We Are All Family: Why Caring for Strangers Isn't Radical—It's Human
- Ash A Milton
- Jan 18
- 14 min read
The scenes from Minneapolis this January have been difficult to witness. Renee Nicole Good, a 37-year-old mother of three, was shot and killed by an ICE agent on January 7th. Days later, a family driving home from a basketball game found themselves trapped between protesters and federal agents—their van filled with tear gas, their 6-month-old baby requiring CPR to breathe again. A 17-year-old Target employee, a U.S. citizen, was tackled and detained at work, then abandoned in a parking lot miles away.
In response, thousands have taken to the streets. Among them: neighbors, teachers, clergy members, mothers with strollers, and yes, women—some with children, some without. The response from parts of the administration and its supporters has been swift and condemnatory.
According to the recently issued NSPM-7 Guidance, opposition to immigration enforcement now qualifies as potential domestic extremism. The White House characterized Good as a "leftist insurrectionist." Critics, echoing Vice President JD Vance's earlier "childless cat ladies" rhetoric, have characterized the protesters—particularly white women—as unnaturally investing their maternal energy in strangers rather than their own families.
But there's something deeply wrong with this framing. It misunderstands both human nature and our longest-standing moral traditions. The impulse to care for strangers isn't a deviation from family values—it's an extension of them. And women's role in humanitarian work isn't a modern aberration—it's a continuation of what they've always done.
The Science of Our Shared Family
Let's start with biology. Every human being alive today shares a common maternal ancestor, a woman scientists call "Mitochondrial Eve," who lived approximately 150,000-200,000 years ago in Africa. This isn't mythology; it's genetics. The mitochondrial DNA we all carry traces back through an unbroken chain of mothers to this one woman. In the most literal, scientific sense, we are all family.
This isn't to say we're all closely related in a meaningful genealogical sense—the genetic distance is vast. But it establishes something profound: our species evolved not in isolation, but in interconnected groups where cooperation and mutual aid were essential to survival. Anthropologists have documented that successful human societies throughout history have practiced reciprocal altruism—caring for others outside immediate family units because it strengthened the entire community. The woman who helped deliver your grandmother's grandmother's grandmother may not have been kin, but her assistance ensured your existence.
Our capacity to care about people we've never met isn't unnatural. It's fundamental to how our species survived.
The Theology of Universal Kinship
For Christians, this biological connection deepens into theological truth. The doctrine that all humans are children of God isn't peripheral to Christianity—it's foundational. "So God created mankind in his own image," Genesis tells us, "in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them." Not some humans. All humans.
When Jesus was asked "Who is my neighbor?" in the Parable of the Good Samaritan, he told a story about a man who crossed ethnic and religious boundaries to care for a stranger beaten and left to die. The hero of the story wasn't the priest who passed by, nor the Levite who crossed to the other side of the road. It was the Samaritan—a member of a group Jews regarded with contempt—who stopped, bandaged the wounds, took the injured man to an inn, and paid for his care.
"Go and do likewise," Jesus concluded.
This wasn't an instruction to care only for those who share your bloodline, your citizenship, or your culture. It was a radical redefinition of family that encompassed all of humanity.
When the Apostle Paul wrote that "There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus," he was articulating a vision of universal human dignity that would transform the world.
The NSPM-7 lists "Anti-Christianity" as a marker of potential domestic extremism. Yet the very document characterizes opposition to immigration enforcement—which many Christians engage in because of their faith—as suspicious. This creates an impossible bind: be Christian by ignoring Christ's teachings about the stranger, or follow Christ's teachings and risk being labeled a threat to national security.
Women Have Always Done This Work
Women's involvement in humanitarian work isn't new. It's ancient. Throughout Christian history, religious women established hospitals, orphanages, and schools. Orders like the Sisters of Mercy, the Sisters of Charity, and the Franciscan Sisters dedicated themselves to serving the poor, the sick, and the stranger. These weren't women shirking family duties; many had left behind the possibility of biological children specifically to serve a larger family—humanity itself.
Florence Nightingale revolutionized modern nursing during the Crimean War. Clara Barton founded the American Red Cross. Dorothea Dix transformed mental health care. Jane Addams created Hull House to serve Chicago's immigrant poor. These women didn't see caring for strangers as a replacement for family—they saw it as an expression of the same impulse that makes families function: the recognition that we are responsible for each other.
The UN's humanitarian agencies—UNOCHA, UNHCR, UNICEF—have historically been staffed significantly by women doing precisely this work.
Not because they're "miserable at their own lives and the choices they've made," as Vance characterized childless women in his 2021 remarks, but because they recognize a calling to serve.
