This story was produced in collaboration with WKNO-FM public radio.
Today is Liliana’s birthday. She’s 18. She smiles brightly as friends and family gather around her and her pink-and-gold cake in the backyard of their Memphis home.
When Liliana’s mother Maria raises her cell phone, a chorus of voices pours from its speaker. They are singing a spirited if slightly out-of-tune version of “Happy Birthday.”
Editor’s note: This 3-part audio series uses pseudonyms to protect family members who asked to not be identified for fear of retaliation. As a general practice the Institute for Public Service Reporting does not use pseudonyms but is doing so here because of the sensitive nature of these stories, which shines light on the plight of many immigrants. To learn more about this family, read our original story from last May.
On the other end of the phone line on this warm and festive September day is her father, Jose. He is leading the singing from an immigration detention center hundreds of miles away in Monroe, Louisiana.
As the singing ends and the call winds down, Maria tells her husband to try to have a happy night.
“Okay, ‘’ Jose answers before breaking into his native Spanish. “Te amo, yo también te amo.’’
I love you, too, he says.
“Bye-bye,’’ Maria and Liliana say. “Adios.”
“I love you from here,’’ Jose says again as if trying to stretch out this most tender moment. “From here in Monroe to Memphis.’’
Such is life for Jose and Maria and their three U.S.-born children since U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents arrested Jose during a routine check-in back in August.
Jose and Maria came here from Central America in the early 2000s. Their path to legal residency ended soon after. Jose says he got bad advice from an immigration attorney and skipped a court hearing. His current attorney, Matthew Orr, said the problem began there.
“The judge entered an in-absentia order of deportation and he has been living in the United States with that order hanging over his head for 24 years or so,” Orr said.
Jose found out about the removal warrant during a traffic stop about two years ago. Soon after, immigration officers detained him, then let him go with a work permit. But times and politics have changed following President Donald Trump’s inauguration in January. At an immigration check-in on August 18, Jose was cuffed, shackled, and shipped some 300 miles to the Richwood Correctional Center in Monroe Louisiana.
With a reporter in tow, Maria and their three children decided to make a surprise visit a few weeks after Jose’s arrest. For daughter Liliana, the five-hour trip seems longer.
“I’m excited and nervous but I’m more nervous. I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s an ICE building,’’ she said.
But you’re a U.S. citizen, a reporter interjects. Why should you feel nervous?
“What if they send me back, too?’’ Liliana responds. “They’re like, ‘You’re brown. Sorry.’ ”
The detention center is a sprawl of concrete, chain-link fencing and loops of razor wire. Maria won’t go inside. She’s afraid of arrest. But she has a message for her husband of 27 years:
“Be strong,” she says, “We’re staying strong and fighting with the hope he can remain here.”
There are strict rules for entering the detention facility. No phones. No wallets. Just identification cards. Visitors go through a metal detector and get a pat down.
The children enter a large room, white and cold with white tables and chairs. Jose stands out in a bright yellow jumpsuit. Families are divided by thin partitions. One group’s laughter merges with another’s tears.
Despite the harsh conditions, Liliana was deeply moved by the nearly two-hour visit.
“It was more than what I hoped for,’’ she said. “… I had fully expected it to be like glass separating us.’’
Unlike in the movies, there was no glass partition separating Jose from his children. Liliana could hug him; She could see that he was physically not in danger.
“I guess it also gave me like even an even bigger sense of security. I know that he’s like okay,’’ she said.
Since Donald Trump took office, the political rhetoric around immigration has shifted from undocumented workers taking American jobs to immigrants being a danger to society. Repeatedly, the Trump administration has said it’s arresting and deporting the “worst of the worst.” But nearly three-fourths of those arrested so far have had no prior criminal convictions, according to data maintained by the Transactional Records Access Clearinghouse at Syracuse University.
Jose, too, is hardly the worst of the worst. Over the last 23 years, he’s started his own house painting business, raised an American family and paid taxes. An extensive criminal background check by the Institute for Public Service Reporting found a single offense. He was once cited for fishing without a license.
Matthew Orr, Jose’s immigration attorney, said his clients now face both legal and political barriers to remaining in the U.S.
“At the end of the day, this government favors white English speakers for its immigrants,’’ he said.
Orr points to the recent special refugee program for white South Africans.
“There are horrible things happening in Central and South America, and we’re not creating any special programs these days for them,’’ he said.
Orr says Jose’s family should prepare for bad news.
“Frankly, these cases are very difficult,’’ he said.
As Maria and her family drove back to Memphis, they realized they are facing a new reality. But the mother of three U.S. citizens says she’s still hopeful.
“God gives me peace,’’ she says. “I only have two options, to crumble or fight. And I’ve decided to fight.”
