was originally reported by Candice Norwood of .��

Ana is a Mexican-American woman who, as a child, did not live in fear of immigration raids. She’s a U.S.-born citizen who grew up in Mexicantown, Detroit, a Southwest neighborhood that serves as a cultural hub for the city’s Latinx population.

Her grandparents immigrated to the United States with legal status from a small town in the Mexican state of Jalisco. Admittedly, Ana, 38, did not have much awareness about the experiences of undocumented immigrants until she started dating her now-husband in 2012. At 18, he entered the country without documentation, arriving from the same area of Mexico as Ana’s family.

“We started dating in the early fall, and I remember that he couldn’t take me out, and I was so distraught. Like, ‘Do you not want to take me out?’ But he couldn’t get a job because he didn’t have a Social Security number,” said Ana, whose name has been changed by The 19th to protect her family.

When she imagined getting married and raising a family, her list of motherhood expectations definitely did not include one day preparing her elementary school-age children, all of them U.S. citizens, for an encounter with U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE): Memorize our home address. Take daddy’s phone and hit record. Call mom.

This is Ana’s reality during the second Trump administration. Her husband still does not have legal status. Together, they have three children who are 9, 7 and 5 years old, and the family speaks openly at home about the risks they face.

“I’m parenting in a political climate that could separate my whole family. It could break us apart,” Ana said. “It’s just one more thing; this emotional labor that we carry on as mothers — but this one’s with more stress.”

Across the country, immigrant mothers and mothers who are partnered with immigrants are forced to teach their children a lesson of survival as President Donald Trump continues his historic expansion of immigration enforcement. Over the past year, $75 billion — — has been approved for building new detention centers, hiring thousands of immigration officers and surging ICE operations.

The administration initially claimed it would focus on detaining and deporting people with criminal convictions, but of ICE data show that about one-third of those arrested in 2025 had a criminal conviction. The rest included people without convictions — , , parents heading to work and kids . Some are undocumented. Others have legal status or, in some cases, are U.S. citizens.

For generations of Black American mothers, for interactions with police, including arrests or violence, is an unwelcome rite of passage known as “The Talk.” Historically, it has served as an act of love, vigilance and desperation by mothers seeking to protect their kids in a world that often views them as suspects first and children second.

In the Trump era, a different version of “The Talk” is emerging among immigrant parents who are living with the dread that their children could become targets as well.

As an Afro-Dominican woman living in North Carolina, Dania Santana is balancing multiple dynamics. Her youngest son, who is 11 years old, looks more like the stereotypical image people associate with Latinx children. Her middle son, who is 14, is a Black boy with afro-textured hair. Her 16-year-old daughter has a skin tone that is more of a mix between the two.

“I always get different reactions among different groups of people with my kids, of who is acceptable or cute and who is the opposite. It’s interesting because it’s different reactions from Black people, from Latino people and then from White people,” Santana said. “So I have different conversations with my children about how things can play out for them in this moment.”

Coming to the United States from the Dominican Republic at 25, Santana, now 48, had limited knowledge of U.S. racial dynamics until she began to witness the bias and discrimination firsthand. That understanding shaped the way she began to guide her children. When her older son, who has darker skin, was in middle school, Santana recalls hearing from his teacher that he and his friends were pulling small pranks in class.

Santana said that she took the incident as an opportunity to not only discourage her son from being disruptive in class, but also to share with him that he may not always receive the same level of grace as his White friends. “You need to learn this now before you’re out there,” she said.

With both ICE and local police on Santana’s mind, she feels on high alert all the time, questioning every aspect of where her children will be and who they will be with. This includes monitoring cell phone locations and sitting inside the nearby Starbucks while her kids hang at the mall. She has even considered moving her family to New York City, where she lived before North Carolina. At least in New York, her kids wouldn’t have to drive, she said. Or maybe they might flee the United States entirely if circumstances get worse.

“I have been very clear with them that the moment I see that things are turning, we will be looking into leaving the country,” she said. “So when my youngest son heard that the National Guard was coming, he thought it was that moment. He got really sad. He was like, ‘So we’re gonna have to leave everything behind?’”

For many households in the United States, “The Talk” is a common method of racial socialization, a way for parents and caregivers to teach children about race and identity to both foster a sense of pride and to prepare them for societal inequities and police brutality.

Often, what prompts a parent to begin these conversations is a specific incident: a racist comment muttered under someone’s breath at the grocery store, a White mother on the playground instructing her child not to play with a Black child, said Dr. Leslie A. Anderson, an assistant professor of family and consumer sciences at Morgan State University.