Religious organizations remain on the front lines of humanitarian work today. Catholic Charities, Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service, Church World Service, World Relief—these organizations trace their work directly to scriptural commands to welcome the stranger. When NSPM-7 characterizes support for "mass migration and open borders" as a marker of extremism, it's effectively criminalizing the lived practice of Christian faith for countless believers.
The Minnesota Reality
Let's be specific about what's happening in Minnesota. The federal government deployed over 2,000 ICE and Border Patrol agents to the Twin Cities—more than the combined forces of the Minneapolis and St. Paul police departments. This operation, officially called "Operation Metro Surge," has been characterized by DHS as its largest immigration enforcement operation in history.
Renee Nicole Good was sitting in her car when she was approached by ICE agents. Video shows her briefly reversing, then driving forward, turning away from the agents. Officer Jonathan Ross fired three shots, killing her. DHS Secretary Kristi Noem immediately characterized Good's actions as "domestic terrorism." The White House called her a "leftist insurrectionist." Federal investigators have since focused their investigation not on the officer who fired the shots, but on Good's partner, examining whether she might have "impeded a federal officer."
Six federal prosecutors in Minneapolis resigned in protest of the Justice Department's refusal to open a civil rights investigation into Good's death.
Days later, the Jackson family—Shawn and Destiny Jackson with their six children ranging from 6 months to 11 years—was driving home from a basketball game. They got caught between protesters and federal agents. A flashbang detonated near their van, deploying the airbags. Tear gas flooded the vehicle. Their 6-month-old baby, D'iris, stopped breathing.
"In the midst of doing mouth-to-mouth, I stopped and I looked at my baby and I was just like 'wake up, you have to,'" Destiny told reporters. "I just felt like I'm gonna give you every breath I have."
The Department of Homeland Security initially characterized the family as "radical agitators" who had deliberately brought children to a protest. They later deleted the tweet. The Jacksons were simply trying to get home.
At a Target store in Richfield, ICE agents tackled Jonathan Garcia, a 17-year-old U.S. citizen working his shift. One agent reportedly pressed a knee on his neck. Despite Garcia repeatedly stating he was a citizen and had his passport, agents took him into custody. They eventually released him in a Walmart parking lot miles away, crying and bleeding. "They slammed me on the ground," he told witnesses.
Christina Rank, a 25-year-old teaching assistant at a special education school in Inver Grove Heights, was detained by ICE agents in the school parking lot as she arrived for work early one morning. The school serves students with special needs—children who depend on consistent, caring adults to feel safe. Agents claimed Rank had rammed their vehicle; witnesses and the damage to her car tell a different story. The passenger side door was damaged and the back window broken—evidence, her mother says, that agents rammed her car and then broke the window to pull her out. Rank, a U.S. citizen, was held for nearly 12 hours without being able to contact her family or understand why she was being detained.
She was eventually released without charges. The students she serves lost a day with a trusted caregiver. The teachers who work alongside her spent the day in fear.
When protesters have gathered in response to these incidents, they've been met with pepper spray, smoke grenades, and characterizations of domestic terrorism.
Governor Tim Walz has called the federal presence an "occupation." Some 1,500 National Guard soldiers have been placed on standby for potential deployment to Minnesota. President Donald J. Trump has placed 1,500 soldiers in Alaska on standby.
The Characterization of Women Protesters
The narrative emerging from some quarters has been particularly focused on the women participating in these protests. A now-viral interview from Minneapolis captured a protester—a white woman—saying she was reluctant to cry because "white tears are not always helpful or necessary."
Conservative media seized on the clip as evidence of absurdity, proof that "liberal white women are the worst." The mockery was swift and vicious. But look more carefully at what she was actually expressing: an awareness that in situations where people of color are being harmed, centering her own emotional response might distract from the real victims. It was an attempt, however imperfectly articulated, at solidarity and deference.
This has been characterized as unnatural, as evidence of women without children projecting maternal instincts onto strangers in destructive ways. But is it actually unnatural? Or is it uncomfortable because it challenges a nationalist framework that says our obligations end at our borders or our ethnic communities?
The JD Vance "childless cat ladies" framing suggests that women without children lack a "direct stake" in the future and therefore shouldn't be trusted with leadership. By extension, women—with or without children—who express concern for immigrants, refugees, or non-citizens are redirecting natural maternal feeling in inappropriate directions. This rhetoric appears in NSPM-7's characterization of "adherence to radical gender ideology" and "hostility towards traditional views on family" as markers of potential extremism.
But this fundamentally misunderstands both family and tradition.
What Tradition Actually Teaches
Traditional Christian teaching doesn't limit care to one's own bloodline. The Book of Hebrews instructs: "Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it."
Leviticus commands: "When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them. The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt."
