Kenya Evelyn
Jan 10, 2020,
Rony Ponthieux. Kenya EvelynPresident Donald Trump's proposed merit-based changes to the current immigration system wouldn't change the number of immigrants permitted in the US, but does look to redefine the type of migrants accepted.
Critics call these policy changes discriminatory, accusing the administration of singling out poor, mostly black and brown countries in favor of European immigrants and would-be tech workers.
"There are 1.8 million black immigrants who are already disproportionately vulnerable to immigration enforcement. Attacking the legal ways they come here sends a clear message they aren't wanted," Nana Gyamfi, executive director for the Black Alliance for Just Immigration, said.
Sunset over Rony Ponthieux's Miami Gardens home signals time to head inside. After a few comical attempts, his 12-year-old daughter Christina gives up teaching him how to throw a football. Rony prefers soccer anyway and the hot, November sun makes him sweat. Sundays begin the busy week for this family, a mix of hospital shifts, school trips, and recitals.
Play soon leads to prep. Christina rehearses chords on the living room piano while Rony gets ready for work. Tonight is the first of four, 12-hour shifts at Jackson Memorial Hospital where Rony is a registered nurse. Nights are split between wards, aiding patients post-surgery and emergencies.
Rony Ponthieux and his daughter. Kenya Evelyn
For many Haitians living in South Florida, the Ponthieux story is a familiar one: escape from political turmoil and hard work to achieve an education. After years of sacrifice, together they live their own American dream — complete with Saturday church services in Kreyol. As Rony fills up on leftovers in the family's modest kitchen, he steals a minute to sit beside Christina as she plays.
Bonding moments like these are under threat now as the family's future in America remains uncertain.
"It's a terrible situation," Rony said. "You come to America for a better life but it's almost like we're being punished for wanting to give back to the country that welcomed us."
Rony, who came to the US with his wife Majorie in 1999, is among 50,000 Haitians living under Temporary Protected Status (TPS), a legal protection granted to countries experiencing catastrophes of war or natural disaster. President Barack Obama granted TPS following the devastating quake. It allowed Rony and his wife to stay and work in the country.
But in 2017, the Trump administration announced it would terminate TPS for Haitians, giving Rony just months to leave the country he's called home for 20 years. Due to multiple appeals, his legal right to stay has been in limbo ever since.
"I couldn't believe after all these years we'd just be told 'ok, now leave,'" he said. "Without TPS, I would have to go back to Haiti where I have no job, no resources and few connections. My entire life is here."
Trump's policies could disproportionately affect migrants from Africa, Latin America, and the Caribbean
President Donald Trump's proposed merit-based changes to the current immigration system wouldn't change the number of immigrants permitted in the US, but does look to redefine the type of migrants accepted. Critics call these policy changes discriminatory, accusing the administration of singling out poor, mostly black and brown countries in favor of European immigrants and would-be tech workers. Rony points to the president's own rhetoric.
"He calls them 'shithole countries.' He said he wants more people from Norway," he said. "My skin is black, my accent is Haitian but I work hard to be part of America like anyone else."
Proposed changes to US immigration policy do stand to disproportionately affect migrants from Africa, Latin America, and the Caribbean. According to the Black Alliance for Just Immigration (BAJI), black immigrants are more likely to enter the US legally through asylum, TPS or visa programs including the diversity lottery. Trump has vowed to "restore the integrity of" what he calls a "broken asylum system" and gut the diversity visa altogether. BAJI executive director Nana Gyamfi says these steps are designed to restrict black immigration.
"It's to ensure that only rich Europeans are coming into the country, essentially the whitening of America," said Nana Gyamfi, executive director for BAJI. "There are 1.8 million black immigrants who are already disproportionately vulnerable to immigration enforcement. Attacking the legal ways they come here sends a clear message they aren't wanted."
Black migrants, mostly from Africa and the Caribbean, represent 10% of the immigrant population. While they continue to be one of the most educated, 19% of black immigrants live below the poverty line, 12% are unemployed, according to BAJI. In September, the US Department of Homeland Security introduced a change to a public charge policy that would deny green cards to immigrants receiving federal benefits like Medicaid and food stamps. BAJI estimates that one in 20 black immigrants and their families could be affected. A court blocked the change four days before it was to take effect.
Gyamfi says even if never enforced, policies still achieve their intended chilling effect.
"Fear of immigration enforcement keeps black immigrants from seeking the public services they qualify for, and deters would-be applicants from seeking asylum or a visa," she said. "In recent years our work has been just as much myth-busting and addressing hysteria as it is advocacy."
With each new announcement, Rony also worries about any potential effect on his legal status.
