A daughter with DACA, a mother without papers, and a goodbye they can't bear
Michelle Valdes' mom thinks she sees immigration agents everywhere: in the lobby of the building where she cares for elderly clients, at the local outlet mall, on downtown corners. The fear is constant.
Driving to work, going to the store —just leaving the house feels too risky for her.
At work, while she cooks and cleans in her clients' homes, she listens as stories of immigration detentions, deportations and constantly changing laws and policies play loudly in English from the TV.
The 67-year-old undocumented Colombian national who has lived in the United States for more than a third of her life has stopped driving completely, opting for Uber, and ducking down in the backseat when she sees police officers.
As a Jehovah's Witness, she has chosen not to do her door-to-door ministry and only attends church on Zoom.
But what keeps her up at night these days is that she will soon go without seeing her daughter, likely for close to a decade.
She is preparing to leave the United States after 23 years, leaving behind her 31-year-old daughter, a DACA recipient or 'Dreamer' who came to the United States when she was 8 and is still in the process of gaining her green card.
Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, or DACA, is a federal program that protects undocumented people who came to the U.S. as children from deportation.
'I don't want to feel like I'm going to be spending two months in some detention center in the middle of God knows where, where none of my family members see me,' she said in Spanish during an interview with the Herald. She asked not to use her name for this story because she fears she could be targeted.
'I'm done,' she said.
Her daughter's immigration situation is also precarious, even though she is married to a U.S. citizen. His family, from Cuba, got lucky when they won the visa lottery.
But her family did not have such luck. Valdes' family did what immigrants often do: They fled danger, asked for political asylum, hired lawyers and filed paperwork. And they lost.
Last year, only 19.3% of Colombian asylum cases were approved, according to researchers at Syracuse University.
Even in 2006, when violence was at a very high point in Colombia, only 32% of asylum cases were approved.
Their family's story reveals the toll a constantly changing and exceedingly complicated immigration system has on families who tried to 'do the right thing' and legalize their status. Now, under President Trump's administration, which has ramped up enforcement and the optics around it, being undocumented has become even more hazardous. People who have been living and working in the shadows in the United States are now being forced to decide if the reward of seeking a better life is still worth the risk. And those who are following the rules are afraid the rules will keep changing.
The mother has already started packing boxes.
Denied asylum
Valdes' mom had never heard of the American Dream. She said she had never even heard the phrase 'el sueño americano' before coming to the United States.
The family fled Colombia in 2002, leaving behind comfort and status. Valdes' mother had been an architect in Cartagena, a city on the South American nation's Caribbean coast. The family had a driver, a cook and a nanny. But violence by the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia, the rebel group known as FARC, was encroaching on their lives: armed robbery at their home, threatening calls and the kidnapping of her cousin, a wealthy businessperson. The family was forced to pay a ransom for his release.
The early 2000s in Colombia, under President Andrés Pastrana, were years of intense violence by guerrilla gangs such as the FARC, who targeted wealthier Colombians.
'They would just pick up anybody who they believed they could get money from,' said Valdes.
Her aunt would often call Valdes' mom from Florida, telling her their family would be safer here.
The family arrived on a tourist visa in 2002, found a lawyer and applied for asylum. It was denied in 2004.
Under U.S. immigration policy, people who have suffered persecution due to factors such as race, religion, nationality, membership to a social group, or political opinion can apply for asylum. It must be filed within a year of arrival in the United States.
Valdes' family's interview did not go well and they were placed in removal proceedings. They appealed and in 2006 took the case to the U.S. Board of Immigration Appeals.
The family's asylum application claimed that Valdes' mom would be killed by the FARC guerilla gang if she returned to Colombia, in connection with her cousin's kidnapping.
But the court ultimately found holes in her case, and said her fear is not well founded and that she failed to prove that she would be in danger if she returned to Colombia. Their final motion was denied in part because it was filed 45 days late, according to the court filing.
Valdes was just 11 years old when the courts denied her family's final plea to stay in the United States.
The family was issued removal orders.
'I feel like I made a mistake asking for asylum,' said Valdes' mother. 'I wasn't guided well because I was scared and didn't know what to do.'
She says predatory lawyers charged her close to $40,000 but never told her the truth about her odds of winning the case.