Jesus himself was a refugee. When Herod ordered the massacre of male infants, Mary and Joseph fled with Jesus to Egypt—crossing borders without documentation to save their child's life. The Holy Family were asylum seekers.
The Catholic Church's social teaching emphasizes the universal destination of goods—the idea that the earth's resources are meant for all humanity, not to be hoarded by some while others suffer. The dignity of every human person, regardless of citizenship status, is non-negotiable. This isn't fringe theology. It's doctrine.
Many mainline Protestant denominations have issued similar statements. The Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, the Presbyterian Church (USA), the United Methodist Church, the Episcopal Church—all have affirmed the rights and dignity of immigrants and refugees, calling on members to provide welcome and protection.
When women participate in these efforts—whether through protest, sanctuary provision, legal aid, or simply bearing witness—they aren't rejecting family values. They're acting on family values extended to their logical conclusion: if we're all children of God, if we're all descended from the same mother, then we're all family in the most meaningful sense.
The Reality of Women's Caregiving
Let's address the "childless" characterization directly. First, many of the women protesting in Minneapolis have children of their own. Destiny Jackson was protecting six of them when federal agents tear-gassed her van. Renee Nicole Good was a mother of three. The "childless cat lady" framing often ignores actual mothers when it's inconvenient to the narrative.
Second, characterizing women without biological children as lacking a stake in the future is both insulting and demonstrably false. Teachers shape the future through other people's children. Nurses care for communities' most vulnerable. Social workers protect children from harm. Elected officials craft policies affecting generations. As a stepparent, Godparent, and Aunt I am personally have a stake in the next generation. The idea that only biological parenthood confers concern for the future is absurd on its face.
Third, this framing ignores the reality that many women are childless not by choice. Infertility affects millions. Some women have lost children to miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant death. Some have children who've died. Reducing women's worth and social contribution to their biological reproductive output is dehumanizing.
It Takes a Village—And We've Forgotten the Village
There's a deeper problem with the "childless cat lady" critique: it reflects a peculiarly narrow, Anglo-American conception of family that has only been dominant for a few generations.
The idea that child-rearing should be the sole responsibility of a nuclear family—mother, father, 2.5 children behind a white picket fence—is historically and culturally anomalous.
For most of human history and in most cultures around the world today, child-rearing has been a communal endeavor. The African proverb "It takes a village to raise a child" isn't just a nice saying—it's an acknowledgment of how human societies actually function. Children are raised not just by parents but by grandmothers, aunties (both biological and chosen), community elders, neighbors, and what many cultures call "wisewomen"—women who may never have borne children but who carry essential knowledge about healing, conflict resolution, and community care.
In many Indigenous American cultures, aunties and grandmothers hold positions of authority and respect. In African and Caribbean communities, "othermothers"—women who help raise children not biologically their own—are recognized as essential to family structure. In Asian cultures, extended family networks have traditionally shared caregiving responsibilities across generations. The wisewoman—the herbalist, the midwife, the counselor, the keeper of stories—appears across cultures as a honored figure, regardless of whether she had biological children.
The Anglo-American nuclear family model that became dominant in the mid-20th century was actually a historical aberration, enabled by post-war economic prosperity that allowed single-income households. It required isolating families in suburbs, cutting them off from extended kin networks, and placing enormous pressure on mothers to perform all caregiving alone. The very family structure now held up as "traditional" would have been unrecognizable to most of our ancestors.
What we're witnessing in the contempt for women who care about people outside their immediate bloodline is the logical endpoint of this impoverished vision of family. If family is only nuclear, only biological, then caring for neighbors becomes suspect. Caring for strangers becomes pathological. The wisewoman, the auntie, the community mother—figures honored for millennia—become "childless cat ladies" who don't have a "direct stake" in the future.
But many communities never abandoned this understanding. Immigrant communities, communities of color, working-class communities that couldn't afford suburban isolation—they maintained intergenerational, communal approaches to caregiving out of both necessity and cultural continuity. When these communities now mobilize to protect their neighbors from immigration raids, they're not acting contrary to family values. They're acting on a more expansive, more historically grounded understanding of what family is.
Christina Rank, the teaching assistant at a special education school, was doing this work—caring for other people's most vulnerable children with special needs. Renee Nicole Good was doing this work—standing as a neighbor between ICE agents and her community. The protesters who've filled Minneapolis streets include teachers, social workers, clergy, nurses—professional "aunties" and "wisewomen" who've dedicated their lives to caring for people beyond their own bloodlines.
Fourth, and perhaps most importantly: since when is caring about the welfare of strangers a character flaw? Since when is expanding one's circle of concern beyond one's immediate family a sign of moral deficiency rather than moral growth? In most of human history, it's been recognized as moral development—the movement from tribalism to universalism that defines civilization's progress.