As part of her research, Anderson analyzed how Black families with young school-age children navigated “The Talk.” She and her team found that many parents gave their children specific directives on how to act when in the presence of law enforcement. This includes keeping their hands visible at all times, remaining calm and respectful to the officers, answering officers’ questions and directing the officers to their parents. In other cases, parents instruct their children to leave the situation and find them or another trusted adult, which could unintentionally escalate the interaction.

Research indicates that when done thoughtfully, with specific, practical directives, “The Talk” can be beneficial for children, Anderson said. “But it’s also extremely stressful for the parent, primarily the mom, to have to navigate these conversations in the first place,” she said. “And what I found is that a lot of folks feel inept, like, ‘I know I need to have this conversation. I don’t know how to do it.’”

Black and Brown people regardless of citizenship or immigration status face disproportionate risk of racial profiling and violence by law enforcement. Recent studies have also captured how the day-to-day lives of immigrants can be heavily shaped by the threat of immigration enforcement. One survey conducted among a representative sample of Latinx and Asian immigrants in California between 2018 and 2020 found that about 43 percent of Latinx immigrants and 13 percent of Asian immigrants knew someone who had been deported, said Dr. Maria-Elena De Trinidad Young, an immigrant health scholar and professor at the University of California, Merced.

About 16 percent of Latinx immigrants and 10 percent of Asian immigrants reported experiencing racial profiling. When it comes to speaking with children about ICE, conversations may start when children ask their parents specific questions based on what they’re observing. But many times, the conversations are not explicit, Young said.

Immigrant parents experience varying levels of comfort speaking directly about their status. They may instruct kids to avoid staring out from windows or going outdoors on certain occasions, which can be confusing, at least initially. Over time, the children may begin to pick up on their parents’ fears and any ICE presence in their communities — and they will connect the dots for themselves.

Many immigrant mothers feel that the country’s approach to immigration has intensified over the course of their lives. Some did not have to confront conversations about immigration enforcement until having to do so with their own children during the Trump administration.

Maya was born in India, spent her childhood in Australia and moved to the Seattle area when she was 12. The schools she attended in the United States were not diverse, so she often felt different from other kids. Immigration-specific conversations were never really on her radar until after she received a green card in high school and later began to face more explicit experiences with xenophobia as an adult, she said.

Her son was just 1 year old when Trump returned to Washington for a second time. The 35-year-old and her husband live in a predominantly White New Jersey town. The week Trump got elected, she said, an older White man walked up to her and her son at the grocery store and told her to go back to her country.

In the 15 months since, Maya, whose name The 19th has changed, has watched online videos of ICE agents storming playgrounds and posting up outside of elementary schools. She’s read the stories of what’s happened in Minnesota, including the killings of and by ICE agents, as well as the detention of 5-year-old .

Maya has her green card and should be legally shielded from an ICE arrest or detention. Yet she has seen news reports documenting the apprehension of people with legal work permits, green cards or pending asylum cases.

Maya’s green card expires next year.

Her son is 3 years old now, and there’s only so much he can absorb, Maya said. She struggles with the balance between protecting his innocence and childhood and making sure he’s prepared should anything happen. His nanny is undocumented, which adds an extra layer of complication because ICE could come after her while she’s out with Maya’s son. Maya said there are days when her phone will ping with a text from the nanny saying she can’t make it to work because ICE agents are near her home.

For now, Maya tells her young son:

Do not go anywhere except with his nanny, mom and dad.

Do not walk away with any strangers.

If his nanny gets pulled over while he’s in the car, he needs to immediately say, “I want my mommy.” “I want my daddy.”

Maya also keeps a laminated card tucked into the backseat pocket of her car. It states, “If left unattended, please contact,” with her name and phone number, as well as her husband’s name and phone number.

Maya said she feels isolated in her town, which has few other women of color. She described encounters with other mothers in her area who appear confused by the fear she is experiencing. She also hasn’t been able to find any resources to help her navigate having age-appropriate conversations with her son about ICE and the political climate, which heightens the anxiety.

“I think that is the piece of motherhood that is changing so much, because when you are living a very different version of motherhood versus someone who is White, who has lived here for generations, who does not have this level of stress and anxiety on them at all times. It’s a very different experience,” she said.

