A Salvadoran couple adopted three American daughters. Now they face threat of deportation

On a recent evening, S.M., her husband A.A., and their three young daughters settled in for a pajama party at their home in Coachella, California. There would be princess movies, popcorn and lots of snuggling.

The parents knew these kinds of sweet evenings could be numbered.

For nearly 20 years, S.M. and A.A., both from El Salvador, have worked legally in the Coachella Valley under a federal program called Temporary Protected Status. It has allowed them to save money to buy a home and start a family.

But ever since the Trump Administration announced in early January that it would be ending deportation protections for Salvadorans, S.M. and A.A. have wrestled with a daunting question: If they lose their status in the country, what will happen to the three American-born daughters they've adopted in the past five years?

"Our priority now is our daughters. We want them to grow, study and have a career," S.M. said in Spanish. The policy change, S.M. said, "puts a stop to our dreams."

The Desert Sun is using the couple's initials because they fear they could be targeted by immigration officials.

This Coachella family's dilemma is the result of the intersection of federal immigration policies and the state adoption system, two labyrinthine systems that don't often communicate with each other. In California, adoption officials prioritize stability when placing a child in a new home, but they are not required to ask adoptive parents about their immigration status. In this case, the Temporary Protected Status for Salvadorans – which had come to appear "temporary" in name only – allowed S.M. and A.A. to build the permanent home the little girls needed.

But now the rules have changed. S.M. and A.A. are slated to lose their temporary status in September 2019. The clock is ticking and the Coachella parents are caught between three choices:

• Move their daughters to El Salvador, a nation so unsafe that the American government warns tourists against traveling there;
• Return to El Salvador without their daughters, splitting apart their family;
• Or remain in the U.S. as undocumented immigrants, trying to maintain their lives while facing the daily threat of arrest or deportation.

They said the first two options seem impossible; the third seems inevitable.

"You go to sleep, you wake up, constantly thinking, 'God, what is going to happen?" S.M. said.

The family's predicament comes as President Donald Trump cracks down on legal and illegal immigration to the country. Under his watch, the Department of Homeland Security has announced the end of temporary status for Salvadorans, as well as Haitians and Nicaraguans.

Homeland Security can designate a country for this status if it's facing extraordinary and temporary conditions, like an ongoing civil war, an environmental disaster or an epidemic. It protects beneficiaries from being detained and deported and allows them to work and obtain travel authorization.

The policy change will impact more than 200,000 Salvadorans, as well as their more than 192,000 U.S.-born children, according to the Center for Migration Studies. But it's likely that few parents with this designation have adopted American-born children, as S.M. and A.A. have.

The California state agency that oversees adoptions doesn't track the immigration status of adoptive parents, so it's nearly impossible to say how rare this situation is. But four attorneys across the country who specialize in adoption, immigration or both said they had never heard of a family with this temporary status adopting U.S.-born kids. 

The parents are now discovering that the country's convoluted immigration system leaves them with few remedies for their new family. S.M. said only one thing is for sure.

"Wherever we go, wherever we are, our daughters will be with us," she said.

'I would go crazy' without my kids

S.M. and A.A.'s five-year-old twins, Yamil and Nicol, are now in kindergarten. Their third daughter, Sophia, is four.

Their home in Coachella is decorated with family photos and mementos from El Salvador. The three girls have plastic kitchen sets and pink bicycles, but their favorite form of entertainment seems to be crawling into their parents’ laps. The Desert Sun is using the girls' middle names because their parents fear for their safety.

Sometimes, the girls, all of whom have thick braided hair, clamber onto one chair to draw. Occasionally, the family piles into the car and travels to the beach in Ventura County. The parents got to know the region while working in the county's chili pepper fields years ago.

The government's decision to end Temporary Protected Status for Salvadorans rocked the family.

"We thought (our status) would be converted into residency after so much time," A.A. said in Spanish. "We never thought they would take it away."

S.M. and A.A. don't want to leave the U.S. They don't want their daughters to grow up in El Salvador.

"There is so much crime in our country now," S.M. said, sighing. She and her husband sat at their kitchen table as the children played on noisy tablets in the living room.

