The Brief

On a warm evening in early August, friends and family gathered in Juan Ramón González’s Pasadena backyard to eat homemade tacos and share stories about the kind-eyed 56-year-old who had lived in the neighborhood for three decades.

González, who entered the country in his 20s without authorization, had recently been reassessing his life in the United States. Amid challenges that once seemed unimaginable, he had been wondering whether he could — or should — stay here, or return to the homeland he hadn’t visited since the mid-1990s.

When he first told his wife, who has a U.S. green card, that he was thinking of “self-deporting” back to his home state of Michoacán in southwestern Mexico, she thought he was joking — and it wasn’t funny.

González had started considering leaving after the Trump administration began an aggressive campaign of harassment, detention and expulsion targeting undocumented immigrants. According to President Donald Trump, “People in our country illegally can self-deport the easy way, or they can get deported the hard way.”

The latter method sometimes involved the federal government shipping off immigrants to a maximum security prison in El Salvador or an alligator-surrounded, military-style prison camp in the Florida Everglades, or even cells built to hold presumed al-Qaida terrorists at Guantánamo Bay Naval Base in Cuba.

The Trump administration claims to have already deported 400,000 people as of September and says it is targeting the estimated 14 million remaining undocumented immigrants, almost a million of whom are believed to live in Los Angeles County, according to research from USC. Since ICE and Border Patrol cannot round up so many people, according to Amica Center for Immigrant Rights senior attorney Amelia Dagen, tactics involving high-profile cruelty aim to terrorize people like González into fleeing.

As the sun set over Pasadena that night, it illuminated the clouds shades of pink and orange against a deep purple sky. González looked up at the spectacular colors and told his loved ones how grateful he was to know them, how thankful he was that God had blessed him with “so many angels.”

González admires the sunset from his backyard on the evening before his departure.

(

Alexis Hunley

/

Capital & Main

)

A land of opportunity

In the early 1990s, González was working in restaurants and hotels in Pátzcuaro, a town with red-tile roofs and colonial architecture on the edge of a high-altitude lake in Michoacán. He was earning enough to get by, but sometimes relied on tips to pay the bills. A relative encouraged him to seek out his destiny north of the border. After some convincing, González flew to Tijuana and then walked, he said, for three days to enter the United States.

Thanks to a family connection, work came fast. After a couple weeks in Pasadena, he was earning minimum wage, which was more than he ever had. By living on a tight budget in an apartment with some relatives, he discovered that he could send money to support his family south of the border.

Soon, he started working at a local Kentucky Fried Chicken and took a liking to the assistant manager. Three years later, they married and began raising two kids on a quiet Pasadena street. From his front porch, González became a friendly fixture of his neighborhood, greeting passing neighbors like Annabelle Freedman, who moved into the area in 2023. She later said that there was a warmth about González and his family that helped her to feel at home in Pasadena.

Weeks before his departure, González and his daughter look through family photos.

(

Alexis Hunley

/

Capital & Main

)

For decades, González thrived there and rarely felt anxious about his legal status. The way he saw it, none of the presidents he had lived under in the U.S. — Clinton, George W. Bush, Obama, Trump and Biden — had caused him much trouble, and he never felt the need to regularize his immigration status, even after having a daughter who was a U.S. citizen. “For 30 years we had no problems. Life was good,” González told Capital & Main in a Spanish-language interview.

But when Trump returned to the White House early this year, “Everything changed.”

Heavily armed masked men began to grab day laborers in parking lots and throw them into unmarked vans. Border Patrol agents in riot gear deployed tear gas near residential neighborhoods, while others in plain clothes manhandled food vendors on the street.

“Watching everything on TV made me depressed,” he said. To him, it looked like kidnappings. “In all the time I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Know your rights”

In January, while one of the most destructive wildfires in state history was reducing nearby homes to ash, González evacuated his family for a month. Their house was spared from the flames, but in the chaos, the restaurant where he was employed lost many of its customers and could no longer afford to keep him on. He began to look for new work, but amid Trump’s ongoing crackdown on immigrants, that job search slowed to a crawl because González was afraid to leave his neighborhood.