In conversations with The 19th, immigrant mothers’ concerns in some ways mirrored those of the Black parents from Anderson’s research. Immigrant moms largely expressed feeling ill-equipped to handle conversations about ICE with their kids. They also struggled with the grief that their children will have to internalize adult problems at an early age.

Some that Black children who received “The Talk” report lower levels of stress related to the anticipation of police brutality. But general exposure to incidents with law enforcement has been shown to create psychological distress in Black and Brown children. For immigrants or children of immigrants, the more times a person comes into contact with immigration enforcement, the higher their risk for psychological distress and self-reported poor health outcomes over the course of their lives, Young said.

Black and Brown mothers are trying to balance all of these factors.

“No one should have to tell their children, first of all, that the streets might not be safe anymore. Like, as mothers, we don’t want to tell our children that they shouldn’t trust the police, that the police might get into their schools and try to detain kids like them,” said Linda López Stone, who came to the United States from Ecuador nearly two decades ago and has three children ages 12, 14 and 17.

She lives in Utah, and has made a point to teach her kids their basic rights and, most importantly, to know when to stay quiet. “No digas nada,” she has told them. Don’t say anything to law enforcement about themselves, their immigration status, their parents or their friends. If there’s any silver lining, Stone said, it’s that she’s raising children who are engaged and active in their communities, serving as a language bridge for their classmates who cannot speak English and passing on the safety lessons they have learned to other kids.

“I have let them know everyone is an immigrant, and everyone that you know who is a person of color is under threat, even myself,” Stone said. “So you have to make sure that the people around you, your friends and your peers, are aware of what’s happening, and it’s important to take care of each other.”

Brian came to the United States from Mexico when he was just 2 years old. He had no idea how he would pay for a four-year degree until he won designed for students like him. A business management major, he graduated from Northeastern Illinois University in 2020 and now lives in Virginia, where he works in education policy and also owns several rental properties. 

“I always pushed myself, but the biggest push of all came from my parents,” said Brian, a lawful permanent resident who asked to be identified by his first name only for fear he could be . “They would ask us to pursue our education because that’s why they came here. They wanted us to make a better life than what they were able to.”

College graduates like Brian with temporary immigration statuses might not be the primary focus of President Donald Trump’s aggressive deportation effort, but they are no less alarmed by the forced removal of those with

Much of the nation’s attention has fallen on undocumented laborers — an Episcopal bishop in January to show mercy to “the people who pick our crops and clean our office buildings, who labor in poultry farms and meatpacking plants, who wash the dishes after we eat in restaurants, and work the night shifts in hospitals” —but the administration’s deportation scope is widening and has grown to ensnare those .

More than of the nation’s 11 million undocumented immigrants have earned at least a bachelor’s degree, according to a 2022 report from the Center for Migration Studies of New York. Ernesto Castañeda, director of the Center for Latin American and Latino Studies and the Immigration Lab at American University, said many people underestimate this group’s educational attainment. 

Most don’t know some immigrants are more credentialed than Americans upon arrival, he said. For example, ages 25 or older reported having a bachelor’s degree or higher in 2023 compared to 36% of U.S.-born Americans, according to the Migration Policy Institute. Deporting this population would mean an enormous drain of “brain and brawn,” Castañeda said. 

“If we expel those people, there would be a big economic loss — and a loss of decades of innovation and scientific discovery, as well as in arts and culture,” he said.

While Trump’s immigrant policies have been cited for making it more difficult to fill , and jobs, it will also shrink the nation’s pool of highly skilled workers, said Prerna Arora, associate professor of psychology and education at Columbia University’s Teachers College.

“Do we have the necessary workforce to complete the things that we need done, especially in a modernizing society?” she asked. “So many of these [college-educated, undocumented] people — and this is what happens across fields — want to go back and help communities from which they are a part.”

Higher education in the crosshairs

More than undocumented students were enrolled in U.S. colleges and universities in 2023, representing 1.9% of all college students. The figure was higher pre-pandemic when it stood at 427,000 in 2019. The American Immigration Council attributes some of the decline to COVID and ongoing legal challenges to , the Obama-era program that gave temporary deportation relief to hundreds of thousands of immigrants brought to the U.S. as children, allowing them to study and work.

One Florida lawmaker now seeks to from state colleges and universities entirely: they’ve already lost access to Texas is  

Trump has made higher education a key focus of his immigration enforcement actions, targeting international students — many because of their political speech or protest actions around the war in Gaza. Thousands have as part of his crackdown, though the administration recently in the face of court challenges.