The Stakes Are Human Rights
Here's what all of this comes down to: unless we accept that all humans have equal basic human rights regardless of where they were born, regardless of their immigration status, regardless of their citizenship, things cannot get better.
This isn't radical. It's the foundation of international human rights law established after World War II, when the world saw where ultra-nationalism and the dehumanization of "others" leads. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights begins: "All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights." Not all citizens. Not all documented persons. All human beings.
When a 6-month-old baby requires CPR because federal agents tear-gassed his family's van, that's a human rights violation regardless of the baby's immigration status. When a 17-year-old citizen is tackled at work and abandoned in a parking lot, that's a violation of his constitutional rights. When a mother of three is shot through her windshield, the question "Was the use of force justified?" is a human rights question before it's a policy question.
The protesters in Minneapolis aren't opposing immigration enforcement because they hate America or traditional families. Many are opposing it because they believe it's being conducted in ways that violate human dignity and human rights. That's not extremism. That's conscience.
The Wine Moms and Organized Care
There's been mockery of "organized wine moms" as if suburban mothers coordinating carpools to protests is somehow sinister. But this is how successful social movements have always worked. During the Civil Rights Movement, it wasn't just the iconic leaders—it was the women who organized carpools during the Montgomery Bus Boycott. The women who prepared meals for Freedom Riders. The women who staffed voter registration drives.
During the Vietnam War protests, mothers brought their children to demonstrations. During the anti-apartheid movement, American women organized boycotts and divestment campaigns. During the Central American refugee crisis of the 1980s, the Sanctuary
Movement was largely sustained by Protestant and Catholic women opening church doors to asylum seekers fleeing death squads. Today, mothers bring babies to pro-choice rallies, to pro-life rallies, to school board meetings, to town halls. This isn't a left or right phenomenon—it's what civic participation looks like when you have children and refuse to stay silent about issues that matter to you.
This pattern—women's collective action for humanitarian causes—isn't new or aberrant. It's how major social change often happens. Dismissing it as "childless cat ladies" or "wine moms" is a way to avoid engaging with the substance of their concerns.
A Path Forward
If the goal is genuinely to strengthen families and communities, then policies that separate families, traumatize children, and create fear in entire communities are counterproductive. If the goal is to uphold law and order, then aggressive enforcement that results in citizens being detained, babies being tear-gassed, and mothers being killed undermines the rule of law rather than reinforcing it.
If the goal is to honor traditional Christian values, then we must grapple with what Christ actually taught about strangers, about judgment, about mercy.
There's a reasonable conversation to be had about immigration policy, about border security, about the practical challenges of managing migration flows. Old-school Republicans who haven't embraced the current administration's more extreme rhetoric might find common ground here: we can have secure borders and humane enforcement.
We can verify identity without tackling teenage citizens. We can pursue immigration violators without tear-gassing babies. We can have disagreements about policy without criminalizing conscience.
But that conversation can't happen if we're dismissing humanitarian concern as evidence of mental illness or extremism. It can't happen if we're characterizing women's participation in public life as unnatural. It can't happen if we refuse to acknowledge that the people being affected by these policies are human beings with inherent dignity.
Conclusion: The Family of Humanity
Mitochondrial Eve, the mother of us all, couldn't have imagined the world her descendants would build. She couldn't have foreseen the distances we'd travel, the borders we'd draw, the nations we'd form. But the genetic legacy she left us includes the capacity for cooperation, for altruism, for caring about people outside our immediate circle.
Christianity took that biological reality and built a theology on it: we're all children of God, made in the divine image, deserving of dignity and respect. Women throughout history have taken that theological truth and translated it into action: building hospitals, founding charities, caring for the vulnerable, welcoming strangers.
This isn't radicalism. This is tradition.
When Renee Nicole Good positioned her car between ICE agents and her immigrant neighbors, she wasn't acting as a "domestic terrorist." She was acting as a neighbor. When Destiny Jackson performed CPR on her baby after federal agents filled her van with tear gas, she was acting as a mother. When thousands of Minnesotans have taken to the streets in the weeks since, many are acting as people of faith, people of conscience, people who believe that human rights matter.
The question facing us isn't whether women with or without children should care about strangers. The question is whether we, as a society, will honor the best of our traditions—scientific, theological, historical—or whether we'll retreat into a cramped vision of kinship that extends only as far as bloodline or citizenship.
We are all family. We have been since the beginning. And families take care of each other—all of each other—or the family breaks apart.
The protesters aren't the ones breaking American families apart. They're the ones insisting we hold them together.
That's not extremism. That's what family does.
I have Organized Gangs of Wine Moms, Childless Cat Lady, and A.W.F.U.L. if you are interested.
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