Freedman was handing out “Know Your Rights” stickers around Pasadena when she bumped into González. “If you know anyone who is undocumented,” she told him, “please share these.”

It wasn’t until the next time they bumped into each other that he told her about his immigration status. From then on, the two regularly met to discuss the challenges of undocumented life, which provided González with an outlet of sorts.

But that didn’t change his circumstances. Without an income for months, he was eating away at his savings, and his dread over immigration raids kept him up at night worrying that masked federal agents might storm into his home and grab him.

One night in May, Daisy — González’s 22-year-old American-born daughter — was getting ready for bed when she received a phone call from her father. He sounded faint, confused. Earlier that night, a stranger had found him on a sidewalk in Highland Park, fading in and out of lucidity, and called for help. González vaguely remembered something about being picked up by an ambulance. He had suffered a heart attack.

Ever since the Trump administration began large-scale raids at many of Los Angeles’ Home Depots, car washes and restaurants, González’s blood pressure had been spiking. The risk was real, he knew, since he had previously been through a heart attack several years earlier.

When Daisy arrived at the hospital, she saw wires connecting González to medical devices and crisscrossing his weakened, shirtless body.

If he were younger and healthier, González thought, he might not have let his circumstances get to him as much. There are millions of immigrants who, despite their fear, continue to work in industries that have long relied on, and sometimes exploited, undocumented labor, to get by and help their loved ones. There are community groups that have stepped up to protect vulnerable people from being victimized by federal agents from Los Angeles, New York City and Chicago to Portland, San Francisco, Boston and beyond.

Despite the widespread solidarity in his city, González, well into middle age, felt worn down. He started asking himself, “What am I doing here?”

If looking for work was difficult before, the heart attack made it nearly impossible. Stuck at home in bad health with constant anxiety, González came to a decision: He would “self-deport” and leave the community he’d been a part of for more than half his life.

The border

It’s one thing to decide to leave, it’s another to figure out how.

With the help of family and friends, González plotted his departure. He decided not to fly out of an American airport due to the risk of being detained by federal officials in the U.S. As for driving, it would take more than 30 hours from Los Angeles to Michoacán, and involve passing through some dangerous parts of Mexico. Instead, he decided to drive across the border into Tijuana and then catch a flight to Michoacán.

Daisy collected the documents her father might need, like his birth certificate and plane ticket, and Freedman helped start a GoFundMe campaign to supplement González’s depleted savings and offered to drive him across the border herself, with the help of her own dad.

It took weeks to finalize their plans.

It’s hard to know how many people have ended up in González’s position, according to Dagen, at the Amica Center for Immigrant Rights.

She used to reassure immigrants that their rights usually protected them from immediate detention and deportation, and that the government would for the most part follow the law. She says she can no longer make such promises.

“It is hard to tell people that they have constitutional and statutory rights and that it is very likely those rights will not actually be honored,” Dagen said.

The high-profile targeting of immigrants and the subversion of their rights has pushed many to flee the country, she said. The Department of Homeland Security claims, without providing evidence, that some 1.6 million people have fled the country.

While some, including González, have adopted the Trump administration’s preferred language of “self-deportation” to describe their departure under duress, Dagen notes that it does not define any sort of formal process; it is just people leaving without having any legal framework for returning to the United States.

In an ad released by DHS, Secretary Kristi Noem claims undocumented immigrants who choose to leave by their own accord “may have an opportunity to return and enjoy our freedom and live the American dream.”

But Dagen said such promises are being made in bad faith and used to convince people that this supposed “process” is their best chance to avoid violent arrests by federal agents.

