A police officer began following him and directed him into the store’s parking lot. One patrol car soon became two, then four.

To the officers, Preciado believes, her father’s appearance made him a target. He had slicked-back black hair, brown skin, tattoos and a commanding presence. Music by War played loudly from his lowrider. Police searched the car, but found nothing illegal. Her father and two friends who had identification were allowed to leave. Two others who did not have identification were detained.

That experience, Preciado says, has taken on new meaning as federal immigration enforcement has expanded in California and across the country. With Border Patrol agents joining Immigration and Customs Enforcement in mobile patrol operations, she sees echoes of the same racial profiling her father faced decades ago.

For Preciado, a Cal State Fullerton student studying communications with a concentration in journalism, the current climate has also narrowed the emotional distance between her life and her father’s.

Her father, the oldest of five children, grew up carrying adult responsibilities early. His father was incarcerated, and his mother worked in an appliance store to support the family. He helped care for his younger siblings and often felt like an outsider.

When Preciado asked him what parts of himself he felt others judged most, he pointed to his clothes, his skin color and his tattoos. Even now, as an adult, he told her, he still feels as though people are watching him.

Hearing those memories, Preciado said, was painful. To her, her father has always been a source of guidance and steadiness. But she also saw how years of judgment shaped the way he viewed himself.

When she was preparing to graduate from high school, she wanted him there to celebrate with her. He hesitated at the thought of stepping onto campus, worried that his appearance might somehow affect how others saw her.

He told her he did not want to get in the way of her opportunities.

To Preciado, that fear showed how deeply he had absorbed the assumptions others made about him. The world, she wrote, often reduced him to an image: a man defined by tattoos, brown skin and stereotypes. But to her, he was a devoted father, a hardworking brother and a husband — never an obstacle to her success.

She said her father wanted to separate his past from her identity so it would not limit her dreams. As his daughter, she refused to let that bond be severed.

Now, she said, his concerns have shifted from his own treatment to her safety.

He has warned her to pay close attention to her surroundings. Because her complexion is darker than that of her siblings and because she resembles him, he believes she may be more vulnerable to bias and the kinds of experiences he endured. He has urged her to be careful about where she goes and to go only when necessary.

For Preciado, immigration raids have made skin color a central concern for another generation of Latino families.

A 2021 Pew Research Center study found that 57% of Latino adults said skin color affects their daily experiences at least a great deal, while 62% said darker skin makes it harder for Latinos to get ahead in the United States.

The debate over immigration enforcement intensified after Justice Brett Kavanaugh, in a concurring opinion in Noem v. Vasquez Perdomo, wrote that stops connected to immigration policing may be considered valid when based on certain factors. He cited the number of undocumented immigrants in the Los Angeles area, the presence of day laborers gathering at specific locations, and common jobs such as landscaping, agriculture and construction. Many legal experts have argued that the opinion effectively gives immigration agents broader room to select people for questioning based on race or appearance.

In September, the Department of Homeland Security said 2 million undocumented immigrants had left the United States, including 1.6 million described by the agency as having “voluntarily self-deported” and more than 400,000 deportations.

Preciado argues that as Latino men continue to be demonized, daughters and family members must challenge the narratives imposed on them.

She points to earlier moments of Latino and Chicano organizing in California as evidence that collective action has reshaped public life before. In 1968, about 15,000 students took part in the East Los Angeles walkouts to protest unequal treatment and discouragement of Mexican American students in schools. In the 1970s, the Brown Berets helped lead the Chicano Moratorium against the disproportionate drafting of Mexican Americans during the Vietnam War. In the 1990s, immigrant rights advocates fought against Proposition 187, California’s anti-immigrant ballot measure that was later overturned.

Those victories, Preciado wrote, came from people joining together across generations. They also reflect a lesson she said her father taught her: even in hardship, pain can become a form of light, and from that light a path forward can begin to appear.

Original source: CalMatters

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Priscilla Preciado, a Cal State Fullerton communications student studying journalism, traces that fear through her father’s experience more than 30 years ago in Tustin. At the time, he was a 21-year-old Chicano who had recently moved to the Orange County city. One day, while driving to a 7-Eleven with four friends, a police officer began following him and directed him into the store’s parking lot.

More officers arrived. What began as one patrol car became several.

