Family separations aren’t new; it happened to my family more than 50 years ago

I think of all immigrants who have struggled to make the USA a strong country, and how quickly we have forgotten our own history

The Alemán family was about to be separated by US immigration authorities in December 1970.

The Alemán family was about to be separated by US immigration authorities in December 1970. Crédito: Aleman Family | Cortesía

The image is forever imprinted in my mind. Mom is staring into the camera that’s just a few feet away, expressionless, as if she’s staring into the distance. She’s wearing a light-brown faux fur coat with large gold button accents, and a light blue dress with two white stripes stretching from the shoulders down to its hem six inches above the knee. Her 1960’s-style side beehive hairdo is carefully coiffed with fringes falling over her forehead like a waterfall. She’s holding me rested on her left arm. I’m dressed in a pink bonnet and long sleeve dress with black baby boots, a large matching bib drapes my entire body. I’m sucking on a pacifier, looking down and distracted by a small boy walking past us.  

My father is standing to my mother’s right. He’s pressed her next to him as if not wanting to let go. He’s wearing a baby blue jacket, light green and white plaid shirt, and dark gray slacks. His thick shiny black hair is neatly combed to one side and his lips are slightly apart as if floating a breath and holding a thought in the cool Southern California winter.  

It’s December of 1970 and we’re at the Los Angeles International Airport, LAX. Although the sign above our heads reads, “Meet Arriving Passengers,” we’re not among the lucky passengers meeting their loved ones that Christmas at LAX. My mother and I are leaving. We’re being deported by U.S. immigration authorities. My family is being separated even though we have a mixed family status: my father is a U.S. resident; I am a U.S. citizen.  

My mother made the tragic mistake of trusting that dad and I would be enough to keep her in the country without the need to renew her tourist visa if the Immigration Naturalization Service, as it was known back then, were to knock on her door. She was wrong. She along with several other young women were chased, rounded up, arrested, handcuffed, and taken away while at work. She was immediately deported to Mexico even as she pleaded to be allowed to return to her child and partner in Los Angeles. Mom was eventually allowed to return for me, and soon after we were forced to leave the country. 

My parents were very much in love, so the separation was heartbreaking for them. Dad vowed to resolve everything and bring us back to the states, but that day nothing was clear, only that our young family was tragically torn apart.  

Evelyn Aleman in her mother’s arms in December 1970.
Crédito: Aleman family | Cortesía

When I look at the vintage family heirloom, yellowed by time, I’m struck by the silence of the image. I can imagine the noise and chatter of a busy airport with the silence of the family posing for this picture, my family. The heartbreak of this moment would be felt through generations in my family, and for so many other families who continue to be separated in our country because of inhumane immigration laws.  

My parents met at LAX. In 1967, my mother entered the U.S. on a tourist visa. The oldest daughter of a middle-class family from San Salvador, she had successfully convinced her parents to sponsor her visit to the United States which – she had assured them – would be brief. Unlike many immigrants who cross the U.S.-Mexico border under perilous conditions, my mother arrived at LAX legally, and was greeted by fellow Salvadorans.  

Three years later I was born in Hollywood and six months later, the embroidery factory where mom worked was raided by U.S. immigration agents. Only 6 months old, I was at home with an aunt, my mom’s younger sister, who cared for me while mom was away at work.        

My mother later told me how during the raid she pleaded with immigration officers to allow her to return home for her baby, but they didn’t seem to care. She was sent to what she described at the time as a detention center in downtown Los Angeles and was subsequently moved to a detention center in Tijuana, Mexico, where she remained for a week, while my father desperately tried to locate her.  

When my father finally found her, she was pale and lost weight. It would be two years before our family was once again reunited. My mother never forgot the experience, and although she went on to become first a U.S. resident, then a naturalized citizen and an active voter, I always got the impression that she had mixed feelings about this country; her host country, and ultimately the country where she and dad would later be laid to rest.             

Perhaps the deportation is the reason why my father always emphasized that my sisters and I were Americans and that he and mom were naturalized citizens. Dad would often say, ‘You have just as much a right as anyone else to call yourself an American,’ and I strongly believed this.       

I remember the excitement my parents felt when they were finally naturalized – mom in December of 1981, and dad nearly 6 years later in November of 1987. I also remember sitting in front of the TV and watching news about immigration raids and deportations. I observed my mother’s mood change from her bubbly, rosy demeanor to one of anger and hurt. When I questioned her about this change, she would push me away and tell me that I did not need to know. I couldn’t really make sense of this and didn’t learn of her experience until I was a teenager. I stored the story somewhere deep in my psyche for a time when I knew I would better understand the pain of her experience.                                               

As for me, I went on to graduate from college, earn a master’s degree, and establish my own business. I’ve also worked in local government, and have stayed actively involved in public service, advocating for immigrant families and immigrant causes.                             

When I hear about raids these days, I’m reminded of mom, and how much she sacrificed to ensure that her children, as well as her family back home, would have better opportunities. I think about those mothers and fathers getting whisked away from their places of work, not knowing if they will see their children or who will care for them, and about the great anxiety they may feel. As a parent, my heart breaks to know that this still happens in our society and, more importantly, that we allow these undemocratic, inhumane, and un-American practices. 

I also think about the young men and women in our education system who are talented and wish to make a positive impact in our communities but can’t attend college because of their legal status. I wonder when we will find the courage to fix the system to help them achieve their dreams.                           

I think of all immigrants who have struggled in various ways to make the United States of America a strong country, a role model of unity for the world to follow – E Pluribus Unum – and how quickly we have forgotten our own history. 

(*) Evelyn Aléman is the founder of Our Voice: Communities for Quality Education, a nonprofit that helps immigrant families navigate the public education system and improve their quality of life.   

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deportations immigration
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