Guided by a neatly written list of items on blue stationery, Karla navigates a suburban grocery store picking up a week’s worth of food for her family.
She stands in front of rows of produce, questioning what her mother would pick before placing a handful of carrots into a bag, one ingredient for a caldo, a Mexican soup, the family plans to eat. Karla asked not to disclose her full name to protect her immigrant parents.
“It’s kind of lonely grocery shopping,” says Karla, who is in her 20s and living in the suburbs with her parents as she settles into life post-college. “Normally, it was just, like, a fun experience even with my mom just, [us] yapping.”
In the weeks since federal agents rolled out a more aggressive deportation campaign around Chicago, many immigrants are limiting time in public, including Karla’s parents, who came from Mexico 30 years ago and are undocumented. Karla has started to worry even more about the safety of her parents this month, in particular after U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents fatally shot Silverio Villegas González, an immigrant from Mexico, in suburban Franklin Park.
“We weren’t as afraid until right now that we started seeing more ICE sightings, and especially since Silverio died,” Karla says. “That was very much like, ‘Oh my God, this is, like, where I live [around].’”
Karla, who was born in the United States, grew up with her brother knowing that if anything ever happened to their parents, she had to call her aunt and godmother. Still, it took her years to fully understand her parents could be deported.
Karla tries to stay strong for her parents as the deportation campaign escalates in the Chicago area. But “it’s scary,” she says. “I don’t want to live a life, obviously, without my parents.”
Putting on a ‘strong face’
Back home in the Franklin Park area, Karla is juggling multiple jobs and trying to pay off student loans from college. She works overnight in a lab and during the day at a gym. She jokes that her parents are like her roommates who share family meals. Often weaving in typical Gen Z lingo, Karla enjoys being able to sit down with her parents to talk about their days.
But in recent weeks, their daily life has changed in small ways. Her father stopped going to a gym in a nearby suburb. Trips to restaurants with her mother to treat each other to breakfast have stopped. Even weekend trips to Dunkin’ Donuts with her dad stopped.
The family makes a shopping list each week so Karla can grab groceries. And she tracks their locations on her phone, calling to check in if they take longer than usual to get to and from work.
“I feel like I put on a very strong face. I feel like I’m a very strong person, especially with my parents, I don’t want to show them that, like, it affects me … ” Karla says. “I just need to be strong for my parents, you know. But if I do think about it, it’s scary. I don’t want to live a life, obviously, without my parents.”
But she recently started sharing with a therapist her worries and the weight she carries of taking on responsibilities for them if they can’t live in the same country.
“I never really thought about these things, but they actually do really affect me,” Karla says.
People thrive on having daily routines, but the increased threat of deportation is disrupting that in profound ways, said Aimee Hilado, assistant professor at the University of Chicago’s Crown Family School of Social Work, Policy and Practice. Social connections are also interrupted when you can’t drop a child off at school or just go to the grocery store, she said.
“If people just sit in isolation and they don’t realize there are folks that are fighting for this, there are folks that want to help,” Hilado said “Fear can spiral without the right remedies and interruptions.”
The isolation can also add fuel to issues people already struggle with, Hilado added.
“You just don’t feel safe and secure in your situation and that’s going to exacerbate adverse mental problems, especially if it’s prolonged, especially if there’s no counter message to it,” she said.
Leaning in to help immigrants
Diego Reynoso weighs vegetables for a free delivery order at Supermercado Reynoso in Cicero on Sept. 24. The store began offering free delivery after immigration enforcement activity increased in the area.
Across Chicago and the suburbs, there are many Karlas — relatives and friends who are shopping and caring for isolated immigrants as reports of immigration arrests intensify. Strangers, through mutual aid and rapid response networks, and businesses are stepping up too. In west suburban Cicero, Diego Reynoso said his family are offering free delivery from their grocery, Supermercado Reynoso.
Reynoso says most delivery drivers are family members, but a few friends and employees have joined in. They make seven to ten deliveries each day.
José, who declined to share his last name because he fears becoming an ICE target, has worked with the Reynoso family, arriving from a small town in Mexico more than 30 years ago.
He worries about himself, too, but says “we have to keep moving forward … “I have to do something. I have a family to take care of. I need to go out to work … I leave it in God’s hands.”
An employee of Supermercado Reynoso delivers groceries to a customer in Cicero. After immigration enforcement activity increased this month, traffic at the grocery dropped.
Karla is keeping herself busy too. Back at her family home, she places the family’s groceries — including condensed milk for her parents’ coffee and bananas for her dad’s nighttime shakes — on the family’s modern kitchen counter.
During Donald Trump’s first presidential term, the family got their paperwork in order, ensuring Karla and her brother could access their parents’ bank accounts if necessary. They would also have to take on the responsibility of their family home.
As she looks around their home — lined with orchids and family photos — she reflects on how hard her parents have worked for decades to create a home. Her father once dreamed of becoming a civil engineer in Mexico but instead came to the United States to work. Her mother, who met her father in Mexico, keeps the house tidy.
The reality of deportations has hit close to home as reports of arrests emerge. Sometimes Karla’s mom calls her and asks her to check for agents when rumors are swirling of ICE in their community.
She has little hope her parents can legalize their immigration status because of the complexities of their cases. So for now, she runs errands and tries to speak up for immigrants like them.
“My parents sacrificed all this for me,” Karla says as she scans the home they built. “What can I do to help them right now?”