Preciado said her father believes his appearance shaped the way officers treated him. He had slicked-back black hair, brown skin, tattoos and the look of a young man who stood out in a largely white community. Music played from his lowrider. Officers searched his car but found nothing incriminating, she said. Her father and two friends who had identification were allowed to leave. Two others, who did not have IDs, were detained.

That encounter has taken on renewed meaning for Preciado as immigration enforcement has intensified in California and across the country. Border Patrol agents have joined Immigration and Customs Enforcement in roving patrols, raising concerns among immigrant-rights advocates and Latino communities about who is being targeted and why.

For Preciado, the current climate has drawn her closer to her father’s history.

Her father, the oldest of five children, grew up carrying adult responsibilities early in life. His father was incarcerated, and his mother worked at an appliance store to support the family. He often felt like an outsider, Preciado said.

When she asked him what parts of himself he felt others judged most, he pointed to his clothing, tattoos and skin color.

“My dress, the color of my skin, tattoos,” he told her. “Even as an adult I still feel like I stand out now.”

Preciado said those experiences shaped the way her father moved through the world — and the way he viewed his role in her life. When she was preparing to graduate from high school, she wanted him there to celebrate with her. But he worried that stepping onto campus might hurt her opportunities or draw unwanted attention.

“I do not want to hold you back from receiving any more opportunities,” he told her.

To Preciado, that fear reflected the toll of years of profiling. Her father had come to see himself through the assumptions others placed on him, she said, even though she saw him as a devoted father, brother and husband — not as an obstacle.

Now, she said, he worries not only about himself, but about her.

“You have to be aware of your surroundings at all times,” he tells her. “You’re darker than your siblings. You look the most like me, therefore are more vulnerable to profiling and the experiences I’ve endured. Be careful of where you decide to go now and only go if necessary.”

Those conversations reflect a broader issue within Latino communities. A 2021 Pew Research Center study found that 57% of Latino adults said skin color affects their daily experiences “a lot.” Among Latinos with darker skin, 62% said their skin tone has hurt their ability to get ahead in the United States.

Concerns about racial profiling have also reached the courts. In a concurring opinion in Noem v. Vasquez Perdomo, Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh wrote that immigration stops may consider certain factors, including the large number of undocumented immigrants in the Los Angeles area, locations where day laborers gather and industries such as landscaping, agriculture and construction. Many legal scholars have argued that the opinion gives immigration agents broad room to engage in racial profiling.

In September, the Department of Homeland Security reported that 2 million undocumented immigrants had left the United States, including 1.6 million people the agency described as having “voluntarily self-deported” and more than 400,000 deportations.

For Preciado, the moment has made skin color and identity impossible to ignore. She argues that the narratives attached to Latino men — particularly men with darker skin, tattoos or working-class markers — must be challenged by their families and communities.

She points to earlier periods of Latino activism in Southern California and beyond: the 1968 East Los Angeles student walkouts, when thousands of Mexican American students protested unequal treatment in schools; the Chicano Moratorium of the 1970s, which opposed the disproportionate drafting of Mexican Americans during the Vietnam War; and the organizing that helped lead to the collapse of California’s Proposition 187, the 1990s anti-immigrant measure.

Those movements, she said, show the power of collective resistance during moments of fear and exclusion.

For her, the lesson is also personal. Her father’s experiences did not distance her from him. They strengthened her understanding of what he endured — and why today’s immigration raids feel, for a new generation of California Latinos, like the return of old wounds.

Original source: CalMatters

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HIALEAH, Fla. (AP) — Rigoberto Montesinos, a veteran of the Bay of Pigs invasion in Cuba, was so worried about side effects from the COVID-19 vaccine that he initially wasn’t going to get it, relenting only when two friends died from the disease.

But when he finally decided to get the shot, the 82-year-old couldn’t find doses where he lives in Hialeah, a Miami suburb that’s about 95% Latino. He got an appointment in nearby Miami Beach, but it was canceled. After struggling for weeks, Montesinos got his first dose last week.

“At my age, and with the virus spiking, I can’t be putting myself at risk,” said Montesinos, a Cuban exile who helped try to overthrow Fidel Castro in 1961.

