Kids notice everything. They notice who gets treated like a problem. They notice which adults get nervous when someone says equality out loud. They notice who wants rules for everyone except themselves.
So yeah, this shirt exists. It’s anti-fascist. It’s a protest design. It’s for the kids who are growing up in real life, not in some fantasy where hate is “just politics.”
The graphic is our International Union of Anti Fascists badge, lightly distressed like it’s already been carried through a few seasons of chaos. You’ve got a megaphone for speaking up, broken chains for refusing control, and raised fists because sometimes the most radical thing a kid can do is learn that their voice counts.
And then there’s the part that makes it yours: the location and the local chapter number. Put your city. Put your neighborhood. Put the place they’re learning their first big opinions. Put a zip code, an area code, or a year that matters to your family. It can be goofy. It can be serious. It can be a quiet flex that says, we’re from here, and we’re not going along with any of that.
This one is for the kids riding scooters past murals, sitting on a parent’s shoulders at a rally, handing out water bottles, or asking the questions adults try to dodge. It’s for the families in Logan Square and Hyde Park, in Bushwick and Bed-Stuy, in Oakland and East Austin, in Philly and South Minneapolis, where the sidewalk conversations are basically a civics class.
And yeah, universities show up in the background of this story, because campuses are often where movements get louder and more organized. UIC, DePaul, Columbia, NYU, UCLA, UW, Temple, UT. Kids grow up around that energy and they absorb it, whether the adults admit it or not.
This shirt isn’t about turning a kid into a slogan. It’s about telling them they’re allowed to care, allowed to ask why, allowed to stand with people who are targeted, allowed to be kind in a way that has teeth.
It’s a gift for the cool aunt, the activist parent, the older sibling who’s basically a second parent, or the teacher who refuses to play neutral. It’s a souvenir from the city that raised them, the neighborhood that shaped them, the community that taught them to show up.
Pick the location. Pick the number. Make their chapter official.