'It's pure show,' she said in Spanish. 'I believed they would help, but they did nothing.'
By then, Valdes and her brothers were attending public schools in West Palm Beach, a right undocumented children have because of a supreme court ruling which passed narrowly in the early '80s.
'I just kind of poured my whole life into school, just to kind of distract myself from other things going on in life, specifically with immigration,' she said.
In fifth grade, she won the science fair.
At Roosevelt Middle School she was in the pre-med program and the national junior honor society. She always had A's and B's in school.
But when her middle school national honor society was invited to Australia, she had to stay behind, unable to travel because she was undocumented.
At Suncoast Community High School, she was invited to sing in a choir concert in Europe, but again, she could not go.
In 2007, ICE detained Valdes' parents and her eldest brother. Her other brother and Valdes were picked up from school and reunited with their parents at the ICE office.
Valdes' mom said the officer told her that since the family had a removal order, they needed to deport at least one person to prove they completed their quota for the day.
But to this day, Valdes and her mother can't fully explain why the father was deported but they were released. Was it luck? Did the ICE officers sympathize with their family?
Then 13, Valdes remembers standing in the Miami immigration office as agents took her father away.
'He was wearing jeans, a tan coat and a gray-blue fisherman's hat,' she said.
'What I remember the most is that there was, like, some sort of feeling that I got, that I knew that I was never gonna see him again.'
He was deported in January of 2007, when Valdes was in seventh grade. It was the only semester she ever failed in school, she said.
Her father died at 69 in Colombia in 2022.
A petition for him to get legal status and return to the U.S., filed on his behalf of his son from a previous marriage, was approved a year after his death, said Valdes.
'17 years too late,' she said, in tears.
DACA as a lifeline
In 2012, Valdes and her mother were preparing to leave the United States for good. Flights were booked. Boxes mailed. Then, just 14 days before departure, President Obama announced the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program.
The program was meant to protect children like Valdes, who came to the U.S. at a young age.
Valdes was 18. Her phone lit up with messages from people in her community who knew she was undocumented. She applied that October.
As a 'Dreamer,' or DACA recipient, she's protected from deportation and able to work legally — but can't travel outside the country.
Her two older brothers, Ricardo and Jean Paul, had already left the country by then.
After attending public schools and graduating from high school, the brothers could not attend college or find work. So in 2011, they returned to Colombia, and their mother sent them money to attend university. They both still live there and haven't seen their mom in 14 years.
Valdes' situation was slightly better, but without legal permanent residency, she didn't qualify for most scholarships. The one scholarship she did get was a $4,000 scholarship from the Global Education Center at Palm Beach State, but $1,500 was deducted in taxes because she was considered a foreign student.
Starting in 2014, Florida universities provided in-state tuition waivers for undocumented students under certain conditions.
But because Valdes didn't enroll in college within a year of graduating from high school, she lost access to the waiver.
That waiver was recently canceled in Florida for undocumented students, and starting July 1, at least 6,500 DACA recipients in Florida enrolled in public universities will have to pay the out-of-state tuition rate.
'When people asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I would ask for money to pay my tuition,' she said.
Throughout those years, people would come to Valdes asking for help filling out their work permit applications, DACA applications and other legal forms, and they would say, 'Wow, you are so good at it.'
Although she never wanted to do anything law or immigration related, she kept getting pulled in that direction, and decided to get her paralegal certificate, Valdes said. She now works at an immigration law office. Her plan is to go to law school after getting hands on training.
'I always thought: When I turn 18, I'm an adult — 'why am I still tied to my mom's case?' ' she said. 'But nobody explained it.'
At her job in the law office, she finally learned the full truth of her case.
Her name is still listed on her mother's asylum application — the case that was denied in 2006. So she still had a final removal order connected to her name.
That case, and its order of removal, still haunts her.
Although she's married to a U.S. citizen, it will take her years to adjust her status to get a green card and permanent residency status.
The process will involve her husband filing petitions and waivers explaining that it would be an extreme hardship for him if she were deported. Valdes will have to leave the country and re-enter. In all, the process could take around eight years.
Former president Joe Biden had a program to help people like Valdes, whose family is of 'mixed-status' but the program was shut down by Republicans.
