The Brief

Adopted from Iran at age two, she takes great pride in her quintessential American upbringing.

The woman was raised on a small farm in the Midwest. She attended church every Sunday. And she loved listening to her late father's stories from when he was in the Air Force during World War II. 

But in the eyes of the U.S. government, the woman, who's now in her 50s and lives in California, is not American. Instead, she's an immigrant who overstayed her visa since she was a toddler and therefore, subject to deportation. She spoke to NPR on condition of anonymity because she fears speaking publicly will complicate her immigration case.

"How could this happen?" she said. "I'm American. I've never had any other identity besides that."

Most international adoptees receive automatic citizenship thanks to the 2000 Child Citizenship Act. But the law excludes those who were already adults when the legislation passed or adoptees who entered the U.S. on the wrong type of visa, which is what happened to the California woman.

Earlier this month, she received a letter from the Department of Homeland Security saying removal proceedings have begun. The woman, who has no criminal record, has no idea what prompted the letter. 

An adoptee brought to the United States by her American parents from Iran as a young child holds the immigration removal order she received recently, photographed in California on Feb. 21.

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She's terrified to be deported to Iran given her father's military service and her Christian faith. Open Doors, which tracks Christian persecution, ranks Iran among the top 10 most dangerous countries for Christians. The woman also has no family there nor does she speak Farsi. And the prospect of deportation comes amid great upheaval in Iran, from anti-government protests to looming threats of a U.S. military strike. 

"The sheer possibility of the daughter of an American WWII hero being sent overseas, through no fault of her own, epitomizes a broken system," her attorney Emily Howe said in a statement.

It's unclear exactly how many adoptees are in the same vulnerable position as the California woman. Many don't realize their situation until adulthood, when obtaining citizenship becomes far more difficult. Others live in limbo because of lost paperwork and the sheer difficulty locating it decades later — which is also a layer of the woman's case.

An adoptee brought to the United States by her American parents from Iran as a young child stands for a portrait in California on Feb. 21.

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Adoptees have been deported in the past, often because a crime triggered their removal. But with President Donald Trump's historic mass deportations, noncitizen adoptees are more fearful than ever of being sent to countries they barely remember.

A bill to close the gaps in the 2000 law has bipartisan support but failed several times in Congress, partly because of its tie to immigration, NPR reported last year.

The Department of Homeland Security would not respond to a request for comment unless provided the woman's name, which NPR declined to do. In a statement, DHS said immigrants facing deportation "receive full due process and asylum seekers have their fear claims heard."

'I don't understand this. How could this happen?'

Born in Iran in the 1970s, the woman doesn't know what happened to her birth parents or why she was placed in an orphanage. At the time of her adoption, she said her American father was working in Iran as a U.S. government contractor.

An archival childhood family photograph of an adoptee brought to the United States by her American parents from Iran as a young child, photographed in California on Feb. 21.

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Fast forward, three decades later, the woman had finished paying off her student loans and wanted to travel outside the country. But when she applied for a passport, she realized something was wrong.

Pretty soon into the application process, the woman received a letter saying her parents did not complete her naturalization when she was a child. She recalled reaching out to an immigration attorney, who told her point blank, " You're deportable to Iran."

"I couldn't stop crying," she said. "I just, through my tears, kept asking like, I don't understand this. How could this happen?" 

The California woman was brought to the U.S. on a tourist visa, which was fairly common to use when adopting from countries that did not have formal intercountry adoption systems in place, according to Joy Alessi, a Korean adoptee who is with the Adoptee Rights Campaign.

"These nonimmigrant statuses routinely expired before state adoption proceedings could conclude," she said. "The status lapse required a formal adjustment to permanent residency."

The California woman firmly believes that her parents took the necessary steps to naturalize her. She points to a local newspaper article in which her parents mentioned working toward her citizenship, which NPR reviewed. Among her father's belongings, the woman said she found a document requesting lost citizenship paperwork. She added that her mother repeatedly insisted she was indeed a citizen.

An undated photo of the adoptee's father, who served in the military.

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Over the years, the woman said she has spent tens of thousands of dollars and sought help from several lawyers to track down missing documents and rectify what she believes is a clerical error.

"There was just paperwork and a paper trail letting me know and I'm grateful for that," she said. "And I stand by the fact that my dad loved me and he made sure that he did his part to make me an American in this country."

'I fight for myself, but at the same time, I fight for my dad's legacy'

Up until her passport debacle, the woman said she never thought of herself as an immigrant. 

"I didn't know what a green card was, alien number, I had no clue," she said. "But obviously now through this journey, I know it really well."

Now, she winces every time she turns on the news and hears about Trump's crackdown on immigration. Since she received the DHS letter, the woman has kept a low profile — switching to remote work and rarely leaving her house or driving her car. The woman also shares her location with her friends in case she is detained by ICE. 

"It used to be that, before some of the laws were changed, that you were safe in hospital spaces, churches, schools," she said. "Some of those places that I should be able to come and go are not safe havens for me anymore."

A "Home Sweet Home" decoration along with family portraits of an adoptee's American family in her home in California on Feb. 21.

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Her case is scheduled before an immigration judge next month, which she does not have to appear in-person for. Although she's terrified, part of her has always wanted to resolve her legal status and put an end to the fear she has been carrying.

"I welcome fixing this. I've always wanted to fix this," she said. "I feel like I haven't been able to freely embrace my life."

