For the last quarter of a century, Maria’s version of the American dream has been confined to a small corner of South Texas, tucked between the border with Mexico and a fortified Border Patrol checkpoint 120km north.
Maria, the mother of two US-born teenagers, crossed illegally from Mexico in 1998 and is one of thousands of immigrants who have long lived in a netherworld along the Texas border, tied to family members who are citizens but trapped in an unusual part of the country where, without legal immigration documents, it is all but impossible for them to stray far from their adopted hometowns.
Now, with president-elect Donald Trump’s vow to begin mass deportations of immigrants who entered the US illegally, many of those living with American family members along the border fear that they will be easy targets.
Border Patrol agents are legally able to make arrests within 100 miles (160km) of the border, but in the past they have generally not targeted families like Maria’s – a situation that could swiftly change.
Adding to the families’ concerns, Texas governor Greg Abbott has offered the use of the Texas National Guard and state law enforcement officers to aid any immigration round-ups. His land commissioner, Dawn Buckingham, has also offered land along the Texas border, only a few kilometres from where Maria lives, to serve as a staging site.
“Before Trump got elected we always felt scared but knew we could do things to avoid being noticed,” said Maria, who did not want her last name published for fear of drawing the authorities’ attention. “Now we feel that once he takes office, dangers are everywhere. There is no place to hide.”
For generations, members of these mixed-status families – where at least one parent lacks permanent legal status and is caring for children who are legal US residents or citizens – have blended into the Latino-majority communities in this part of Texas. American border towns have long held strong ties to the Mexican side, and immigrants with legal documents cross the international border with the same ease that a person from Manhattan travels to Brooklyn.
About 75,000 children in the Rio Grande Valley live in such blended families, according to a 2018 report by two immigrant activist groups, La Unión del Pueblo Entero and Human Impact Partners.
Maria left her native San Luis Potosí, Mexico, in the late 1990s, married a fellow immigrant who entered the US illegally and gave birth to two daughters. In the months leading up to the November election, she began to worry. She taught her oldest daughter, now 15, to drive and told both of them to be prepared to move in with legal relatives in the area in case one day she didn’t come home.
“We know from the moment that we crossed illegally, that there is always a chance we could be sent back,” Maria said in an interview at her home.
Her elder daughter, also named Maria, said she planned to study immigration law to bring her mother back in case she was deported.
“I want her here for when I graduate, get married, to be here for all the events of my life,” the daughter said.
Another Rio Grande Valley resident in a similar predicament, Laura (35) said she had been living along the Texas border since she was a child.
She remembers vividly the morning many years ago when her mother told her children she wanted to offer them a better life than the one they had in Matamoros, Mexico. She pulled Laura and her two siblings on top of her on a large tyre and floated with them across the Rio Grande, Laura recalled.
Laura, who now works as a clerk at a medical clinic, eventually married a US citizen and gave birth to two children in the country, aged three and 10. She has limited legal status, via the Obama-era programme known as Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, which is intended to protect young people who were brought to the United States as children.
But her authorisation expires in two months, and she is not confident that Trump will keep the programme in place. The 5th US Circuit Court of Appeals is considering a challenge that could end Daca, as the programme is known.
“I don’t even want to think about leaving my children behind if I have to return to a land I no longer recognise,” she said.
In Texas border communities, there has been growing impatience with illegal immigration. Trump won 12 of the South Texas region’s 14 counties, up from five in 2016.
“I think that people who are US citizens, and I’m talking about, you know, most of our population, I think they believe that immigration laws should be enforced,” said Toni Treviño, who leads the Republican Party in Starr County, along the border.
“And if you marry somebody who you know is not a US citizen, that is a choice you are making. And at that point there could be consequences. Because oftentimes consequences of actions are very serious.”
She said immigrants were welcome as long as they chose a legal pathway. In a case such as Maria’s, Treviño said, her children could petition for her to return legally if she were to be deported.
Fears that some blended families could be separated became palpable during a recent meeting organised by activists from La Unión del Pueblo Entero in the border town of San Juan, Texas.
“Many kids are terrified that they are going to come home from school and find an empty house, because their parents have been deported,” said Elizabeth Rodriguez, an activist who works with immigrant farmworkers.
A nervous crowd watched quietly as meeting organisers staged a series of sketches meant to educate them about their rights as immigrants living in the US illegally. One person played the role of a police officer and another that of an immigrant caught in a traffic stop.
Joaquín García, a director of community organising for the group, who was playing the officer, began by warning the audience that immigrants would need to be extra cautious come January 20th, when Trump returned to the White House. They should do everything in their power, he added, to avoid an interaction with local and state police and the ubiquitous green-and-white Border Patrol trucks that can be seen at almost every turn in Texas border cities.
In one scenario, García coaxed a woman playing the role of an immigrant into admitting that she lacked identification and a car registration, prompting the pretend officer to call Border Patrol for backup. In that scenario, he said, deportation would be almost guaranteed.
García reassured the crowd that they had a right to remain silent, the right to call an immigration lawyer and the right to ask for a hearing before an immigration judge. He also warned them not to sign a voluntary order of deportation, even if they were pressured to do so.
García also instructed people to have a plan in place in case they found themselves in an immigration jail, including securing power of attorney to give custody of their children to a legal resident so that their children would not end up in foster care.
“Have a plan. Be ready. Because remember, they also have a plan,” García said. “Their plan is to get you out of the country.”
One man raised his hand and wondered if it would be better for people in danger of deportation to pack their bags and return to their native country to avoid being held behind bars.
“Why wait to get deported? Because they are going to deport you anyway,” he asked.
Brittany (22), who has attended several such meetings, said she was a US citizen but feared for her husband, a Mexican immigrant who was fighting an order of deportation. She said she had been calling her immigration lawyer almost every day demanding updates. She had been told that her husband might have a path to legal residency because he was married to her and they had two US-born children.
But she fears that when Trump returns to office, those protections may simply evaporate.
“I’m just trying to get his documents settled before January,” she said. “At this point, we are praying for a miracle to keep our family together.” – This article originally appeared in The New York Times
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