Still, these international students’ future remains unclear. They are increasingly as to raid dorms, and place them in far from home. 

Another academic, a 32-year-old woman from Senegal, who has lawful permanent resident status but asked that her name be withheld because she , called these removals heartbreaking and unjust. 

“We should be investing and supporting young people, not criminalizing them,” said the woman, who came to the United States with her family at age 7.

She grew up in Harlem and scored high enough on the selective admissions exam to be accepted to Brooklyn Technical, one of New York City’s premier public high schools. A law and society major, she graduated from Brooklyn Tech in 2011. 

It was an enormous accomplishment. Her father had no formal schooling in his home country and her mother attended only through the ninth grade. Their daughter has a master’s degree. 

“My life and achievements are proof of what results when we make these investments,” she said. “So apart from the devastating impact these actions have on these young people’s lives, these actions harm communities — and all of us as a country.”

Roughly 88% of undocumented higher ed students are enrolled as undergraduates and 12% are in graduate or professional schools. Forty-five percent are Hispanic, 24.9% are Asian, 15.2% are Black and 10.8% are white, according to the , which based its findings on data from a one-year sample of the 2022 American Community Survey. 

California, Texas, Florida, New York and New Jersey make up the top five states with the most undocumented higher education students. More than 27% of undocumented graduate students nationally earned their undergraduate degree in a STEM field.

David Blancas, 37, got his bachelor’s degree in secondary education and mathematics at Illinois’ Aurora University in 2009 — he was a stellar student and won a scholarship that covered most of the cost — and worked as a math teacher in Chicago public schools for five years.

He got his master’s in urban education from National Louis University in Chicago in 2013 — also funded by grants and scholarships — and currently works in a leadership role at an organization that helps renters become homeowners through counseling and financial assistance.

Like Brian, Blancas, born in Mexico, came to the United States as a toddler. His father arrived in Chicago first to secure a job — as a busboy and then a cook — and an apartment before his wife and children joined him.

Blancas is the first in his family to graduate from college: His mother dropped out of school before eighth grade and his father stopped attending by ninth grade. 

But they always prized education. 

“They loved school,” Blancas said. “They constantly talked about how they were good at it and how they were very sad that they couldn’t continue because of financial reasons. To them, education was like the biggest thing.”

The Senegalese-born scholar said the same, despite the obstacles she faced: She wasn’t aware of her citizenship status until she was told that she needed a Social Security number to fill out the federal financial aid form for college and found out she didn’t have one. Thankfully, she said, she was accepted by DACA and went on to earn her bachelor’s degree in political science and economics from Hunter College in 2015. 

She worked 35 hours a week in a retail store to cover her tuition and soon joined , which recruits college graduates to serve in high-need schools. She paid for her master’s at the out-of-pocket with her teaching salary. She eventually became an assistant principal and now works in policy and advocacy for a national nonprofit aimed at helping schools better serve all students — including immigrants. 

Living that suburban American life

and state police are in its and deportation push. Chicago, where Brian grew up, is a sanctuary city, one that has pledged by law not to cooperate in these efforts. The president has taken aim at with Chicago its most prominent target: The Justice Department is the city and the state of Illinois for allegedly impeding its enforcement campaign.

As a boy and a young man, Brian wanted to be a part of the Chicago Police Department and spent hours watching Law & Order SVU to get a sense of that life. He applied for a job there as soon as he earned his associate degree. 

“That’s when they told me they didn’t accept DACA recipients,” he said. “I was heartbroken. I did the physical, I did the mental exam and everything, and they did the vetting — they interviewed my neighbors and other people. It was a hard reality check. It was difficult for me to accept that.”

After the setback, he pushed on.

“It’s not just about me or my family,” said Brian, who also works in education policy with an eye toward immigrant students. “It’s for my entire community — to break that stigma that undocumented immigrants are uneducated or that we’re lazy or that we’re just mooching off of the system. People don’t know that for DACA, you have to go through a background check. You have to pay a fee, show that you’re working, you’re paying taxes, that you’re going to school.”

It’s frustrating to see people fighting to end the program, he said. Blancas, also allowed to work under DACA, agrees. He has a wife and two children and lives what he described as a typical middle-class life. 

He said he understands America’s desire to protect its border, to ensure entry to only those who will add to the economy. But that’s exactly what they are getting from the very people they are trying to chase out, he argued. 

“We have our own house,” Blancas said. “We both have really great jobs that give back to the community. We’re able to provide a great life for our children. We’re living that suburban American life, which is amazing.”

