I am a high school teacher in the Boston Public Schools. I teach English to new immigrant students. I have done this work for nearly two decades. This year, my students come from Cameroon, Colombia, the Dominican Republic, El Salvador, Haiti, Venezuela, and Vietnam. In prior years, I’ve had students from Afghanistan, Brazil, Cape Verde, Chile, Guatemala, Honduras, Portugal, Russia, and Tibet.
I not only teach in Boston. I live there, two miles from work. My daughters also attend a Boston Public School that’s a six-minute drive from where I teach. Many of their classmates and their families have come to Boston from other countries. On the first day back at school after winter vacation, I gave my students an assignment to write about their goals for 2025 and beyond. A lot of students wrote about learning more English, improving their grades, exercising more and eating right, and getting an after-school job.
I collected their notebooks at the end of class, and I enjoyed reading each teen’s response. “I want to fix my attitude problem.” “I want to be a rich man.” “Help my sister with her homework.” Funny. Ambitious. Sweet.
And then there was Pierre’s resolution. Pierre is well over six feet tall. He has a dazzling smile, top grades, and a solid group of friends. Pierre came to Boston from Haiti by way of Mexico. His resolution: “Help my friends when they are not doing well and take my mind off of bad people to improve my own happiness.”
I know one friend of Pierre’s who is not doing well. One day after class in late December, Pierre’s friend Ami told me: “Miss. My best friend in Haiti. Today is the day they killed him.”
“Ami, what? I am so sorry. Why?”
“I don’t know. They just shot him. BOOM! BOOM! That’s it. In Haiti right now, the gangs will shoot anyone.”
I try to maintain a calm face in front of my students, always. But I must’ve had a look of concern.
“But don’t worry about me, Miss. I’m okay. I’m really okay,” Ami reassured me as her eyes became glassy. “I really am okay.”
And what “bad people” might Pierre have encountered in his life? In Haiti, gangs control the capital. Children can’t go to school because bullets fly everywhere; many schools have closed. When schools were open, children wet their pants and threw up at the sound of gunfire. One principal had the children simply lie on the floor as she sang to them. Lie like a corpse, so you don’t become a corpse. It’s a psychological death.
But the United States of America, which helped destabilize Haiti over the years, doesn’t care about any of that. President Biden deported tens of thousands of Haitians during his term, and now President Trump has big plans to deport half a million Haitians, including children, this coming summer. In October 2024, Trump spread spread a rumor that Haitians living in Springfield, Ohio, were eating people’s pets, which incited bomb threats and visits from a neo-Nazi group.
It’s not just Haitians. Immigrants from all over the world have been targeted. At the Mexican border, children were separated from their families, and little boys and girls slept on concrete floors with no idea where their parents had gone or when they would see them again (a policy continued by President Biden). Children got the flu. Children had lice in their hair. At least six children died in government custody in those early years of the first Trump presidency. And many who survived now have serious psychological scars.
Trump’s recent abrupt cuts to USAID funding were expected to lead to the deaths of at least 1,500 children by late January. His administration released a memo with a disgusting message about the value of human lives; defunding USAID meant “clearing significant waste” from the government. These are the words of a killer.
On Valentine’s Day, I gave my students a break from academic work. A friend had sent us art supplies, and students wrote poems for their loved ones. Huy had a video chat with his girlfriend in Vietnam to show off the heart and doily card he made her. Wedeline and Josephine exchanged bestie Valentine’s with one another; Josephine’s poem included the line: “You’re the cup to my saucer.” And Estephanie crafted an ode to her favorite cereal from the school cafeteria, Jeff’s Granola: “I always want more.”
Even Donald Trump made a Valentine card for immigrants. He posted it to The White House Instagram. It was a pink and red card with his face and ‘Border Czar’ Tom Homan’s. Trump had a poem, too:
ROSES ARE RED / VIOLETS ARE BLUE / COME HERE ILLEGALLY / AND WE’LL DEPORT YOU
Trump and Homan completed their anti-immigrant Valentine’s Day love triangle with the addition of Democratic New York City Mayor Eric Adams. Way back in 2019, before he had gotten into office, Adams pledged that New York City would always stand up for immigrants. But on V-Day, Adams and Homan appeared on Fox & Friends, where Adams announced his new collaborative relationship with ICE, which just so happened to be blossoming as federal charges against him were being dismissed.