From elderly Cuban Americans in Florida to farmworkers in California, Latinos face daunting barriers to getting COVID-19 vaccines, creating risks for public health as the coronavirus mutates and spreads.

America’s more than 60 million Latinos — like other people of color — have been disproportionately affected by the virus, and many are struggling with issues like a lack of knowledge about the shots, state vaccine websites that don’t have Spanish instructions, ways to find appointments in their communities and fears they could be targeted for immigration enforcement.

It comes as states, cities and counties are grappling with how to ensure people of color and other underserved communities are getting the vaccine, with some targeting vulnerable ZIP codes and working with community groups to sign people up. In Arizona, where language is a barrier for some Latinos and until recently English was the only option on the state website for vaccine appointments, a university researcher is working on an online Spanish language campaign to address vaccine misconceptions.

Latinos, like other groups, also are frustrated by insufficient vaccine supplies.

Montesinos’ 70-year-old nephew, Luis Morejon, was still trying to get inoculated in the Miami area last week. He’s a cancer patient, and he and his wife also have diabetes.

“We’ve spent a year hiding in this home,” Morejon said.

An AP-NORC poll of U.S. adults in late January showed about half of both Hispanic and Black Americans are extremely or very worried about themselves or family members being infected with COVID-19. That’s compared with about 4 in 10 white Americans.

The poll says Latinos’ willingness to get the vaccine is similar to the American public overall. About 65% of Latinos said they definitely or probably will get the vaccine when it’s available to them or that they already have received at least one dose.

With a tendency for health problems like diabetes, obesity and hypertension, Latinos are one of the groups at highest risk from COVID-19 in the U.S. It’s not just a problem for them, but for public health.

“The virus doesn’t differentiate, we need to vaccinate everyone,” said Arizona State University researcher Gilberto Lopez, who’s trying to debunk vaccine misconceptions in Spanish. “Otherwise, it will just keep on mutating and we’re never going to get rid of it.”

In New York, married physicians Dr. Victor Peralta and Dr. Ingrid Felix-Peralta administered shots last week at a public housing complex through the SOMOS network that provides health care to low-income minorities.

“Latinos make up a large proportion of our front-line workers. They work at supermarkets, restaurants, food industry and they are working during the day so it’s hard to find time to get vaccinated,” said Peralta, a pediatrician.

Nellie Hernández, a 73-year-old Puerto Rican, said that after surviving throat cancer and seeing friends die from COVID-19, she was relieved to get her second dose.

“I go out and run my errands, and I feel a bit more secure,” she said.

Fear of deportation can be an issue for Latinos in the U.S. without permission, though the Department of Homeland Security says vaccination sites will be considered off limits for routine enforcement.

“We know that we don’t always get the correct address and phone number when we see patients,” Peralta said about those at his pediatric practice.

Some politicians say people without legal status should not be prioritized for vaccines, even equating all Hispanics, a majority of whom are American citizens or legal residents, with the fraction of people in the country illegally. U.S. Rep. Debbie Lesko, an Arizona Republican, drew criticism last week after proposing an “Americans first” vaccine policy.

Along with fears of deportation, education also can be a problem.

Advocates for Guatemalan farmworkers in Lake Worth, Florida, north of Miami, said some migrants can’t read or write in any language and most lack a car or driver’s license.

The Guatemalan-Maya Center there has started a list of workers who want to be vaccinated and offered its offices as a possible site, assistant executive director Mariana Blanco said.

It’s important to consider demographics when setting up vaccination sites, said Tomás León, senior vice president of the Arizona-based Equality Health Foundation. He said states need to collect information about the race and ethnicity of those getting shots to ensure equal access.

“Hispanics are overrepresented in coronavirus cases and more likely to suffer worse outcomes,” he said.

Many vaccination sites are far away from underserved, high-exposed communities, León said. They’re often drive-thru, requiring a car.

He said community organizations can help reach Latinos in hard-hit areas like Arizona’s Yuma County, where they account for two-thirds of those infected by the virus.

“As efforts to distribute the COVID-19 vaccine continue, trust and acceptance of Hispanics will be crucial,” León said.

In diverse South Florida, the sprawling Jackson Health System says nearly half of the 65,000 seniors it’s vaccinated as of early February identified as Hispanic.

The hospital system has partnered with 55 churches, temples and community organizations targeting seniors in low-income, minority communities who have struggled using technology to sign up for a vaccine.