González spent most of his last day at home with his family, savoring their last moments together and packing his things. When Freedman and her own father arrived to pick up González, his family was with him in the living room, weeping. González’s preschool-aged granddaughter had wrapped herself around his leg, begging him not to leave.

After the most difficult goodbyes of his life, he climbed into the Freedmans’ backseat, alongside Daisy and his daughter-in-law, and set off for the border.

Daisy clutched her father’s arm for much of the drive down to Tijuana. Even as they made their way toward Baja California, González remained terrified that immigration officials would somehow nab him before he left the country.

As mariachi music played through the car speakers, they reminisced warmly about González’s years in California, the only place Daisy has ever lived.

There had been times in the last three decades when González desperately wanted to make short-term visits to Mexico — his sister died of cancer near the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, his father passed away a few months later and less than a year after that, his mother followed. He had longed to return to see them in person or, at the very least, to attend their funerals. But he couldn’t be sure that if he crossed the border, he would be able to return.

As they approached the border in August, the atmosphere in the car grew silent. They saw a multicolored welcome sign approaching: “Tijuana México, aquí empieza la patria” — here begins the homeland. In the car, they were all in tears.

When they crossed, González could think of only one thing to say — something he’d waited to exclaim during his months hunkered down in his Pasadena home: “Fuck you, ICE.”

Homeland?

At Tijuana International Airport, González entered security, snaked his way around the belt stanchions and disappeared into his terminal. After a three-hour flight, he arrived in Michoacán, which was a very different place from the one he left in the mid-1990s. Some friends had moved away, others had died.

Today, González lives in the town of Pátzcuaro with an adult daughter from his first marriage whom he hadn’t seen in person in decades. Four of his seven surviving siblings — two brothers and two sisters — are helping him settle into a new life, sharing food with him when they can.

From there, he laments what he left behind in California.

“Half of my life stayed there,” González said during a recent follow-up phone interview from Pátzcuaro. “I cried when I said goodbye to my family, I cried when I arrived in Mexico, I cried the entire way here,” he said.

“When I think about it, I still cry sometimes."

When Daisy opens the front door of her Pasadena home, she still half-expects to see González welcoming her. Instead he is a 1,770-mile drive away, in a Mexican state that the Trump administration warns is too dangerous for Americans to travel to due to widespread violence from “terrorist groups, cartels, gangs and criminal organizations.”

To try to bridge the distance, Daisy and her father speak on the phone nearly every day. He tells her that it rains a lot in Michoacán, and that he misses her. They talk about the news from the U.S. — even though he doesn’t think he will ever be allowed to return.

He’s not sure if he’ll ever feel at home in Michoacán the way he did in Pasadena. He looks forward to a time when his California family might visit him. He hopes to find a new local restaurant job, even if it is certain to pay far less, so he can one day afford his own home in town.

But González no longer fears that masked men with the full support of the White House might abduct him. What keeps him up at night now is knowing that millions of other people are going through what he did in the U.S., attempting to live decent lives while the government treats them like violent criminals.

Copyright 2025 Capital & Main.

This story first appeared on The LA Local.

Since 1977, Richard Santillan has been to every Opening Day game at Dodger Stadium. 

“The tradition goes from my father, to me, to my children and grandchildren. Some of my best memories are with my father and children here at Dodger Stadium,” Santillan told The LA Local, smiling under the shade of palm trees near the entrance to the ballpark Wednesday morning. He was there to protest the team less than 24 hours before Opening Day.

Santillan, like countless other loyal Dodgers fans, is grappling with his fan identity over the team’s decision to accept an invitation to the White House and owner Mark Walter’s ties to ICE detention facilities.

More than 30 people joined Santillan on Wednesday morning for a press conference held near 1000 Vin Scully Drive to convey a message directly to the team. 

“We are demanding the Dodgers stop participating in funding of inhumane treatment of families and do not go to the White House to celebrate with the criminal in chief,” Evelyn Escatiola told the crowd. “Together, we have the power to make a change.”