"Everything is so temporary you almost feel scared to take a breath," he said. "But our lives here, our families here, aren't temporary."
Rony has been a permanent fixture of Jackson Memorial Hospital for years. Traffic turns tonight's commute from 30 minutes to an hour, giving Rony time to browse his phone. He swipes past dozens of photos of a wide-eyed youth in uniform. The young man stares stoically in front of the American flag but poses jokingly with his comrades in the US Army. Rony's 19-year-old son, Christopher, finished boot camp in Georgia earlier that month. He calls often, but they keep the conversation light.
Bonding moments like these are under threat now as the family's future in America remains uncertain.
"It's a terrible situation," Rony said. "You come to America for a better life but it's almost like we're being punished for wanting to give back to the country that welcomed us."
Rony, who came to the US with his wife Majorie in 1999, is among 50,000 Haitians living under Temporary Protected Status (TPS), a legal protection granted to countries experiencing catastrophes of war or natural disaster. President Barack Obama granted TPS following the devastating quake. It allowed Rony and his wife to stay and work in the country.
But in 2017, the Trump administration announced it would terminate TPS for Haitians, giving Rony just months to leave the country he's called home for 20 years. Due to multiple appeals, his legal right to stay has been in limbo ever since.
"I couldn't believe after all these years we'd just be told 'ok, now leave,'" he said. "Without TPS, I would have to go back to Haiti where I have no job, no resources and few connections. My entire life is here."
Trump's policies could disproportionately affect migrants from Africa, Latin America, and the Caribbean
President Donald Trump's proposed merit-based changes to the current immigration system wouldn't change the number of immigrants permitted in the US, but does look to redefine the type of migrants accepted. Critics call these policy changes discriminatory, accusing the administration of singling out poor, mostly black and brown countries in favor of European immigrants and would-be tech workers. Rony points to the president's own rhetoric.
"He calls them 'shithole countries.' He said he wants more people from Norway," he said. "My skin is black, my accent is Haitian but I work hard to be part of America like anyone else."
Proposed changes to US immigration policy do stand to disproportionately affect migrants from Africa, Latin America, and the Caribbean. According to the Black Alliance for Just Immigration (BAJI), black immigrants are more likely to enter the US legally through asylum, TPS or visa programs including the diversity lottery. Trump has vowed to "restore the integrity of" what he calls a "broken asylum system" and gut the diversity visa altogether. BAJI executive director Nana Gyamfi says these steps are designed to restrict black immigration.
"It's to ensure that only rich Europeans are coming into the country, essentially the whitening of America," said Nana Gyamfi, executive director for BAJI. "There are 1.8 million black immigrants who are already disproportionately vulnerable to immigration enforcement. Attacking the legal ways they come here sends a clear message they aren't wanted."
Black migrants, mostly from Africa and the Caribbean, represent 10% of the immigrant population. While they continue to be one of the most educated, 19% of black immigrants live below the poverty line, 12% are unemployed, according to BAJI. In September, the US Department of Homeland Security introduced a change to a public charge policy that would deny green cards to immigrants receiving federal benefits like Medicaid and food stamps. BAJI estimates that one in 20 black immigrants and their families could be affected. A court blocked the change four days before it was to take effect.
Gyamfi says even if never enforced, policies still achieve their intended chilling effect.
"Fear of immigration enforcement keeps black immigrants from seeking the public services they qualify for, and deters would-be applicants from seeking asylum or a visa," she said. "In recent years our work has been just as much myth-busting and addressing hysteria as it is advocacy."
With each new announcement, Rony also worries about any potential effect on his legal status.
"Everything is so temporary you almost feel scared to take a breath," he said. "But our lives here, our families here, aren't temporary."
Rony has been a permanent fixture of Jackson Memorial Hospital for years. Traffic turns tonight's commute from 30 minutes to an hour, giving Rony time to browse his phone. He swipes past dozens of photos of a wide-eyed youth in uniform. The young man stares stoically in front of the American flag but poses jokingly with his comrades in the US Army. Rony's 19-year-old son, Christopher, finished boot camp in Georgia earlier that month. He calls often, but they keep the conversation light.
Rony Ponthieux looks at a picture of his son. Kenya Evelyn"It's a lot of pressure for him," Rony said. "You volunteer for your country and worry that it may not let your parents stay."
The Ponthieux were hopeful that Christopher's military service would aid in their green card quest. But they'll have to wait until the end of 2021, when Christopher turns 21. A court order extended TPS through January of the same year. The timeline leaves a near nine-month gap, putting Rony's legal status in jeopardy.
