When American Citizens Question Their Own Belonging

Veronica was born in California, flies the American flag on holidays, and proudly sings the national anthem at baseball games. Yet last month, while chatting in Spanish with another mom at her son's game, she suddenly stopped mid-conversation. A chilling thought crossed her mind: What if other parents suspect we're undocumented and report us?

This isn't paranoia—it's the new reality for millions of U.S.-born Latino citizens living under Trump's mass deportation campaign. When immigration agents can arrest and kill American citizens in Minneapolis, as happened two weeks ago, the line between citizen and suspect becomes dangerously thin.

The Erosion of Assumed Safety

The numbers tell a stark story. About two-thirds of U.S.-born Latinos told the Pew Research Center their situation has worsened over the past year. Nearly half feel less safe in their communities because of the deportation blitz.

Their responses reveal how quickly constitutional protections can feel theoretical. They're now carrying photos of birth certificates, saving lawyers' numbers, and sharing videos of Americans being stopped by authorities. One mother told me her son came home upset about having a Spanish first name, asking why he wasn't given an "English-sounding" name like his brother.

In Phoenix, where 42% of the population identifies as Latino, residents remember the last time enforcement was this aggressive. Sheriff Joe Arpaio's sweeps 18 years ago created similar fear, contributing to his eventual electoral defeat in 2016.

When Citizenship Feels Conditional

The psychological impact runs deeper than policy debates suggest. Robert, a 17-year-old soccer player with good grades, represents the fifth generation of his family in America—his great-great-great-grandfather immigrated from Mexico in the 1890s. Yet he recently dug up his passport photo "just in case" authorities demand proof of where he was born.

"All of this stuff brought me to the question of: Am I proud to be an American?" Robert said. "Do I want to be called an American? Is that a source of pride or is that a source of shame?"

This existential questioning extends beyond teenagers. A military veteran whose daughter has dual citizenship didn't know how to answer when she asked if she could be deported. "They're doing lots of crazy stuff," he told her. "I don't know what could happen."

The Political Calculus Shifts

Tomás R. Jiménez, a sociology professor at Stanford University, explains that these tactics send deliberate messages about "who belongs in the country, who is morally worthy, and who is not." The alienation this creates has immediate political consequences.

In a recent Texas special election, a Democrat won a state Senate seat in a deep-red district that Trump carried by 17 points in 2024. The shift was powered by Latino voters turned off by immigration operations and unmet economic promises.

Richard Herrera, professor emeritus at Arizona State University, warns that "when people feel betrayed or abandoned, they're more likely to look for alternatives." Even in reliably red Arizona, Arpaio's aggressive tactics eventually activated a generation of young Latino voters who helped oust him.

The Civic Awakening Paradox

Ironically, feeling unwelcome in their own country is making many Latino citizens more civically engaged. After immigration agents raided a popular restaurant chain in Maricopa County last month, thousands of high schoolers—including Veronica's son—walked out of school in protest. These students will soon be eligible to vote.

The scenes from Minneapolis haven't just frightened people; they've clarified what's at stake. As one parent told me, "Our rightful place in this country is being questioned, so we have to fight for it."

The students walking out of Phoenix schools today will be voting in the next election. Their sense of belonging—or lack thereof—may well determine America's political future.