Immigration attorneys say there are fewer and fewer pathways for people married to U.S. citizens to legalize their status.
The roadblocks and complications frustrate Valdes to tears.
Valdes said that it is not fair that 'under our immigration system, a child, at such a young age, has to suffer the consequences of the parents' mistakes.'
'No es justo, no es justo,' she said, crying. It's not fair.
But immigration laws, enforcement and policies are changing every day.
'People say 'get in line, get in line, get in line,' and then you get in line, and it's like, 'Oh, too bad, you don't apply with that anymore, or we're just going to change the laws. Or, you know, you aged out, or you didn't submit by this day,' said Valdes.
In the past weeks, ICE agents across the nation have even begun detaining people as they exit immigration courthouses. Some are individuals with final orders of deportation like Valdes and her mom.
Just this week, the Supreme Court ruled that President Trump can revoke humanitarian parole for over 500,000 migrants from Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua and Venezuela.
President Trump has spoken favorably of DACA recipients, but nonetheless, 'Dreamers' still have to reapply every two years, and there is no guarantee their right to legally be in the U.S. will not be revoked. Immigration attorneys say DACA could be the next program to be shut down by the Supreme Court.
'How shaky is DACA? How solid is it?' Valdes asked.
Same fear, different country
Valdes' mom says she now feels the same fear in the United States as she did in Colombia — maybe worse.
'I'm scared. Terrified,' she said. 'I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, always on alert.'
For years, she tried to hold on. But after 23 years, she's tired of living in limbo.
Valdes and her mom try not to think much about the fact that they are leaving each other, focusing more on the present and getting through each day.
Valdes' mom says her ultimate goal was always for her daughter to get an education in the United States, and now that her daughter has a job, a husband, and is planting roots, she feels like she can go and let her daughter live her life.
She left Colombia because she was 'tired of being followed. I was tired of being paranoid. I was tired of never being able to have my freedom, to just live, because I was always so scared. And fast forward, 23 years later, I'm just in the same boat in a different country,' she said.
The hardest part for Valdes is imagining being pregnant and then giving birth without her mom by her side.
But, she says, 'Now I tell her, I totally understand. It's your turn to finish living your life, Mom. I want her to be at peace, and I want her to rest.'
As her mother prepares to leave, Michelle is left with the frustration of knowing that there's nothing she can do.
'I am still helpless. I still can't help her. I still can't help myself. It's a looming darkness you carry every day,' said Valdes.
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The one scholarship she did get was a $4,000 scholarship from the Global Education Center at Palm Beach State, but $1,500 was deducted in taxes because she was considered a foreign student. Starting in 2014, Florida universities provided in-state tuition waivers for undocumented students under certain conditions. But because Valdes didn't enroll in college within a year of graduating from high school, she lost access to the waiver. That waiver was recently canceled in Florida for undocumented students, and starting July 1, at least 6,500 DACA recipients in Florida enrolled in public universities will have to pay the out-of-state tuition rate. 'When people asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I would ask for money to pay my tuition,' she said. Throughout those years, people would come to Valdes asking for help filling out their work permit applications, DACA applications and other legal forms, and they would say, 'Wow, you are so good at it.' 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Valdes will have to leave the country and re-enter. In all, the process could take around eight years. Former president Joe Biden had a program to help people like Valdes, whose family is of 'mixed-status' but the program was shut down by Republicans. Immigration attorneys say there are fewer and fewer pathways for people married to U.S. citizens to legalize their status. The roadblocks and complications frustrate Valdes to tears. Valdes said that it is not fair that 'under our immigration system, a child, at such a young age, has to suffer the consequences of the parents' mistakes.' 'No es justo, no es justo,' she said, crying. It's not fair. But immigration laws, enforcement and policies are changing every day. 