1 day Ago
On a cold November morning, I dropped off my four-year-old daughter at the bus stop and hugged her tight. I waved as the bus took her to kindergarten. But inside I was a mess.
I was on my way to a court hearing to face a series of misdemeanor crimes from my teen years. That afternoon, I was taken into custody and a few months later, a judge would sign my deportation order. I couldn’t have imagined it would be 14 years before I would see my child again.
I’m sharing my family’s story because as the threat of mass deportation looms, many more families could suffer like mine did. In my case, the judge told me I could not take my child with me because she was born here and has an American father. My story is not unusual: In fact, recent research by immigration scholars at the USC School of Social Work found that 45 percent of deported immigrants leave behind one or more children in the U.
S., many of them U.S.
citizens. It’s a pain no parent or child should have to experience. The judge had delayed my deportation order to give me time to get a lawyer, but as an undocumented immigrant, I didn’t have a right to legal representation, and I couldn’t find anyone to help me.
So in February 2012, a bus dropped me off at the Chaparral entry at San Ysidro, and I walked at dawn into Tijuana to a country I’d left when I was five months old. At first, my daughter’s father agreed to bring her to Tijuana for visits. But the plan quickly fell apart when he told me he was scared that I’d kidnap her.
My heart sank when he cut off contact, changed his phone number and moved. I was frantic wondering what he was telling her about what had happened to me. I didn’t want her thinking I’d abandoned her.
At first, I brainstormed desperate measures to get back home. I found a job doing administrative work and saved up to afford a coyote who could bring me across the desert, but I got scared when people told me how dangerous my plan was. In the meantime, my heart ached as so many birthdays, first days of school and holidays came and went.
I felt so powerless as time passed, and I fell into a deep depression. A few years later, I found an American family lawyer who took my case pro bono. We hired a private detective who found my daughter, but my ex refused to show up at court proceedings and disappeared again.
I was crushed but tried to move on with my life. I eventually fell in love again and gave birth to another daughter, but I still lived with a giant hole in my heart. Four years ago, my prayers were answered.
My ex’s sister called me out of the blue. “Your daughter is here,” she said. My then 14-year-old daughter had run away from her father’s house—she rebelled against his strict rules—and tracked down her aunt.
We would eventually have the tearful phone calls, as I explained how I’d been looking for her all these years. I offered for her to come live with me, but she wanted to stay in California to finish high school first. During those years, we did a lot of texting and FaceTime as I tried to make up for lost time.
Related Articles Commentary | Rebuild Los Angeles by liberating people and markets Commentary | Why California’s fire response could make or break the careers of several politicians Commentary | Public schools shouldn’t turn away children victimized by the fires Commentary | The angst of the ‘ceasefire’ in Israel Commentary | Lessons from Lahaina for Los Angeles When my daughter turned 18, I invited her to come visit me in Mexico and meet her 9-year-old sister. In October, her boyfriend drove her down from Santa Ana across the border. It was surreal to see the beautiful woman she’d become—she has hazel green eyes and a sly smile—and I love how she’s resilient and determined but can be a total goofball, too.
I’m hopeful we will continue to make new memories over time. Yet after she drove back across the border, it became even more clear what we’ve lost. There is so much that we don’t know about Trump’s deportation plan.
But as the administration decides who to target, I urge them to consider all the innocent people who might suffer as a result. My daughter was forced to grow up without her mother, and we both share a wound that will last a lifetime. Pricila Rivas is the Deportee Program Coordinator for the nonprofit Al Otro Lado and lives in Tijuana.
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