Zella Reyn Golden: These are the people you call criminals!?

A nightmare startled me awake. “Mom? Dad?” I called out frantically. “Where are you?”

The door swung open and Marta and Irma rushed in to comfort me. It is now my turn to rush towards them by standing up for the Mexican people as one who marches against the brutality of ICE.

Marta and Irma are the mother-daughter team that worked for my family in San Miguel de Allende, caring for my twin brother and me when we moved from New York City to Mexico at just six months old. 

From that point on, Marta and Irma have been a constant presence in my life. Almost every day, we would stroll through the Centro, where we would buy flower crowns and eat esquite, taking in the vibrant culture of our city through the same eyes. We would visit the local market where Marta and Irma let us peek our heads through the window of the tortilla factory to ask for bits.

On Thursday nights, Marta and Irma would bring my brother and me gorditas and lay with us on our beds to watch Alice in Wonderland or Turbo, cuddling us until we fell asleep. On weekends, they welcomed us into their home, where Irma would style my hair while her husband, Jeziel and their son, Irving played video games with my brother. In my life, our two houses were as one. We treated birthdays like extravaganzas. There were gifts, balloons, and cake, with our entire families filling the room. And every New Year’s Eve, our family spent the night with theirs. As the clock struck midnight, we hugged, ate grapes for good luck, and looked forward to another year together. When Irma announced she was having a baby girl. I was ecstatic at the thought of finally having a little sister.

Now that my brother and I study in California, we cannot see Marta and Irma as often. Nonetheless, they remain an integral part of our lives. Whenever my brother and I spot them across the room, our faces light up as we rush in for a hug. They always comment on how much we’ve grown and we all share stories about our lives. 

It’s impossible not to think of them when marching in support of immigrants currently under siege by the Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Under the Trump administration, immigration enforcement has become increasingly aggressive, with random arrests and expanded deportations of people who are in many instances targeted for their accent, skin color, as well as the community they live and work in. ABC News established that approximately 605,000 to 622,000 people have been deported under the second Trump administration. However, according to new data from the conservative thinktank, the Cato Institute, 65% of these people have had no conviction and only 6.9% were convicted of violent crimes.

When immigrants are indiscriminately labeled as “criminals,” it becomes easy to gloss over the deep moral implications of ICE policies that have led to inhumane actions. As of 2025, more than 30 people died in ICE custody according to Reuters, the highest number in nearly two decades. And ProPublica reported that ICE has sent roughly 600 children to federal detention shelters

Having been raised by amazing people who might have been subject to this nightmare if they lived in the United States, I felt a deep pull to take action on behalf of Mexican Immigrants and Mexican-Americans who are being impacted by the current immigration policies. Last Friday, I marched through the town of San Anselmo with hundreds of students from San Domenico and other high schools in protest against ICE. Every person who participated was extremely passionate, all of us feeling immensely proud to be a part of something that was larger than ourselves, and what was a national demonstration by high school students. The protest gave my brother and me the opportunity to stand up for the Mexican people who we know should not be subject to the dehumanization that ICE uses to justify its actions.

While ICE policies are often justified as “protecting” the country, the statistics from Cato noted above indicate otherwise. Moreover, they have real consequences for families and communities who are being stereotyped — people like Marta and Irma who were just going about their lives. When you know people behind the labels, you take into account the human toll that it takes on their children, their ability to make a living, their roles in a community and their trust of the government as well as the people who are supposed to protect them. 

My childhood was built by astounding Mexican women who defined my brother and me as continuing to love and care for us. Marching last Friday in support of people like Marta and Irma, and the hundreds of friends and classmates with whom I grew up in Mexico, was a way of honoring our common humanity.

At the protest, a truck waving the Mexican flag kept circling us marchers, honking and blasting La Chona, a very familiar upbeat song to all the Mexican people. Every time it passed, I raised my sign “Ningún ser humano es ilegal” — and my brother and I sang along.