What are we to do? We have to keep moving forward<\/em>.<\/p>\nFamilies sit on a mix of dining-room chairs and lawn chairs set up in a semicircle, with bits of green grass sprouting between the bricks in the backyard. They pick up packets from a white plastic foldable table located next to potted plants.<\/p>\n
The Mejias put their arms around each other\u2019s backs and thank everyone for coming. They begin by asking everyone to say their name and speak briefly about what brought them to the session.<\/p>\n
Sofia Torres, a short, heavyset woman in her early sixties with long wavy auburn hair, begins to cry before she can utter a word. She puts her palms out in front of her face and asks them to move on to the next person. Torres later shares that she has a prior order for deportation from fifteen years ago and fears a knock on the door.<\/p>\n
\u201cI want to know what to do if ICE comes to my door,\u201d says Torres.<\/p>\n
The group begins to act out a scenario of ICE coming to their homes. The mood is somber but as Juan Mejia pretends to be an ICE agent they begin to crack jokes and build comfort.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust pretend it is a door salesman,\u201d says Mejia. \u201cDon\u2019t open the door. Make sure they have the right paperwork to come in.\u201d<\/p>\n
As the session moves forward, they review a list of emergency contacts.<\/p>\n
* * *<\/p>\n
Sebastian Gallardo, a fourteen-year-old boy with thick black glasses and a peach-fuzz mustache, rests his hands on his chin as he sits on the white tiled front steps of the Mejias\u2019 bright-orange house. Even though it\u2019s the weekend, he wears his school uniform \u2013 a royal-blue polo and black flat-front shorts. The Mejias are his godparents. He feels at home. His mom, Sandra Gallardo, 34, asks him to repeat phone numbers and addresses he needs to know.<\/p>\n
Since January, his parents have been making plans in case they are picked up by ICE. Their plans include a custody agreement for who will take care of their three American-born sons.<\/p>\n
\u201cThese emergency plans have become the norm,\u201d says Sandra. \u201cWhen I went to my children\u2019s school they knew how to guide me to make sure I also made arrangements there as well.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her son notices how adults are coping with immigration changes.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can tell my parents are scared. They don\u2019t say it because they are trying to be strong,\u201d he says. \u201cThey make a lot of jokes. I see them laugh, but I can tell everyone is trying to hide their fear and be positive.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sandra Gallardo arrived in the United States in 1999, just a few days before her seventeenth birthday.<\/p>\n
\n
\u201cWe were starving in Mexico. It was like hitting a wall. No matter how hard I worked there were too many nights I went to sleep hungry,\u201d she says, repeatedly checking her phone to see if her husband and her other two children are on their way. She met her husband Jose at a produce distribution center in downtown Los Angeles. They moved in and made a home.<\/p>\n
Since election night, the Gallardo family has cut costs at home and started saving for the event of a deportation. They are trying to be mindful of how they spend money, which has been tough with three teenage boys who require plenty of food and clothing they quickly outgrow. They have cut down on afterschool activities and are looking to yard sales for shoes and clothes. They are currently looking to transfer the title of their small red sedan to a friend, just in case things become more complicated.<\/p>\n
Sebastian left his afterschool art program because he felt it was too risky to have his mom drive him out to the West Side for art lessons. He was also concerned about the cost of gas and time away from the family.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe all have to pitch in. As a big brother, I need to be with my brothers to make sure they feel safe,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
In mid-February, Sebastian began to feel very anxious. His grades dropped. He reached out to friends facing similar situations at home, as well as his school counselor.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m the oldest. I\u2019ve been trying to keep it together for my little brothers, but I feel so overwhelmed,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
His parents are concerned about his well-being, and are looking for ways to make all three of their children feel at ease. Sebastian has begun attending therapy once a week at school.<\/p>\n
\u201cAfter elections, my teacher wrote a lot of words on the board to helps us think of how we felt,\u201d Sebastian says. \u201cI wrote down \u2018injustice\u2019 and \u2018anger,\u2019 but right now what I feel is just fear, but also that I need to step up.\u201d<\/p>\n
* * *<\/p>\n
The Mejias\u2019 guests grab seconds at the food table. The backyard grows quiet as people sit and fill out pages in the packet, including contact sheets and asset disclosure forms.<\/p>\n
One woman looks at another and asks if she can name her as the emergency contact.<\/p>\n
\u201cClaro que si, comadre. Pero solo ten en encuenta que yo tampoco tengo papeles,\u201d<\/em>says the other.\u00a0Of course, comadre [a term of endearment]. But just keep in mind that I don\u2019t have my papers either.<\/em>\u00a0In spite of being the godmothers for each other\u2019s children, neither is able to list each other as a guardian on the emergency packets since both are undocumented and both face possible deportation.<\/p>\nAndrea Garcia, 37, who met the Mejia family through their childcare business, quietly looks over a stack of papers. She reaches for her pen and begins to make small checkmarks along the margins. Reviewing large packets and filling out forms has become second nature since her two-year-old daughter Lucia was diagnosed with a learning disability. She suffers from an undiagnosed issue with her motor skills. She looks over at her phone. It\u2019s almost time to pick up Lucia at physical therapy. She looks back at the form that reads \u201cDeclaraci\u00f3n de Autorizaci\u00f3n de la Persona Responsable de Menor,\u201d a custody authorization form.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe can\u2019t go back to Mexico. Not now,\u201d she says. \u201cLucia is starting to make progress.\u201d<\/p>\n
Last year, Garcia was referred to a nonprofit that works with people with developmental disabilities by Carolina Mejia, who noticed while that Lucia\u2019s speech and physical development were not moving at the same pace as her cohorts.<\/p>\n
\u201cI wasn\u2019t ready to accept it,\u201d Garcia says. \u201cI love my daughter, and it pains me to see her struggle. But I am so proud of her progress. She doesn\u2019t give up and I can\u2019t either.\u201d<\/p>\n
Garcia made the difficult decision to leave Mexico in 2004. Her mother had come to the U.S. nearly two decades earlier when Garcia was seven years old, and they hadn\u2019t seen each other since. After learning that her mother was very sick, Garcia applied for a visa to take care of her, but was denied. She came to the U.S. anyway, without documentation, where she reconnected with her mother. Then, in 2014, Garcia learned that she was pregnant. She was concerned about her legal status and the uncertainty she would be passing to her child.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is hard to live without your documents,\u201d she says. \u201cEven in a place like Los Angeles, you have to be very careful. With Lucia on the way, I knew I had to be extra careful.\u201d<\/p>\n
On the night of the presidential election, the family stayed up to listen to the results. The panic that had grown through the course of the 2016 primaries became a real threat.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy first thought was about Lucia\u2019s access to healthcare. Then I began to think about my status in this country,\u201d Garcia says. \u201cMy daughter means everything to me. She needs her mother, and she needs her treatment.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know what it is like to grow up away from your mother; I didn\u2019t want that for my daughter. I have tried to fill this form out about four times. Every time I get to the section where I authorize custody, I cry and get very anxious.\u201d<\/p>\n
But she also doesn\u2019t want to bring her daughter to Mexico, because she\u2019s concerned that she wouldn\u2019t have access to the health care she needs.<\/p>\n
As the informal session comes to a close, people hug and make their way out. Some stay behind to pack to-go plates, fold and put away lawn chairs, and clean up.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo podemos no vivir con miedo. Tenemos que seguir nuestras vidas, pero preparados y alerta<\/em>,\u201d says Juan Mejia as he walks two women down his driveway.\u00a0We cannot live in fear. We have to continue with our daily lives, but prepared and alert<\/em>.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
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