Just days later, Tom Homan announced: “I’m coming to Boston, [and] I’m bringing hell with me.” So far, he hasn’t shown up, not within city limits at least. But it’s well documented that city leaders really get under his skin because they abide by our city’s 2014 Trust Act, which states that the Boston Police will not ask people about their immigration status or detain or arrest anyone solely because of their immigration status. Mayor Michelle Wu has asserted repeatedly that we are a sanctuary city that stands behind our fellow immigrant Bostonians. Immediately following the November 2024 election, Wu stated: "The last thing we want is for people who are part of our economy, part of our school system, part of our community and the fabric of our city, to feel that all of a sudden they have to retreat into the shadows.”
The truth is, things in Boston, at least to me, almost feel normal. I go outside in my neighborhood, where a quarter of my neighbors in Roslindale are immigrants, and I still hear reggaeton beats when cars pass by my house. I still smell empanadas, samosas, and tacos al pastor as I walk down the streets. I still hear languages mixing together when I go to the library, the grocery store, the thrift store. Some Americans might see other cultures and languages as an intrusion, but it’s my normal life, and my community would not be the same without my immigrant neighbors. What would Boston look like if the federal government were to disappear the 28 percent of our city’s residents who were born outside this country? It’s not hard to imagine empty buses and trains, shuttered restaurants and corner stores, abandoned construction sites, and parks empty of soccer and baseball teams. Those who stay will no longer recognize this place.
I go to work; my students are there. Some with chronic absenteeism have even started attending school more frequently. I attribute this to the effective work of the school social workers, who have recently reached out to students and their families, holding meetings with families in the school or in their homes that identify the issues that prevent students from attending (transportation, students’ work schedules at jobs outside of school, etc.) and helping to find solutions. I also think that students crave the connection and community offered by the school. But I teach in a very specific context. I teach in one of four major cities whose mayors testified before a Congressional Committee about their sanctuary policies in early March. All four mayors were deemed as refusing to cooperate with federal immigration officials. (Mayor Eric Adams was among these four, which makes his about-face even more notable.)
In the background, I wait for the other shoe to drop. I keep thinking about Anne Frank. Most readers who pick up The Diary of Anne Frank know that Anne’s life had a terrible ending. But at the beginning of the book, before the attic, Anne’s entries are those of a 13-year-old schoolgirl. With this line, it seems that change from ordinary to extraordinary is underway: “SUNDAY, JUNE 21, 1942 Dearest Kitty, Our entire class is quaking in its boots.” Of course, the reader would think the students are anticipating the Nazis. However, the next sentence reads: “The reason, of course, is the upcoming meeting in which the teachers decide who'll be promoted to the next grade and who'll be kept back.” This is so relatable to my experience with my students. Media headlines sometimes portray people as fearful and panicked about immigration policies 24/7, but my students appear to be living out their lives right now more or less as typical adolescents.
Anne’s father advises her: “Just enjoy your carefree life while you can.” But three days after her father gives this advice, the family receives a letter from the Nazis ordering her sister to report to a German work camp. Anne writes: “Visions of concentration camps and lonely cells raced through my head.”
Anne’s family must now leave their home to live hidden away in an attic. Things can change so quickly, and there comes a point where the parents and teachers cannot protect the children.
In the first few days of the new Trump administration, my students went wild checking TikTok for the latest updates of ICE sightings in Boston. ICE would be here, ICE would be there. Martín, a Salvadoran junior in my morning class who always comes late and usually with a pretty lousy reason, came in late, and that day his reason was: “I saw ICE on the Blue Line.” Was this really starting? Or was it a rumor? Then he added something no student had ever told me so directly before: “Miss, I don’t have documents.”
Teachers in Boston are prohibited from asking about documentation. No one in the Boston Public Schools is allowed to ask a student or a family about this. Teachers provide an educational service, not a surveillance operation.
“Okay, Martín, at least you made it to school today. Are you able to start your work? And can you let me know if you need a break?” Martín gave me a thumbs up and a smile, then sat down with his group. During my lunch break, I scoured the news. Nothing about ICE on the train. Nothing about ICE anywhere in Boston.
On the same day that Martín saw ICE on the train, Elias, a Dominican senior in my afternoon class, called me over to his table. He sits with Marietta, a Colombian senior, Heracles, a Dominican junior, and Josue, a Salvadoran freshman. I thought he had a question about the reading assignment.
“Miss,” Elias intoned quietly, “can we tell you something?” He glanced around at his group mates, who nodded. “Seventy-five percent of us at this table do not have documents.”