Madeline Barrios spent two recent Sundays with her clipboard outside St. Dominic Catholic Church near Miami’s Little Havana, registering older people for the shots.

“I think people feel more comfortable, especially seniors, in person, asking someone they can talk to,” Barrios said.

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THE HEALTH DIVIDE

Fear of losing jobs, distrust of the medical community and close-knit housing conditions have led to higher rates of COVID-19 cases and deaths among California’s Latinos. Experts point to the economic realities faced by many Latino families as well as longstanding inequities to explain why the pandemic has hit this community so hard.

A lack of personal protective equipment against the virus on farms, factories and ranches as well as poor access to testing and other issues even in urban areas have hurt essential workers across the Golden State and nationwide, and many of those workers are Latinos.

The high transmission rates and deaths show that employers, the medical community and other sectors all need to build a stronger network to address fears and unite people so they will seek better care, according to activists and health experts.

“If a worker gets infected, there’s no salary coming into the family,” said Maria Lemus, founding executive director of Visión y Compromiso, a California-based volunteer network of promotoras or health promoters, during a recent National Fellowship event. Lemus said that’s one reason why many Latinos, especially migrant farmworkers, may be hesitant to be tested for COVID-19 or seek early care. “I also have to put some of it on the employers. It’s their responsibility to see if the workers are sick (or) healthy. That’s not happening.”

Of the nearly 360,000 people who tested positive for COVID-19 in California since the pandemic began, 60% have been Latinos. Of the more than 16,000 Californians who have died, almost 50% were Latinos.

“Among Latinos, the impact in terms of infections is happening in younger ages,” said Dr. Sergio Aguilar-Gaxiola, a widely recognized expert on immigrant mental health at UC Davis. “I think that part of the story is that these are primarily essential workers. This population doesn’t have the luxury like you or I to stay at home. They have to go and work. So essential workers have been particularly impacted by COVID-19, and Latinos comprise a big portion of those essential workers across the nation, not just California.”

Luis Magaña, a longtime worker advocate and founder of Lucha Migrante in Stockton, sees this firsthand when he promotes self-care to farmworkers and ranch hands in California’s Central Valley. Farm owners often won’t allow testing to be done on site, so Magaña said tests have to be held at clinics. At one event, 600 workers signed up to be tested, but only 300 arrived. Of those, more than 200 tested positive for the virus. Some workers won’t get tested for fear their employers will find out they are sick and fire them. Many workers also worry about high medical bills.

Workers often feel like they have no choice, Magaña said. They have to work to survive.

A recent study that focused on low-income Californians found that one-third of respondents delayed receiving care for urgent or emergency health issues during the COVID-19 pandemic. The study also reported high levels of stress among the more than 2,200 Californians surveyed by the California Health Care Foundation and National Opinion Research Center at the University of Chicago.

Researchers found that 96% of Californians with low incomes report “struggling with the stresses of COVID-19 — including access to food, rent, and childcare.”

“Substantial numbers of people of color say their mental and physical health is worse as a result of the racial discrimination they have experienced throughout their lives,” according to the researchers.

The study found 94% of Latinos surveyed had been impacted by at least one of these stressors during COVID-19.

“It is becoming increasingly clear how many vulnerable populations are delaying the health care they need — with consequences that should concern us all,” Carlina Hansen, senior program officer on CHCF’s Improving Access team, said in a statement. “This is impacting everything from mental health to other health issues. Even in the midst of the pandemic, this survey highlights the next health crisis brewing among some of the state’s most vulnerable groups.”

Lemus, the director of Visión y Compromiso, said her organization is strengthening several programs to help address these stressors, including home visits in which promotores talk about issues such as nutrition and exercise.

“These are not new issues,” Lemus said of the lack of health care among migrant workers in the fields. Lemus worked in the farms as a child, just outside of Fresno.

“I’m an older adult and I still see the same things that I experienced when I was 10 years old,” she said, citing poor housing conditions and a lack of basic services.

“We still have farms and ranches (that) do not provide the services they should to their workers,” she added. “I think if we can ask anything of (employers) is to partner with the community. We want (workers) to continue working, to be healthy. They want their produce to be picked and we want (workers) to have income.”

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