'People say 'get in line, get in line, get in line,' and then you get in line, and it's like, 'Oh, too bad, you don't apply with that anymore, or we're just going to change the laws. Or, you know, you aged out, or you didn't submit by this day,' said Valdes. In the past weeks, ICE agents across the nation have even begun detaining people as they exit immigration courthouses. Some are individuals with final orders of deportation like Valdes and her mom. Just this week, the Supreme Court ruled that President Trump can revoke humanitarian parole for over 500,000 migrants from Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua and Venezuela. President Trump has spoken favorably of DACA recipients, but nonetheless, 'Dreamers' still have to reapply every two years, and there is no guarantee their right to legally be in the U.S. will not be revoked. Immigration attorneys say DACA could be the next program to be shut down by the Supreme Court. 'How shaky is DACA? How solid is it?' Valdes asked. Valdes' mom says she now feels the same fear in the United States as she did in Colombia — maybe worse. 'I'm scared. Terrified,' she said. 'I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, always on alert.' For years, she tried to hold on. But after 23 years, she's tired of living in limbo. Valdes and her mom try not to think much about the fact that they are leaving each other, focusing more on the present and getting through each day. Valdes' mom says her ultimate goal was always for her daughter to get an education in the United States, and now that her daughter has a job, a husband, and is planting roots, she feels like she can go and let her daughter live her life. She left Colombia because she was 'tired of being followed. I was tired of being paranoid. I was tired of never being able to have my freedom, to just live, because I was always so scared. And fast forward, 23 years later, I'm just in the same boat in a different country,' she said. The hardest part for Valdes is imagining being pregnant and then giving birth without her mom by her side. But, she says, 'Now I tell her, I totally understand. It's your turn to finish living your life, Mom. I want her to be at peace, and I want her to rest.' As her mother prepares to leave, Michelle is left with the frustration of knowing that there's nothing she can do. 'I am still helpless. I still can't help her. I still can't help myself. It's a looming darkness you carry every day,' said Valdes.
Yahoo
3 hours ago
- Yahoo
British backpacker faces 20 years in jail over fatal e-scooter crash
A British backpacker is facing up to 20 years in an Australian jail after being charged with killing a pedestrian she hit while riding an e-scooter. Alicia Kemp, 24, is alleged to have been three times the legal alcohol limit when she collided with Thanh Phan, a 51-year-old engineer said to have been standing on a footpath. Mr Phan, a father of two, had been waiting to cross the road in Perth's central business district when Ms Kemp, who had a passenger on the e-scooter, struck him on May 3. Mr Phan died in hospital from brain passenger, understood to be a 26-year-old friend of Ms Kemp, suffered a fractured skull and a broken nose. Ms Kemp, a psychology graduate from Redditch, Worcs, was denied bail when she appeared in court in Perth charged with dangerous driving occasioning bodily harm and dangerous driving occasioning death. The magistrate said she was too great a flight risk to be freed on bail. If convicted, the maximum penalty is 20 years' imprisonment. Ms Kemp was supported in court by her family, who travelled from the UK, and her boyfriend, with whom she was touring the world. She graduated from Nottingham Trent University with a BSc in psychology with criminology, before completing a masters in forensic mental health. She went on to work with children in care who had emotional, behavioural, physical and intellectual difficulties. In the summer of 2023, she began a two-year trip around the world, posting her adventures on TikTok and describing herself as a 'digital nomad'. She worked as an English teacher in Vietnam and volunteered at an animal shelter in the Philippines. She was in Australia on a four-month working holiday visa, and had been working at Durty Nelly's Irish Pub in Perth. The police have claimed she was travelling at speeds of up to 15mph before she hit Mr Phan from behind. She was said to have been drinking since 2.30pm and the collision happened after 8pm. Prosecutors told the court her 'inexplicably dangerous' riding was captured by CCTV, and other pedestrians had to 'take evasive action' as she allegedly rode the e-scooter on the footpath. She was said to have had a blood alcohol level of 0.158. Local laws dictate that those riding electric vehicles like e-scooters must have a level below 0.05 to drive. As a result of the collision, the city of Perth suspended the hire of e-scooters. Dr Michael Page, the West Australia president of the Australian Medical Association, told that at least one person a day was admitted to trauma units in the state with major injuries caused by e-scooters. He added that the number of patients with really serious injuries had been increasing. 'It's really a scourge in terms of injuries in our society and the problem with these council-endorsed private hire e-scooters in city centres is people are hopping on without any experience [of] riding e-scooters,' he said. 'They're often intoxicated. They might be riding at night. They might not be wearing proper protection and so the chance for something to go wrong is very, very high.' Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
