I knocked on the door at my parents’ home. My dad peeked out the window. Seeing it was me, he apologized. “Sorry, pero tengo que verificar quién es porque ya sabes cómo están las cosas.” (Sorry, but I have to verify who’s knocking because, well, you know how things are.)
His words made me feel proud that he remembered his rights. And heartbroken, since no one should feel unsafe in their home.
I arrived in the United States at the age of 9. As an undocumented Los Angeles County resident of over 20 years, I’ve completed a master’s degree and co-founded a marketing agency. I’m chasing my dreams as well as my parents’, to have a better future.
I have DACA, but my parents are both undocumented. And my dad’s job requires him to drive all over Los Angeles, the San Fernando Valley, and beyond, putting him at a higher risk of encountering Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents.
Knowing my dad has to work worries me, which is why it’s so important to me that he at least knows his rights: his right to remain silent, his right to an attorney, his right to ask ICE to provide a warrant signed by a judge.
Growing up, my teachers taught me that these rights are fundamental. They ensure that everyone has due process. But what I learned in school now seems irrelevant as ICE raids get more and more aggressive, with masked men detaining people and throwing them in unmarked vehicles. The Trump administration has shown it cares more about meeting quotas than following the law.
More than raids, these have felt like kidnappings. ICE claims it’s seeking criminals but in reality it’s going after law-abiding working people, like my dad, hoping they don’t know their rights. Agents have also equated being brown and working a blue-collar job with being undocumented, and are using this racial profiling to target the most vulnerable.
I’ve always seen Los Angeles as a vibrant city full of life, but lately it feels gray and sad. I walk around and see empty shops. Out of fear, the street vendors have stopped doing their routes, and places like La Placita Olvera are deserted.
Even at 31, I can’t imagine what my life would be like if my parents were deported. When a friend texted me recently, advising that there were ICE patrols a few blocks away from my parents’ residence, I immediately began to cry. Still, I managed to pull myself together to text my family. My youngest brother, who is a citizen, immediately drove to the location. By the time he arrived, ICE had left. Even though the patrols were no longer there my mom felt concerned about their proximity.
Having had the privilege of obtaining higher education, I have been taking comfort in the fact that knowledge is our most powerful weapon; it helps keep us safe. Despite everything, I believe that a community that knows its rights is a community that will stand up against oppression and injustice.
Miriam Frutos Rodriguez is a first-generation immigrant who’s been living in California since 2003. She obtained her MA at California State University, Northridge and co-founded a marketing agency in 2025. This was written for Zócalo Public Square, an ASU Media Enterprise publication.
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