I paused for a moment. Why were they telling me this? Were they asking for help? Did they want to know if I would change, if I would start treating them differently? I had the feeling they just wanted to tell someone, for it to be out in the open.
I smiled and asked: “Well, then, do you think I should only teach English to 25 percent of you?” The students laughed, but, again, what if they disappeared?
For that first week, walking the streets, riding the bus or the train, meant moving through a giant haunted house, anticipating a jump-scare from ICE at any moment. Teachers received reminders from the Boston Public Schools: we do not talk to ICE, and we keep the doors securely closed at all times. These rules have been in place for years, and I felt reassured that all school staff received these instructions once again.
That first weekend of the new Trump regime, I attended a Know Your Rights presentation at Boston International Academy, another BPS high school. The Massachusetts Immigrant and Refugee Advocacy Coalition showed us two types of warrants, legal documents that looked fairly similar to one another, both with small print. If the document is signed by a judge, residents must let them in, but, otherwise, the residents can close the door. The presenters also showed us red cards that immigrants can show agents at home or at work. These are bilingual cards with Fourth and Fifth amendment rights clearly printed on them. We learned that, on the street, if someone asks for an immigrant by name, they should respond: “Yes, it’s me, but am I free to go?” These presentations are clearly effective; Tom Homan was disappointed with ineffective raids in Chicago because too many immigrants knew their rights because they had attended them.
But now it’s possible that any brown or Black person who looks or sounds like an immigrant might be questioned. There are plenty of U.S.-born Latinos as well as African people, from the Caribbean or elsewhere, in Boston who could be harassed or accosted. Would anyone be at risk of interrogation on their way to work or school or home? I have worked with Black male teachers who have been late to work because they have been stopped by the Boston police while driving because they looked like someone else, someone the authorities deemed a “criminal.” Even my husband, an olive-complexioned Italian American who has been told he looks “Spanish” or Cuban, was stopped by the police one night when wearing a black beanie because he looked like someone they were searching for.
If immigrants must conceal themselves and hide in the shadows, essentially becoming non-people, what else will the rest of us need to conceal in the future? The government has already flagged dozens of words related to identity to “limit or avoid” in official documents, including breastfeed, disability, ethnicity, gender identity, pregnant people, transgender, transsexual, victim, and women. When fear lives in our heads 24 hours a day, who do we become really? What will public libraries, parks, and city sidewalks become when people must conceal their identities rather than risk exposing themselves to danger?
I am convinced that city leaders will stand strong against threats to the safety and well-being of our community. But is simply refusing to help ICE good enough? We’re playing defense, but we’re not always playing offense. For example, after New York City, Boston has the highest rate of homelessness in the United States. I have had many students struggling with homelessness; desperate families in our schools have brought their children to the emergency rooms on cold winter nights for shelter. And MassHealth, our state’s medicaid program, offers healthcare according to immigration status. Boston is the 8th wealthiest city in one of the wealthiest countries in the world. Boston has nearly 43,000 millionaires and 8 billionaires. Such extreme inequality, such abundance in the face of material deprivation, is unacceptable. Being against ICE is simply not good enough when our people, both native-born and immigrant, have so many unmet needs. As Wu put it in her testimony before Congress, responding to the idea that immigrants are threats to public safety: “If you wanted to make us safe, pass gun reforms. Stop cutting Medicaid. Stop cutting cancer research. Stop cutting funds for veterans. That is what will make our city safe.”
A horrific thing that the Know Your Rights presentation emphasized is not to leave Massachusetts, maybe not even Boston, because police in different towns treat immigrants very differently than in Boston. This spoke to me as a gateway to further imprisonment; it’s the beginning of confining people's world to smaller and smaller spaces. It called to mind warnings throughout the South during Jim Crow: “N*gg*r, Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on You in Alix” (or whatever little racist town).
In many places outside of Boston, it’s open season for hatred and intolerance. A Brazilian man with no criminal record was pulled over by ICE in Marlborough, Massachusetts, about 30 miles from Boston. He has a wife and child in Massachusetts, but ICE threw him into a federal facility in Texas. In Saugus, a white enclave about 10 miles outside Boston, schools have illegally refused to enroll migrant children. Just four miles from my house, in Dedham, a town that’s 80 percent white and has a median income of $124,000, residents decried food handouts for their growing immigrant population and predicted an epidemic of opioid addicts. In Lynn, 13 miles away, ICE arrested an 18-year-old after a fight with her brother and put her in federal custody in Maine for a week. Most recently, in nearby Somerville, a Tufts graduate student named Rumeysa Ozturk, a valid visa holder originally from Turkey, was taken in by masked immigration officials. The video footage of the scene, which is chilling, looks like a kidnapping. It appears that she was targeted for her political views.
