you probably expect—it’ll be anyone putting forward any sort of criticism against Trump.
Because no one—not any of us—are special in a fascist state. I promise you that.
Nothing will ultimately save you on this current trajectory. Your whiteness will not save you. Your maleness will not save you. Being straight or cisgender will not save you. Attending church every Sunday will not save you. Having a home in the suburbs and a good job will not save you. Being wealthy will not save you.”
And she’s right.
This regime—this slow-rolling fascism we’re living through—isn’t about protecting whiteness or masculinity.
It’s about demanding loyalty. Total, unquestioning obedience.
And the moment you hesitate? The moment you say, “Wait, this doesn’t feel right…”—you’re a target too.
We were lied to.
We were told, “If you just keep your head down, stay quiet, follow the rules, you’ll be fine.”
But that was never true. That’s what patriarchy wants you to believe.
That’s the myth of white supremacy—that if you’re just “good enough,” it won’t come for you.
It’s coming anyway.
So what do we do?
We stop pretending we’re safe.
We tell the truth—to ourselves and to each other.
We acknowledge the advantages we’ve been given, and we stop treating them like they were ever guaranteed.
We get loud. We get brave.
We show up for people who never got the benefit of the doubt.
We use our voices and our privilege to protect the people who have always been under threat—because when they’re safe, we’re safer too.
We take risks. Real ones.
Because real solidarity costs something.
And most of all, we remember:
Our safety was never the point.
Our humanity is.
So I’ll ask you again:
Who are you standing up for?
Who are you protecting?
And what are you willing to risk to make this world just a little more just?
Because if we keep lying to ourselves that we’re safe—we’re not just asleep.
We’re complicit.
Author’s Note:
I’ve chosen to turn off comments on this post—not to shut down conversation, but because this isn’t a debate. I’m speaking directly to my fellow white men, and I want us to sit with the discomfort, the truth, and the responsibility that comes with it.
If this moved something in you, take it with you. Talk about it with people you trust. Take action where you can.
– Robert
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