If TPS expires, Rony and more than 315,000 other recipients from 15 countries would face an immediate deadline to leave the country and be subject to detention and deportation in the process. The Trump administration's proposed 79% spike in application fees for green cards may also take effect by then, a measure activists criticize as politically motivated and designed to keep low-income migrants out.
In their effort to stay, the Ponthieux parents will now face a permanent residency fight that is more stringent, and possibly, more expensive.
The 18,000 American children born to Haitian TPS recipients add to the uncertainty, including Christopher and 12-year-old Christina. Thousands of Haitian families face the reality that their lives together in the US may be limited. Christina, only a seventh grader, fears her family could be split up. It's an uncomfortable conversation between piano practice, schoolwork and at-home lessons on the historical bond between the US and Haiti.
'The anxiety is difficult but I have to be here for the patients, for my family'
Rony heads toward Jackson Memorial's automated glass doors, backpack in tow. The hospital is where his advocacy is most successful. Occasional quips about immigration from patients create opportunities to show the difference he and other migrants make.
"I tell them how, without TPS, I wouldn't be here to care for them," he says. "Their hearts drop and they tell me they don't want to lose their favorite nurse."
Minds also begin to change when considering all the other community members they'd lose — 320,000 TPS recipients from Central America and the Caribbean alone.
Together with his shiftmate, Rony will spend the night checking IVs, monitoring patient breathing and other vital signs. While his work on the night shift is an asset for others, his own health has experienced the effects of uncertainty. Rony's been hospitalized twice over the year for blood pressure spikes and stress-related dehydration.
"The anxiety is difficult but I have to be here for the patients, for my family," he said. "I want to stay part of this community until I can't."
The Ponthieux were hopeful that Christopher's military service would aid in their green card quest. But they'll have to wait until the end of 2021, when Christopher turns 21. A court order extended TPS through January of the same year. The timeline leaves a near nine-month gap, putting Rony's legal status in jeopardy.
If TPS expires, Rony and more than 315,000 other recipients from 15 countries would face an immediate deadline to leave the country and be subject to detention and deportation in the process. The Trump administration's proposed 79% spike in application fees for green cards may also take effect by then, a measure activists criticize as politically motivated and designed to keep low-income migrants out.
In their effort to stay, the Ponthieux parents will now face a permanent residency fight that is more stringent, and possibly, more expensive.
The 18,000 American children born to Haitian TPS recipients add to the uncertainty, including Christopher and 12-year-old Christina. Thousands of Haitian families face the reality that their lives together in the US may be limited. Christina, only a seventh grader, fears her family could be split up. It's an uncomfortable conversation between piano practice, schoolwork and at-home lessons on the historical bond between the US and Haiti.
'The anxiety is difficult but I have to be here for the patients, for my family'
Rony heads toward Jackson Memorial's automated glass doors, backpack in tow. The hospital is where his advocacy is most successful. Occasional quips about immigration from patients create opportunities to show the difference he and other migrants make.
"I tell them how, without TPS, I wouldn't be here to care for them," he says. "Their hearts drop and they tell me they don't want to lose their favorite nurse."
Minds also begin to change when considering all the other community members they'd lose — 320,000 TPS recipients from Central America and the Caribbean alone.
Together with his shiftmate, Rony will spend the night checking IVs, monitoring patient breathing and other vital signs. While his work on the night shift is an asset for others, his own health has experienced the effects of uncertainty. Rony's been hospitalized twice over the year for blood pressure spikes and stress-related dehydration.
"The anxiety is difficult but I have to be here for the patients, for my family," he said. "I want to stay part of this community until I can't."
Rony Ponthieux Kenya Evelyn
Just as Rony's shift begins, a beggar stops him wanting a cigarette.
"Smoking is no good for you, brother. I care about your health," he said. He offers the man change for dinner before heading inside.
Sunrise will mark a day's work done, just in time to take Christina to school. Before long Rony will fix another plate of leftovers and head out for another 12-hour night. Stolen moments with Christina on the piano or calls with Christopher help to break up the routine.
He doesn't take them for granted. Rony can only guarantee those bonding moments until January 4, 2021.
Just as Rony's shift begins, a beggar stops him wanting a cigarette.
"Smoking is no good for you, brother. I care about your health," he said. He offers the man change for dinner before heading inside.
Sunrise will mark a day's work done, just in time to take Christina to school. Before long Rony will fix another plate of leftovers and head out for another 12-hour night. Stolen moments with Christina on the piano or calls with Christopher help to break up the routine.
He doesn't take them for granted. Rony can only guarantee those bonding moments until January 4, 2021.
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