A Family Braces for Dad's Deportation
Immigrant children pulled from their parents at the border due to a policy intended to deter asylum seekers. Refugee children unable to join their parents in the United States following historic cuts to the refugee program. Muslim children forbidden from bringing their parents for visits from countries under the travel ban.
While these Trump Administration changes to the immigration system have garnered dramatic news footage of families split apart, another policy change — the elimination of the Temporary Protected Status (TPS) — could result in far more family separations.
The federal government is terminating TPS at staggered dates for a series of countries. The deadlines loom like ticking time bombs for immigrant families, out of the media's spotlight, but ever present during private family moments — like at an arcade filled with vintage games in Asbury Park, NJ.
"I don't like this game," says Madison Contreras, 12, as she plays Galaxian, a version of the spaceship shooting game her father, Giddel, played growing up in Honduras.
"Once you get better, you're going to like it," Giddel says.
"That's true."
Madison lives with her mom in Washington Heights and she sees her dad, Giddel, who lives nearby, every Sunday. They go to Dave & Buster's, or the beach. On a recent rainy Sunday, they hung out at the Silverball Museum Arcade in Asbury Park.
Madison understands that the Trump Administration is ending TPS for Hondurans on January 5, 2020.
"I can't bear the thought of not seeing my father every single day that I'm supposed to see him," Madison said. "And it breaks my heart that my family has to go through this...Because I need my dad and my mom. I need my whole family."
TPS is a humanitarian program that provides legal status to immigrants from countries in turmoil due to natural disaster or war. Hondurans qualified after a 1998 hurricane. Now, Trump is gradually ending TPS for about 400,000 people from several countries, saying "temporary" programs shouldn't last for decades on end. He is not providing an alternative for those recipients to stay in the U.S. legally.Â
Left behind will be TPS recipients' children, who are U.S. citizens. Madison is one of an estimated 53,000 children who have a parent from Honduras with TPS.
"It's really hard for me because when I think of him being deported, I think of him not being there for my graduation, which I really want him to be there for, and moments where I get an A+ on my test and I'm really excited and I can tell him about," she said. "Just small things — like I saw a really pretty flower in the garden, and I want to tell him about it. And you know, just hanging out with him."
Giddel was raised by his grandparents in Honduras and dropped out of school to work when he was Madison's age. At 18, he headed north, alone, seeking financial stability.
"It took me two weeks but I did it, and I was detained in Texas," Giddel said.
Immigration officers released him, pending a court date. So he got on a cargo train and kept going. His American Dream began at a junkyard in Corpus Christi, where he talked his way into a job for $100 dollars a week. He slept in the back of a jeep, saved some money and moved to New York, where he started working in restaurants. In 1999, he was approved for TPS.
"I was very happy because I was able to get my driver's license, open a bank account, move around the city, around the country, freely, just like a normal life," Giddel said. And that he did. He learned English, worked and paid taxes.Â
Madison was born in the U.S. to Giddel and his girlfriend at the time. In 2008, he met the woman he'd marry, Maribel Hernandez Rivera, while salsa dancing in the West Village. She helped him get his GED and go to culinary school. Giddel is now a line cook at the Sheraton in Times Square with dreams of opening his own restaurant.
Giddel should be well-positioned to navigate the complicated immigration system and win permanent status. His wife, Maribel, is an immigration attorney. She's the executive director of legal initiatives at the New York City Office of Immigrant Affairs and an immigrant herself who went through the process of obtaining U.S. citizenship.
But Giddel's case is complicated, and his prospects to stay in the U.S. look bleak. The biggest legal hurdles is the fact that he missed his court date after being released by immigration officers 20 years ago.
So Maribel is trying to figure out a work-around that doesn't require Giddel to leave the country for 10 years and reapply for entry. She spoke to "at the very least 10 different attorneys trying to pick their brains as to what can be done" before hiring a lawyer who is helping to build her husband's case.
"Through his life, and our life together, I think you can see is this idea of perseverance, right? We're not giving up," she said. "You know he's had a rough time. We've had a rough time. But we're not going to give up."
In the meantime, Madison and her dad seem to be practicing what it could be like if they’re apart. She stays with her mom most of the week, and texts with her Dad. When she described a text she received about him sending her a virtual hug, she cried.Â
"And it made me really happy, because even though I'm not there, and even though he's not here with me, I can still feel his presence, you know?" she said.
If Giddel is deported, he'll bring with him a little picture of a ladybug that Madison made five years ago. He has kept it in his wallet ever since. "It just makes me feel that my daughter is always with me," he said.
Recently, Giddel turned down a higher-paying job because he couldn't get the days off he needed to see his daughter. "Because I don't know what will happen with this thing after January 2020," he said. "I want us to enjoy our time together as much as we can."
A Supreme Court decision on TPS, a change in the law that enables its recipients to apply for permanent status or an immigration court ruling in Giddel's favor could buy him more time.
But for Madison, the anxiety of not knowing where her father will be on her 14th birthday is already taking a toll.
"I realized that nothing is forever, you know?" she said. "Not even family."
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