The teachers in my school, my daughters’ school, and my husband’s school (all schools with significant immigrant populations) are all coming to work as usual and doing their jobs as usual. Every day at work, I put on a brave face. I perform the role of Mrs. Dines: calm but strict, keeping it moving along with units and lessons about Community Health Resources, Boston’s History of Water, Famous Bostonians. I strive to make school special. I have received donations from my neighbors and friends and even from strangers after posting my wish list on a neighborhood social media group. I, like most teachers, often purchase classroom supplies with my own money or post projects on DonorsChoose, a crowdfunding website.
But, now, I am asking for more than ever because I know that there are people in my community who are empathetic to the plight of our immigrant neighbors and will step up to the plate to support immigrant children. A random stranger brought Valentine’s cookies to the school office for my students. For a writing celebration at which my students presented argument essays on community health, a neighbor involved in food rescue donated cakes, and a man who used to go into an office but now works remotely gave a collection of designer ties. I have field trips planned and guest speakers scheduled. Two senior volunteers have increased their hours in my classroom. I want things to be better than ever at school in order to buffer the anxiety and trauma of the cruelty taking place in our politics and in the media.
When I go home, I put on a brave face for my children until I can’t any longer. I’ve had meltdowns that I try to hide: crying in the bathroom, eating dinner in my bedroom in isolation from the family table, staying inside for entire Saturdays or Sundays. One Friday afternoon, I told my husband that I almost fell asleep during my lunch break. I went to take my nighttime trazodone and noticed that my pill box for the evening was empty. I realized that I must’ve taken it in the morning. Just like Pierre, I want to get the bad people out of my head, but it’s getting harder and harder.
For two decades, I have loved my work. I love receiving students from all over the world; it is a tremendous privilege to welcome them, to learn their cultures and their stories. But will they all disappear in the next four years? Will they die if deported to countries that may no longer want them? I know I wouldn’t want to teach any longer. I would have a hole in my heart.
Despite the daily work I do with students, I have so much doubt in my ability to effect any meaningful change in the trajectories of their lives. How could my everyday actions have any real bearing on the fate of these children in the face of deportation?
This sense of defeat reminds me of something written by another Bostonian, Jonathan Kozol, the longtime education activist and writer who has spent his career documenting the lives of some of the poorest and most segregated communities in our country. He’s one of the most outspoken critics of what he calls our “apartheid” public school system. I reread Kozol’s 1967 book, Death at An Early Age, about his year teaching in the segregated Boston Public School system, at least every couple of years. In a 1995 interview, Kozol expressed his own sense of failure: “I write now simply as a witness. This is how it is. This is what we have done. This is what we have permitted.”
But we cannot succumb to a jaded acceptance of what’s happening to immigrants. It is critical to take action. On February 4, hundreds of California teenagers staged a walkout to protest deportations. When 11-year-old Texan Jocelynn Rojo Carranza committed suicide after facing bullying over her immigration status, a San Diego teen organized a community protest in her honor. These teens inspire me, and even small protests can send a clear message to communities about the humanity of every person and the determination of young people to fight for justice. When young students are willing to stand up and fight back, we adults—who tend to have more power, resources, and experience to offer—can't just stand idly by.
My graduate school program in education required a course on Critical Pedagogy, a framework for teachers to use to recognize and examine oppression and to actively resist it within the classroom and the profession. There are three steps to critical pedagogy: name the problem, reflect upon it, and act.
I have named the problem here: the dehumanization and persecution of immigrants. The acts of harassment, fear-mongering, detainment, and deportation have resulted in trauma, disease, and death.
So what can an ordinary person do? New Mexico immigration lawyer and educator Allegra Love has explained how you can be an ally when your neighbors are being targeted for deportation. Seek out organizations in your community doing this work and learn what they actually need, be it money, volunteers, or donations. Support a neighbor with rent or childcare. Remain calm and patient with yourself; do not name yourself as a failure for not immediately finding solutions to a confusing whiplash administration. And, most of all, refuse any explanation that seeks to normalize the cruelty. I have printed out Love’s article and put it on my refrigerator at home and on my desk at work. I look in the mirror and tell myself: You are not failing. You cannot fail. You will not fail.
This anti-immigrant and authoritarian regime will only weaken if each of us determines to stop it.