Updated Jan 22: As of Jan 21, the Department of Homeland Security has  its “sensitive locations” policy, allowing immigration raids where children gather including schools, hospitals and churches.

Parents showing their children where passports and other important legal documents are hidden at home. 

Mothers and fathers signing affidavits outlining who their childrens’ caregiver would be. 

Guardians making arrangements with schools for dismissal in the event they have been picked up by federal agents in a deportation sweep.

These are the daily conversations and heartbreaking realities mixed-status families — where not all kids, parents or grandparents hold American citizenship or legal status to reside in the U.S. — are rehearsing in case children come home to an empty house.

With Donald Trump’s border czar Tom Homan pledging to operate the largest deportation operation in American history in just days, parents, advocates, lawyers, and educators nationwide are working nonstop to protect and prepare families and school staff. 

“Students can’t focus on learning when they’re worried about whether their parents will come home at the end of the day, when they see themselves dehumanized in the press, or when representatives of the federal government come to their city to say, ‘You’ll be first in line for removal,’” Chicago Teachers Union President Stacy Davis Gates said last month. The union has rolled out a “Sanctuary Training Series” for staff and parents on how to protect kids from federal raids.  

The 74 interviewed dozens of people working with some of the nearly six million families facing ongoing dehumanization and to understand how deportation plans are affecting schools and students. 

School leaders throughout the country have begun sharing : Ensuring bus drivers and front office staff are trained on legal policies; providing simple scripts for what to say when interacting with federal law enforcement; explaining what’s next if the worst happens and families .

Educators, like healthcare workers, are sharing tips on for interacting with federal agents. Immigrant coalitions and parents are leading “” trainings in schools. Some schools are increasing mental health offerings as widespread increases along with anti-immigrant hate. 

“We need to let you know, if you are a student who is undocumented or a family who is undocumented, we will take care of you,” former teacher and board member Scott Esserman vowed at a Denver school board meeting in . “That’s our responsibility.”

When pressed on what the Trump administration’s plans would mean for millions of families with young children, officials have advised deported parents to take their American citizen children . If their home countries won’t accept them, the administration has reportedly where they will be permanently displaced – places where they may have no cultural, linguistic connection to.

Immigration enforcement operations will start in , Illinois and , Colorado, just outside of Denver, Trump administration officials have said.  

In response, school districts including , , , , and have reiterated resolutions passed during Trump’s first term and are training staff on how to protect families’ privacy in any interactions with immigration enforcement. 

, the nation’s largest, has a clear cut policy: If immigration enforcement officers do arrive at a school building, staff must keep them outside, notifying the districts’ legal counsel to first verify any warrants or subpoenas.

“Protecting immigrant students in and around school is not only moral – it’s the ,” said Alejandra Vázquez Baur, co-founder of the National Newcomer Network and fellow at The Century Foundation. Accessing free education, regardless of immigration status, has been protected as a constitutional right for 42 years. 

And like hospitals, schools, afterschool programs and chldrens’ bus stops have long been considered “sensitive locations,” protected from federal immigration raids without appropriate approval. Dozens of families sought refuge in while immigration arrests spread during the last Trump administration. 

Today, advocates are preparing for a different ballgame. The Trump administration’s include scrapping the Homeland Security’s sensitive locations policy, a move legal experts expect would be challenged. 

“We don’t want people with contagious diseases too scared to go to the hospital or children going uneducated because of poorly considered deportation policies,” Lee Gelernt, an attorney with the American Civil Liberties Union told . 

While the legal logistical challenges to operate mass deportations are predictable and being planned for – Texas, for instance, has pledged for deportation centers – immigration law scholar Hiroshi Motomura expects a wildcard: the public’s political will. 

“When you have the rhetoric and focus on the wall and on the border, it’s easy to stick with this idea that immigration law is to protect ‘us’ from ‘them,’” Motomura told The 74. 

“But it really is different when you start depriving employees of their families, and kids see their classmates deported,” he said. “It completely shifts the political vulnerability and what’s going on here.”

The 74 spoke with school staff, advocates and lawyers in states with the highest volume of mixed-status families about what they expect and how they’re preparing for the Trump administration’s mass deportation plans: 

Priscilla Monico Marín

Executive Director of the New Jersey Consortium for Immigrant Children 

Reality set in for Marín and her New Jersey-based team over the summer: Trump’s second presidency was a distinct possibility. To reach as many immigrant youth as quickly as they could, they started brainstorming, identifying a new district partner, Jersey City Public Schools.

