Tim Chilcott: We must be bigger than their bigotry

By Tim Chilcott

I didn’t grow up going to protests but I married a woman who’s been out there for years. For her, it’s never been just about signs or chants. It’s an act of care, a way of saying, “I see what’s happening. I won’t look away. I will help you change it.”

Lately, we’ve stood outside Tesla showrooms, calling out the harm caused by unchecked wealth and power. We’ve marched for trans rights, standing with people who deserve to live in safety and truth.

Sometimes we bring our son. Sometimes we don’t. We make that decision based on how things feel in the moment. We want him to be safe. But we also want him to see what it looks like when people stand up for each other. We want him to understand that silence in the face of cruelty is a choice – not one we make.

On June 11, we arrived at the ICE protest together. We parked near the Ice Age playground in Riverfront Park, where we’ve spent countless afternoons watching our son play. It is one of Spokane’s biggest gathering spaces, full of families, festivals and public life.

The protest was peaceful and welcoming, but tension was rising. We spent a few minutes deciding how to move through the evening. My wife stayed at the protest while I took our son into the stadium. The idea was for her to meet us at halftime. It felt like the safer choice at the time, not because the protest itself was unsafe but because the arrival of police had begun to shift the energy.

That is how families navigate uncertain moments. We try to stay together. And when we can’t, we move.

Our son and I got settled at the game. Several local youth soccer clubs were there in mass and we recognized friendly acquaintances. My wife joined us quickly. She had just witnessed protesters being violently shoved by officers and saw unidentified armed men arriving. In a city park, at a peaceful rally, that was the reality we were navigating.

But while the game continued, the police escalated the situation outside. Police shoved protesters to the ground. Then, they deployed chemical agents.

The wind carried the smoke and chemicals over the wall and into the stadium.

You could see it in the air. People across every section on the east side began coughing. Families were confused. Children were covering their faces. My son was one of them. We scrambled to get a mask on him.

And still, the game continued. My son cheered for the Velocity through a mask because a chemical agent was in the air.

The Spokane Velocity made no announcements. No instructions were given. Security quietly blocked the exits nearest the protest. Families were left to figure out for themselves what was happening.

I found a Spokane Police Department officer inside and told him kids were being affected. He looked at me and said, “If you don’t like it, go tell the rioters to leave. It’s going to get worse.”

Then he told me I could always ask for my money back.

No concern. No pause. No compassion.

So I got my family out of there.

And then I went back because when public parks become places of fear, when police treat peaceful protest as a provocation, when the threat of police escalation forces families to avoid peaceful protests, the answer is not to disappear quietly. The answer is to show up again.

A few months ago, at a trans rights rally, a speaker said something that has stayed with me: We have to be bolder than their bigotry.

Bigotry doesn’t whisper. It walks in loud and confident. It never questions whether it belongs.

If that is what we are up against, then care must rise to meet that boldness. Bigotry isn’t fought mirroring cruelty but by standing firm in our values. We must be visible, present, unafraid to take up space.

We must meet their shamelessness with conviction, their noise with presence, and their certainty with our own.

That is how we make space for dignity.

The police attacked the public with chemical agents during daylight hours, in the heart of Spokane. It should not be normal. And it should not be ignored.

When a chemical agent reaches your child, something changes. The gap between what’s tolerable and what’s unforgivable snaps shut. You stop wondering how far is too far. I hope you never know.

If I wasn’t a radical before. I am now.

Tim Chilcott, of Newport, has led software development for top 100 websites and built products used by NASA and Fortune 100 companies. He has co-founded several tech companies and an indie record label that landed a deal with MTV. Today, he focuses on youth sports, coaches his son’s soccer team, and works to strengthen community programs.