I Was Once Undocumented. Now I’m a Superintendent Speaking Out Against Trump’s Immigration Raids

I am the leader of the second-largest public school system in the country. I am also a proud American—and once, I was an undocumented immigrant.

My journey to citizenship is not just a personal story; it is a story that deeply informs how I lead, how I teach, and how I serve the over 520,000 students who attend Los Angeles Unified schools. This country gave me the opportunity to learn, to grow, and to give back. I became an educator because I believe in the promise of public education. And I became a superintendent to protect it.

This week, I cheered as our youngest students culminated from Kindergarten and crossed their first academic finish lines. They were celebrated, beamed with pride, and hugged the teachers who helped them grow. In those moments, I saw the future: bright, diverse, and full of possibility.

But in the same week, I also stood beside families gripped with fear. Some of them have lived in our city for decades. Some arrived more recently, escaping violence, persecution, and poverty. All of them have entrusted their children to our care. And now, many of them are facing the unimaginable.

In recent months, the federal government has sent immigration agents into our communities—sometimes directly to or near schools. They have questioned parents and, in some cases, spoken with students. Federal immigration agents have driven through neighborhoods with visible tactical gear and vehicles and set up checkpoints outside of workplaces. And this weekend, the National Guard was deployed in our city.

To be clear: no preschooler, no first grader, no high school sophomore on their way to class poses any risk to the national security of the United States. And yet, the response we are seeing looks more like a military operation than an immigration process. The result is widespread trauma, fear, and distrust—particularly in our schools, where children should feel safest.

We are hearing reports of families hiding in their homes. Students too afraid to come to school. Parents who feel they must choose between a child’s education and the risk of detention. These are not hypotheticals. They are the lived experiences of students and families in my district.

Los Angeles Unified schools are—and will remain—safe and welcoming spaces for every child, regardless of immigration status. That is not just our commitment, it is the law. The U.S. Supreme Court has held for over four decades that every child, regardless of citizenship, has a constitutional right to a free public education. That means our doors stay open. No child should miss school because of fear.

Still, I would be lying if I said fear doesn’t exist. And that is precisely why superintendents—and all leaders—must speak up now.

School is not just a place to learn reading, math, 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, it is the only place where they feel truly safe, truly seen. When federal actions create chaos outside our school gates, it is our responsibility to speak out and protect the sanctity of what happens inside them.

As a former undocumented immigrant, I know this fear. I have felt it. I have lived with the uncertainty of whether a knock at the door meant separation from everything I loved. I also know what it means to be given a chance—to study, to contribute, to lead. And that makes what’s happening in our communities now all the more painful. Because these children, these families, are just like I once was.

The question now is: What kind of country do we want to be?

I believe we must be a nation that protects children before politics. A nation that recognizes education not as a bargaining chip, but as a birthright. A nation that honors the incredible courage and contributions of immigrant families who are the backbone of our workforce, our schools, and our future.

We need federal policies that are humane, lawful, and consistent with our values. That means halting enforcement actions near schools and community centers. It means clear communication with local jurisdictions. It means permanent protections for Dreamers and long-term immigration reform grounded in dignity and opportunity—not fear.

Locally, we must continue investing in services that support our students: mental health care, trauma-informed counseling, family legal support, and robust outreach so that families know their rights and know they are not alone.

And to the voters reading this: your voice matters. We cannot build a just education system without a just immigration system. The next election, at every level, will help decide whether our schools remain sanctuaries of learning or become battlegrounds for political theater.

As superintendent, my charge is clear: I will do everything in my power to make sure every child—documented or not—feels safe, supported, and seen in our schools. Because the future of this country sits in our classrooms every day. And how we treat them will define who we are and what happens next in our nation.

We can choose fear. Or we can choose hope.

I know what I choose. Do you?