Escatiola, a former dean of East Los Angeles College and longtime community organizer, urged fans to flex their economic power by “letting the Dodgers know that we do not support repression.”

Jorge “Coqui” Rodriguez, a lifelong Dodgers fan, spoke to the crowd and called on Dodgers ownership to divest from immigration detention centers owned and operated by GEO Group and CoreCivic.

Jorge Coqui H Rodriguez speaks at a press conference outside Dodger Stadium on March 25, 2026, to demand the Dodgers not to visit the White House following their 2025 World Series win.

(

J.W. Hendricks

/

The LA Local

)

In a phone interview a day before the protest, Rodriguez told The LA Local he did not want the Dodgers using his “cheve” or beer money to fund detention centers. 

“They can’t take our parking money, our cacahuate money, our cheve money, our Dodger Dog money and invest those funds into corporations that are imprisoning people. It’s wrong,” Rodriguez said. 

Rodriguez considers the Dodgers one of the most racially diverse teams and said the players need to support fans at a time when heightened immigration enforcement has become more common across L.A.

The team’s 2025’s visit to the White House drew ire from the largely Latino fan base, citing the Trump administration’s ongoing attacks on immigrants. 

In June, the team came under further scrutiny when rumors swirled online that federal immigration agents were using the stadium’s parking, which immigration authorities later denied in statements posted on social media accounts.

The team again came under fire after not releasing a statement on the impacts of ICE raids on its mostly Latino fan base at the height of immigration enforcement last summer. The team later agreed to invest $1 million to support families affected by immigration enforcement.

When he learned the Dodgers were pledging only $1 million to families in need, Rodriguez called the amount a  “slap in the face.” 

“These guys just bought the Lakers for billions of dollars and they give a million dollars to fight for legal services? That’s a joke,” Rodriguez said. “They need to have a moral backbone and not be investing in those companies.”

According to reporting from the Los Angeles Times, former Dodgers pitcher Clayton Kershawsaid last week that he is looking forward to the trip.

“I went when President [Joe] Biden was in office. I’m going to go when President [Donald] Trump is in office,” Kershaw said. “To me, it’s just about getting to go to the White House. You don’t get that opportunity every day, so I’m excited to go.”

The Dodgers have yet to announce when their planned visit will take place. 

Santillan sometimes laments his decision to give up his season tickets in protest of the team. His connection to the stadium and the memories he has made there with family and friends will last a lifetime, he said. On Thursday, he will uphold his tradition and be there for the first pitch of the season, but with a heavy heart.

“It’s a family tradition, but the Dodgers have a lot of work to do,” he said.

A local favorite mom-and-pop bookshop in Eagle Rock is facing displacement due to a steep rent hike. The owners say theirs is just one of several small businesses along Eagle Rock Boulevard struggling to keep up with lease increases.

Over the past 19 years, many in the neighborhood have come to love READ Books for its eclectic collection of used titles and shop dog Florence.

Co-owner Jeremy Kaplan said it’s been a delight to grow with the community over the years.

“Like seeing kids come back in, who were in grade school and now they’re in college,” Kaplan said.

But the building where Kaplan and wife Debbie rent was recently sold, and the rent increased by more than 130% to $2,805 a month, Kaplan said. He told LAist it was an increase his small business simply could not absorb.

Kaplan said he originally was given 30 days notice of the rent increase. After some research, assistance from Councilmember Ysabel Jurado’s office and some pro-bono legal help, Kaplan said he pushed back and got the 90-day notice he’s afforded by state law.

California Senate Bill 1103 requires landlords to give businesses with five or less employees 90 days’ notice for rent increases exceeding 10%, among other protections.

Systems Real Estate, the property management company, did not immediately respond to LAist’s request for comment.

What can small businesses do? 