Marín felt “called” to support families like her own when anti-immigrant rhetoric resurged, swapping her career as a bilingual teacher to become an immigration lawyer. 

“No one wants to be defined by your hardest day,” she said, adding too often undocumented students are not defined by their “humor, their curiosity, or their strength,” but instead their status and trauma.

Her team leads workshops and shares resources for classes of multilingual learners, so that they can secure immigration case support, access to social services and help others work past barriers to school enrollment.

The current situation has created a sense of urgency to what Marín and her team do. 

After she leaves the schools, older students start calling their hotline for assistance to secure visas and more stable immigration statuses, and to ask, “I’m undocumented. How do I enroll in healthcare?,” while some navigate the web of government bureaucracy as the only bilingual person in their families. 

Prerna Arora

Columbia Teachers College Faculty, New York

— a professor who studies the mental and physical health impacts of immigration on children — is witnessing a culture of fear and pain that’s limiting learning as fears of deportation loom. 

Working with 100 immigrant youth and asylum seekers throughout New York City, she has seen more hesitance and skepticism to share their emails or names in recent months than ever before. 

Many expressed feeling “underestimated… People may expect them not to have any language skills or fewer than they have.” Arora said. “…A lot of them spoke up to say, ‘we want people to know that we actually do want to try, we do care.’” 

In addition, several noted bias, hate and harassment from both children and adult K-12 school staff. “Maybe it’s a comment in passing that nobody realized how harmful it was.” Students are especially hurt when teachers say nothing at all after an  incident. 

Particularly to curb absenteeism, Arora emphasized schools need to focus on providing several tiers of mental health supports, ranging from school-wide workshops to small group and individual counseling, and establishing a sense of safety so that “parents and kids feel like the school can be trusted.” 

Miguel Bocanegra

Immigration Lawyer with Cornell University’s Path2Papers Program, California

A small team of lawyers have held over 500 free consultations since launching one year ago, quickly mobilizing to move as many working DACA recipients toward more permanent legal residency before the Supreme Court or Trump’s administration upends the program’s fate.

Their approach is “offensive as opposed to defensive … to assist people in getting visas, to move in a positive direction that would not keep them in permanent limbo,” said Bocanegra, who has been practicing immigration law for over two decades. 

Bocanegra anticipates the Supreme Court may put an end to DACA as soon as late 2025, though it . The Obama-era policy has enabled more than 700,000 “dreamers” brought to the country as children to attain temporary legal status and work authorization. 

Today, he hosts confidential consultations with teachers and on campuses and over Zoom, helping them and their employers secure sponsorship and more permanent statuses like H-1B visas.

Roughly 82% of the people they’ve worked with are eligible for more stable statuses via employment or humanitarian visas. 

“We’re advising employers to educate themselves and make decisions one way or the other about whether they can move forward with these visa options while there’s still some time.”

Alejandra Vázquez Baur

Co-founder of National Newcomer Network, New York

A former south Florida teacher who grew up in a mixed status household, Vázquez Baur has witnessed generations of kids live with fears of deportation that often led to school absenteeism. 

While the incoming administration’s agenda seems more willing to target families and threaten kids’ right to education, she urged school leaders to remember, “the law is still the law, nothing has changed yet.”

The fear school staff may experience when encountering federal law enforcement is  only mitigated by knowing what to do. Some have begun printing out and language that front office staff, bus drivers and security agents can use: “We follow district policy and cannot provide any information without consulting legal counsel.”

Maribel Sainez

Aspire Public Schools’ Director of Advocacy & Community Engagement, California

Sainez, who also grew up in a mixed-status household, is urgently spreading a resource she recently learned of: , where families can report if they’ve seen ICE agents, inquire about sightings in a given area, or get support after an interaction with the agency. 

She and her charter network that serves many undocumented students are partnering with local organizations to offer Know Your Rights trainings, which include exercises for families on how to interact with federal agents. 

“I constantly draw on my own lived experiences,” said Sainez. “… How can we counter that fear and panic and really promote a sense of solidarity, awareness, and power building?”

In Los Angeles, citizenship expert Motomura has analyzed decades of policy, and resistance to change it. He’s among thousands advocating for reforms to the immigration system, stuck in congressional limbo year after year.  

“The world has changed, the economy has changed,” Motomura said. “The only way we’re going to get out of it is to make it not about how high the border wall is, but ask ourselves why there are 11 million people in the country who are without papers.”