By Nick Valencia
LOS ANGELES — For Latinos who supported President Donald Trump, there has been a belief among them that they were the exception. Some may even seen themselves as part of the solution, not the problem—model immigrants who “did it the right way,” who had nothing to fear from policies aimed at someone else. Criminals. “Illegals.” The other.
But as a returning Trump Adminstration takes shape, and immigration enforcement ramps up again in cities like Los Angeles and Atlanta, that perception of safety is beginning to collapse.
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A Show of Force in Pico Rivera
Tuesday afternoon, federal agents descended on Pico Rivera—a working-class Latino city in southeast L.A. with a notable share of Trump supporters. Some agents were in unmarked cars. I reviewed video showing a tense standoff in what appears to be a Walmart parking lot. Armed officers stood watch. One officer can be seen racking his long gun amidst the crowd of civilians and employees.
This wasn’t just an immigration operation. It was a moment of reckoning for some in the community—a reminder that the system doesn’t stop to ask who you voted for. It doesn’t care if you wore a MAGA hat or marched in a rally. It only sees what it’s been told to look for.
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“I Have the Key to Come In”
I remember a moment in 2016, outside President Trump’s economic speech in Detroit. A man from Wisconsin had driven in just to support him. He stood outside the venue holding a “Make America Great Again” sign, beaming.
When he spoke, his Spanish accent was unmistakable.
“Build the wall,” he told me in English. “It’s OK. I have the key to come in. I did it the right way.”
He said it with pride. But I couldn’t help thinking: if he were pulled over without ID, would that pride protect him? Would his accent and brown skin raise suspicion instead? Would he be seen as a proud American—or a potential immigration case?
That’s the tension many Latinos live with: a belief that doing it “the right way” is enough. That legal status and work ethic can shield you from the harder edges of enforcement.
Until the line moves.
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The Case of Mario Guevara
Mario Guevara believed his press credentials would protect him. A Spanish-language journalist with a large following, Guevara is no stranger to immigration enforcement stories. In fact, he’s known for covering them—often with a lens his critics said leaned conservative.
He’s also been railed in the past for his perceived support of law enforcement. In one controversial video, he asked a police officer during a traffic stop whether a Latino man suspected of being undocumented had shown a driver’s license—a moment many in the immigrant rights community saw as crossing the line from journalist to enabler.
But now, the irony is impossible to ignore: Guevara is on the other side of the badge.
Days ago, while covering a protest against President Trump in DeKalb County, Georgia, Guevara was detained. He wore a flak jacket clearly labeled “PRESS.” He was broadcasting live on Facebook when heavily armed officers took him into custody. After he was granted bond, an ICE detainer was issued—putting him at risk of deportation.
Earlier this evening, his attorney, Giovanni Diaz, held a press conference.
“He’s been renewing his work authorization… He’s a law-abiding member of the community,” Diaz said, noting Guevara has a pending green card application through his U.S. citizen son. He added that this latest enforcement push “has added another level of anxiety” for Guevara, who has spent years reporting on the very system that now holds him in custody.
His profession didn’t protect him. Proximity to power didn’t protect him. The system still came.
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Voting for Privilege
In 2024, 55% of Latino men voted for President Trump, according to national exit polls. Many were disillusioned with the Democratic Party. Some connected with Trump’s messaging on crime, the economy, and masculinity. But more than anything, many were voting for proximity to privilege.
They weren’t just backing policies. They were voting for distinction.
They don’t always see themselves the way others might. Many view newly arrived migrants—especially those just crossing the border—as a separate group entirely. Even when they share language, surnames, and family histories, they draw a mental line between them and us.
Some are just one or two generations removed from crossing that same border. But to them, that distance is enough to believe they’ve earned a protected status—earned belonging.
And when they voted for President Trump, many did so with quiet confidence that the system would know the difference. That it would come for someone else.
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A Shift in Perspective
Last week in downtown L.A., I met a woman named Lola, whose family immigrated legally from El Salvador decades ago. She used to be the kind of person who’d say, “Just do it the right way.” That it might take a while, but it was worth it.
Then she reconnected with her roots—and learned it had taken her parents 20 years to get their citizenship.
That changed her view. The process wasn’t just long. It was brutal. And it made her realize how naive that advice had been.
That’s what it took for her to reconsider her assumptions about immigration. And maybe, for others, it will take something equally personal. Because now, as Trump’s immigration policies begin to affect people in their own communities—sometimes even their own families—the political distance between identity and policy is shrinking.
Some on the right may call it dramatic to suggest that law-abiding Latinos are getting caught up in enforcement actions. But it’s already happened. I reported on the East L.A. man—an American citizen—who was mistakenly detained by ICE.
What recent events are making clear—from Pico Rivera, CA to DeKalb County, GA, from Walmart parking lots to protest livestreams—is that support for what is happening may not offer protection.
The knock still comes. Perhaps even for the ones who thought they had the key.