Nadia Segura, directing attorney of the Small Business Program at pro bono legal aid non-profit Bet Tzedek said California law does not currently allow for rent control for commercial tenancies.

Outside of the protections under SB 1103, Segura said small businesses like READ Books don’t have much other recourse. And even then, commercial landlords are not required to inform their tenants of their protections under the law.

“There’s still a lot of people that don’t know about SB 1103. And then it’s very sad that they tell them they have these rent increases and within a month they have to leave,” Segura said.

She said her group is seeing steep rent hikes like this for commercial tenants across the city.

“We are seeing this even more with the World Cup coming up, the Olympics coming up. And I will say it was very sad to see that also after the wildfires,” Segura said.

Part of Bet Tzedek’s ongoing work is to advocate for small businesses, working with landlords who are increasing rents to see if they are willing to give business owners longer leases that lock in rents.

What’s next 

After READ Books posted about their situation on social media, commenters chimed in to express their outrage and love for the little shop.

While he looks for a new spot, Kaplan says he’s forming a coalition of local businesses and activist groups to see what can be done to help other small businesses facing similar displacement. He wants to address the displacement issue for businesses like his, which have made Eagle Rock the distinctive neighborhood that it is today.

Owl Talk, a longtime Eagle Rock staple selling clothing and accessories in a unit in the same building as READ Books, is facing a “more than double” rent increase, according to a post on their Instagram account.

Kaplan said he’s been in touch with the office of state Assemblywoman Jessica Caloza and wants to explore the possibility of introducing legislation to set up protections for small businesses like his, including rent-control measures or a vacancy tax for landlords. Kaplan said he also reached out to the office of state Sen. Maria Durazo.

By his count, Kaplan said there are about a dozen businesses within surrounding blocks that are at risk of closing their doors or have shuttered due to rent increases or other struggles.

When READ Books was founded during the Great Recession, Kaplan said he knew it was a longshot to open a bookstore at the same time so many were struggling to stay in business.

“It was kind of interesting to be doing something that neighborhoods needed. That was important to me growing up, that was important to my children, that was important to my wife growing up,” Kaplan said.

“And then somebody comes in and says, ‘We’re gonna over double your rent.”

Topline:

Frozen budget: Most of the city’s Bureau of Street Lighting budget comes from an assessment that people who own property illuminated by lights pay on their county property tax bill. The amount people pay depends on the kind of property they own and how much they benefit from lighting. A typical single-family home currently pays $53 annually, and in total, the assessments bring in about $45 million annually for the city to repair and maintain streetlights. Changing the amount the Bureau of Street Lighting gets from the assessment requires a vote among property owners who benefit from the lights.

Ballots: L.A. City Council’s vote gives city staff the green light to prepare and send out those ballots. Miguel Sangalang, who oversees the bureau, said at a committee meeting earlier this month that he expects to send out ballots by April 17. Notices about the ballots will be sent out prior to the ballots themselves.

Near unanimous vote: L.A. City Councilmember Monica Rodriguez was the only “No” vote Tuesday, saying she wanted to see a more current strategic plan for the bureau. Sangalang said the bureau developed a plan in 2022 that lays out how money will be spent. Councilmember Imelda Padilla was absent for the vote.

Vote count: Votes will be weighted according to the assessment amount. Basically, the more you’re asked to pay yearly to maintain streetlights, the more your vote will count. Ballots received before June 2 will be tabulated by the L.A. City Clerk.

How much more money: According to a report, the amount needed in assessments from property owners to meet the repair and maintenance needs of the city’s streetlighting in the next fiscal year is nearly $112 million.

Use of the money: Sangalang said at a March 11 committee meeting that the extra funds would be used to double the number of staff to handle repairs and procure solar streetlights, which don’t face the threat of copper wire theft. That would all potentially reduce the time it takes to repair simple fixes down to a week. Currently, city residents wait for months to see broken streetlights repaired. The assessment would come with a three-year auditing mechanism.