As painful as this time has been, the woman attributes her strength to her father, a retired Air Force officer who was a prisoner of war in Germany during World War II. She imagines that if her father was alive today, he'd be angry on her behalf. 

"I fight for myself, but at the same time, I fight for my dad's legacy and what my dad wanted for me and how he prepared me for this life," she said. "And I'm not gonna let somebody take it from me."
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For the last three years, the record store and music venue Healing Force of the Universe has been operating on a sleepy street corner not far from Pasadena City College. Nearby businesses include a shoe repair store, a nail salon and several auto shops.

“We're kind of in a dead corner,” owner Austin Manuel said. “No offense if anybody lives here, but not a very foot-trafficked area, kind of a hard place to have a store.”

In spite of the location, Manuel said Healing Force has become a home away from home for musicians and music fans. One of them is Bobby Bradford, a jazz trumpet legend who lost his house and personal archive in the Eaton Fire. He performs regularly at the venue. (Healing Force has also partnered with LAist on fire recovery events.)

Its current location is set to close this month, but Manuel and his team are already raising funds to cover a move to another space: G-Son Studios in Atwater Village. The repurposed ballroom was the Beastie Boys' home base when they recorded their classic albums Check Your Head and Ill Communication. Run-DMC and Biz Markie stopped by at one point, and Beck also laid down tracks for his album Odelay there.

Inside Healing Force's space in Pasadena.

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The vibe

Healing Force sells records, of course, but these days it’s more of a nighttime performance space. Manuel said he wants people to feel comfortable striking up conversations after a show.

“I grew up in the church in the South, and I was like, ‘How do I design this so that it feels like a Southern church lady could come in here and feel welcome?’" Manuel said. “ I didn't want it to be too cool.  I wanted it to feel kind of suburban in a way.”

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Though the name might call to mind a cult slogan — and Manuel said they lean into that aesthetic on purpose — it’s actually a reference to the 1970 album Music Is the Healing Force of the Universe by saxophonist Albert Ayler.

At the venue, “people can kind of get … into a meditative zone,” Manuel said. “After the [January 2025] fires, it felt so good to come back together in this room and feel the healing of community.”

Healing Force's stage setup.

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The performances

The shows Healing Force puts on share a common thread: They’re meant to promote peace and relaxation, as well as deep, careful listening on the hi-fi sound system. But they’re an eclectic mix of genres. On one night, you might see L.A. spiritual jazz band Phi-Psonics, who turned a residency at the venue into a live album, Expanding to One.

On another night, you might catch a spaced-out electronic set, an up-and-coming singer-songwriter or a group of session musicians who’ve played with the likes of Paul Simon, Elton John and Lucinda Williams.

About the fundraiser

With the new space on Glendale Boulevard, Manuel said, Healing Force would triple its capacity for concerts, get a bar space and be closer to other venues in Northeast L.A.

“If 1,000 people gave $25, we would get there,” Manuel said – though he also said most people have been giving more.

You can read more about the fundraiser and donate at Healing Force’s GoFundMe.

See the Pasadena space before it closes

The venue is still open at 1200 E. Walnut Street and is holding events through this Halloween weekend. You can see their events calendar on their website.

The racist DNA of Jim Crow discrimination may be embedded in your housing documents.

The language in housing documents that restricts sale or use of a property only to a person of the white race is called a “restrictive covenant,” and in California the practice goes back to the 19th century and continued into the mid-20th century. While housing discrimination persists, the practice was found unconstitutional in 1948.

California counties are reporting mixed progress in meeting the demands of a 2021 law to excise the language from property records.

According to Sylvia Manzo, deputy recorder in the Orange County Clerk-Recorder’s office, the county finished the job in March of this year, removing racist language from more than 27,000 property documents with the help of computer software.

This 1924 property document from Bakersfield includes racist language limiting use of the property in question to people of "the white or Caucasian race."

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L.A. County is far from done. It says that with the help of an outside company hired in 2024, 50 million pages will be examined yearly, which would take about 10 years to finish the job.

Public agencies could use the public’s help.

Language examples

Here’s a 1924 example from a property in Bakersfield. The text reads, “That the lands herein conveyed shall never, at any time, be sold to or rented to or occupied by any person not of the white or Caucasian race.”

Or this language from a 1936 document relating to a Costa Mesa property: “That said premises shall not be sold, conveyed, rented, or leased to, or occupied by any person of African, Mexican, or Asiatic descent.”

How to get it taken out

The Restrictive Covenant Modification Form is at the heart of the effort to remove the racist language from housing documents. Each county has its own process. Some charge a fee; others don’t. Some require a notary certification for the signature; others don’t.

L.A. County:

Registrar-Recorder officials recommend these steps:

• Highlight or underline the unlawful provision on the recorded document
• Complete the Restrictive Covenant Modification Form
• Submit the form and the recorded document by email: RCM@rrcc.lacounty.gov or in person at the Norwalk headquarters at 12400 Imperial Highway in Norwalk
• Mail instructions are here.

Orange County:

The Orange County spokesperson says there may be some properties not caught by its software and urges the public to report them. Here’s the form

Riverside County:

Here’s the Riverside County form

San Bernardino County:

Here’s the San Bernardino County form

San Diego County:

Here’s the San Diego County form

Santa Barbara County:

Here’s the Santa Barbara County form

Ignoring the racist language in property documents, some say, reinforces the legacy of segregation, while taking steps to remove restrictive covenant language is a way individuals and organizations can repudiate policies that sought to discriminate.