The lives affected by Parole in Place and DACA suspension: ‘I live in greater fear of being deported’

They are not citizens and do not have green cards. Many are unable to obtain a driver’s license or participate in social events, such as those at their children’s schools. Others have been unable to pursue their studies because they were unable to access scholarships. They work long hours for wages significantly below market rate. And despite repeated accusations from Republican candidate Donald Trump, they are not criminals; they simply entered the country without documentation.

After decades of living in the United States, the country is their home. They have families, belong to communities, work, and pay taxes, yet they have always lived in fear that everything could be taken away. Now, that fear has intensified. Some are beneficiaries of DACA, a program that protects migrants who arrived as children, while others qualify for the Keeping Families Together program, also known as Parole in Place. However, both initiatives are currently stalled in the courts due to challenges led by Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton and several other Republican states. Compounding their anxiety is the looming threat of a mass deportation — the largest in history — that Trump promises to implement if he wins the November 5 election. They cannot fathom why anyone would want to separate them from their families.

“I live in greater fear of being deported and separated from my family. Now that my children are young, I want to be with them as much as possible, and they don’t want me out of their lives either,” says Guadalupe Sánchez. Born in Mexico, she arrived in the United States without papers 24 years ago. Now 42, she has been married to an American citizen for 10 years and has two children.

She works tirelessly to support his family, but she lives “in the shadows” — a term used to describe those who hide from authorities to avoid deportation, which would dismantle the life they have spent decades building. Her undocumented status leaves her vulnerable to labor exploitation. She works in a restaurant with grueling hours. “I have never been paid fairly. I’ve worked 60, 70, and sometimes even 80 hours a week for a salary of $600 or $700. Other colleagues worked fewer hours but earned more than I did. When I asked about it, my employers claimed it was because I don’t have a work permit,” she explains.

Her work situation has worsened since Florida Governor Ron DeSantis toughened immigration laws. “Now they give me less work because they say they could be fined if there is an inspection,” she says.

Sánchez felt a surge of hope when President Joe Biden announced his Parole in Place program in June, which grants residency to the spouses of Americans who have been in the country for over 10 years. She was one of half a million undocumented immigrants eligible for the program. As soon as the application period opened, she applied, attended her fingerprinting appointment, and received confirmation that her application had been received. But since then, she has heard nothing. It has been more than 30 days, and her hope is dwindling. The program has been halted in court due to a lawsuit filed by Paxton, along with 15 other Republican states. The judge ruled that the procedure was illegal because it lacked Congressional approval. Paxton claims that undocumented migrants are straining the state’s public services.

“The continuation of the program will inject $1.5 billion into the Texas economy,” estimates Christina Morales, a state congresswoman from Houston and vice president of the Mexican American Legislative Caucus. “One of the reasons Houston thrives economically is that we welcome immigrants and connect them with jobs. Texas’s remarkable achievement of ranking as the eighth-largest economy in the world is only possible due to the crucial contributions of our immigrant communities,” she adds.

With Parole in Place, Sánchez anticipated a shift toward a more normal life, one that would allow her to participate in her children’s school activities without the fear of being discovered or to talks with other church members without worrying about being asked how she arrived in the country. “Our lives were going to change completely because I was planning to find a better job.” Her aspirations, now uncertain, included pursuing further education — perhaps in electrical work — to secure a better future for her children.

Like Sánchez, thousands of spouses are anxiously awaiting a resolution to reactivate the program. The judge who halted it has set a hearing date for November 5, coinciding with the general election. Until then, the program has been paralyzed. The Biden administration and several civil rights organizations have appealed the ruling.

Impact on relationships

Rian Villalobos expresses frustration over the years of paperwork and financial strain she and her husband have endured in their pursuit of residency. Her husband arrived in the U.S. undocumented in 2010, and they married in 2016. “When I first fell in love with my husband, I never once thought, ‘I better find out his immigration status because I won’t love him if he’s undocumented.’ That’s not how love works. That’s not how family works,” she explains.

Villalobos estimates he has spent thousands of dollars on applications and legal fees while navigating “three presidential administrations and countless sleepless nights.” She describes the bureaucratic process as devastating. Initially, when she learned about the Parole in Place program, she hoped it would finally provide them with the justice they deserve. Now, she is outraged by the political landscape, with the Republican candidate making the expulsion of undocumented immigrants a central theme of his election campaign.

Villalobos lives in Texas, but grew up in Wisconsin — a key state in the election — and is trying to influence his family and friends to consider his situation when they cast their votes.

Living ‘in the shadows’

Claudia Huffer, a Mexican who arrived in the United States at the age of four, is among the migrants who have benefited from DACA. She entered the country illegally with her parents, fleeing from fear in Mexico. “But fear was all I knew for most of my childhood. Growing up, I lived in the shadows, always looking over my shoulder, terrified of what could happen if my status was discovered,” she recalls.

When she turned 18, she found some peace of mind by applying for DACA. “However, my status is still temporary, and I live with the constant threat that it can be taken away from me at any moment. Parole in Place represented the first real opportunity I had to step out of the shadows and secure my family’s future,” she says. Huffer now lives in Texas and has been married to a U.S. citizen for four years, with whom she has started a family. She is outraged by the accusations she has had to endure in recent months. “We are not criminals; we are not a threat to this country. We are mothers, daughters, and DACA beneficiaries. We are doctors, lawyers, and workers who pay taxes,” she asserts.

After reviewing the lawsuits affecting both programs, Huffer stresses the importance of local elections, not just presidential ones. “We wouldn’t be in this situation if people like our current attorney general and Ted Cruz — a Republican senator from Texas — weren’t in office,” she says.

A three-judge panel of the 5th District Court of Appeals in New Orleans heard arguments on Oct. 10 regarding the lifting of the ban on the program that protects Dreamers from deportation. Outside the courthouse, about 200 protesters gathered, chanting, “Home is here.” The program was halted in September 2023 by Judge Andrew S. Hanen, who had previously declared it “illegal” in 2021. If the panel reaffirms its finding of “illegality,” the case will likely escalate to the Supreme Court, where a conservative majority could eliminate protections for more than half a million individuals who arrived in the country as children, paving the way for their deportation.

‘We can’t make plans anymore’

Gabriela Justo is one of those affected. “With DACA removed, there aren’t many options. If we return to our countries, we wouldn’t know where to go. We’ve been away for many years,” she admits. Justo, a Mexican-born woman, has spent half of her 31 years in the United States. She lives in Atlanta and works as a medical assistant. “I started studying medicine, but I couldn’t afford it, and since my family didn’t have papers, I couldn’t qualify for scholarships,” she explains.

Justo crossed the border with her parents with the help of coyotes and has vivid memories of the traumatic journey on foot, during which she dislocated her knee, requiring her father to reposition it. Her boyfriend, also a DACA beneficiary, was unable to renew his status due to the $500 fee required every two years. The couple started a small jewelry business, but ongoing legal uncertainties leave their future plans in limbo. “Since we arrived, we have worked, paid taxes, and followed the rules. Our plan was to build a better future. Now we can’t make plans anymore,” she laments.

While the courts deliberate on the future of half a million individuals protected by DACA and another half a million beneficiaries of the Parole in Place program, those affected and their families are not backing down. Rian Villalobos shares a powerful message: “We are here. We are many. We are organized. We have networks, resources, and voices. We vote. We refuse to live in fear, and like every other American, we will never tolerate attacks on our families.”

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