I am the head of the second largest public school system in the country. I am also an American proud – and once, I was an undocumented immigrant.
My trip to citizenship is not only a personal history; It is a story that deeply informs how I direct, how I teach and how I serve the more than 520,000 students who frequent the unified schools of Los Angeles. This country gave me the opportunity to learn, grow and restore. I became an educator because I believe in the promise of public education. And I became a superintendent to protect him.
This week, I applauded while our younger students culminated in kindergarten and I crossed their first academic arrival lines. They were celebrated, striking pride and embraced the teachers who helped them grow. In these moments, I saw the future: brilliant, diverse and full of possibilities.
But in the same week, I also stood next to the families seized with fear. Some of them have lived in our city for decades. Some have arrived more recently, escaping violence, persecution and poverty. All have entrusted their children to us. And now many of them are faced with unimaginable.
In recent months, the federal government has sent immigration agents to our communities – sometimes directly in or near schools. They questioned the parents and, in some cases, spoken with the students. Federal immigration agents have crossed the districts with visible tactical equipment and vehicles and set up control points outside workplace. And this weekend,, The National Guard was deployed in our city.
To be clear: no preschool, no first student, no second year student at high school en route for the class does not pose any risk to the national security of the United States. And yet, the answer we see is more like a military operation than an immigration process. The result is a generalized trauma, fear and distrust, especially in our schools, where children should feel the safest.
We hear relationships of families hiding at home. Students are too afraid to come to school. Parents who feel that they must choose between the education of a child and the risk of detention. These are not hypotheses. These are the lived experiences of students and families of my district.
The unified schools of Los Angeles are – and will remain – scattered and welcoming spaces for each child, regardless of immigration status. It is not only our commitment, it is the law. The United States Supreme Court has deemed for more than four decades that each child, regardless of citizenship, has a constitutional right to free public education. This means that our doors are open. No child should miss school because of fear.
However, I would lie if I said that fear does not exist. And that is precisely why the superintendents – and all the leaders – must speak now.
School is not only a place to learn reading, mathematics and science. It is also the place where students receive food, mental health resources and physical care. Schools are the heart of a community. For many children, this is the only place where they really feel safe, really seen. When federal actions create chaos outside of our school doors, it is our responsibility to express themselves and protect the sacredness of what is happening within them.
As a former immigrant undocumented, I know this fear. I felt it. I lived with the uncertainty of knowing if a blow to the door meant the separation of everything I loved. I also know what it means to have a chance – to study, to contribute, to direct. And that makes what is happening in our communities now all the more painful. Because these children, these families, are like me.
The question is now: what kind of country do we want to be?
I believe that we must be a nation that protects children before politics. A nation that recognizes education not as a negotiation program, but as a birth right. A nation that honors the incredible courage and contributions of the families of immigrants who are the backbone of our workforce, our schools and our future.
We need human federal policies, legal and consistent with our values. This means interrupting application measures near schools and community centers. This means clear communication with local courts. This means permanent protections for dreamers and long -term immigration reform based on dignity and opportunity – not fear.
Locally, we must continue to invest in services that support our students: mental health care, trauma advice, family legal support and robust awareness so that families know their rights and know that they are not alone.
And to voters who read this: your voice counts. We cannot build a just education system without a just immigration system. The next elections, at all levels, will help to decide whether our schools remain learning sanctuaries or become battlefields for political theater.
As a superintendent, my charge is clear: I will do everything in my power to make sure that each child – documented or not – is safe, supported and seen in our schools. Because the future of this country is located every day in our classrooms. And the way we treat them defined who we are and what will then happen in our country.
We can choose fear. Or we can choose hope.
I know what I choose. Do you?