El Salvador, a country of more than six million people, registered nearly 4,000 murders in 2017, according to the Associated Press. The country is so dangerous that the U.S. Department of State has recommended people reconsider traveling to the country.

In El Salvador, "violent crime, such as murder, assault, rape, and armed robbery, is common," the agency warned on its website on Jan. 10. "Gang activity, such as extortion, violent street crime, and narcotics and arms trafficking, is widespread. Local police may lack the resources to respond effectively to serious criminal incidents."

The country also has the slowest growing economy in Central America, with 41 percent of households living below the poverty level in 2015, according to the World Bank. The institution said crime and violence make doing business in El Salvador more expensive, discourage investment and hinder job creation.

For S.M. and A.A., maybe the only thing worse than being sent back to El Salvador is the idea of being separated from their daughters. And S.M. knows it's a possibility: She's seen news reports about families being divided by detention and deportation.

"It breaks your heart," S.M. said. "I would go crazy if I were left without my kids."

'So much love to give'

S.M. and A.A. grew up in the same rural community near the city of San Miguel, El Salvador.

She emigrated in 1990 and worked as a babysitter in Los Angeles before moving to Coachella. He arrived in 1994 and labored in the valley's fields.

When they reconnected in Coachella in 1997, S.M. was surprised to see that the little boy who had once been her neighbor had matured.

"Wow, he's grown up," S.M. recalled thinking, as she giggled. She blushed when she admitted she's 12 years older than him.

Both were undocumented until 2001, when a pair of earthquakes devastated El Salvador. The U.S. government determined that Salvadorans who were already in the U.S. were eligible for the temporary status.

S.M. and A.A. qualified and reapplied every 18 months. With the designation, they got better jobs and a sense of security. They got married and bought their house.

They tried to have children but couldn't, so they decided to adopt.

In California, there are about 63,000 children in foster care, according to the state's social services department.

"You look around you and there are so many children who need your love," S.M. said, "and you have so much love to give."

Adoption proved to be a lengthy ordeal. S.M. and A.A. had to demonstrate to Riverside County they could provide a safe, stable and permanent home for children.

As part of that process, they underwent a criminal background, fingerprinting, reviews of their medical, employment, emotional, marital and life history, and a home assessment. They said they provided information about their place of birth and their extended family.

"We filled out a stack of papers up to here," S.M. said, raising her arm high off the kitchen table.

But they said their immigration status was never brought up.

That doesn't surprise Orange County-based adoption attorney Ted Youmans.

"Nobody really cares at the county level," Youmans said. "It's off their radar. Nobody has ever made immigration an issue."

Michael Weston, spokesman for the California Department of Social Services, confirmed that adoption officials don't regularly ask parents about their immigration status.

"There's no requirement to ask that question," he said.

Weston said federal law prohibits the discrimination of adoptive parents based on age, race, religion, national origin and disability, and "this includes the immigration status of adoptive parents."

S.M. and A.A. were at the hospital in 2012 when the twins, Yamil and Nicol, were born prematurely at 33 weeks. The adoption was finalized in 2014.

At that point, S.M. worked during the day in a casino buffet, while A.A. cleaned the casino at night. One stayed home with the babies while the other worked. Neither slept very much.

Sophia was born in 2013; her adoption was also finalized in 2014.

"They changed our life, but it's really nice," A.A. said. "We wouldn't change it for anything," S.M. agreed.

They've long talked about adopting a fourth child, a boy they'd name Jason. But that plan is on hold, maybe indefinitely.

A contingency plan?

The permanent home that S.M. and A.A. pledged to provide their adopted daughters is now in jeopardy. And they have few remedies available to them.

They could hope that Congress or the White House comes up with a solution for Salvadorans with temporary status before the September 2019 expiration date. As of now, at least one of the immigration bills that's been proposed in Washington would provide green cards for some immigrants losing temporary status.

Eighteen months is "a very long time," said Sarah Pierce, a policy analyst with the Washington, D.C.-based Migration Policy Institute. "It's definitely not beyond the realm of possibility that something will happen to resolve this situation."

They could rely on their children to petition for their parent's citizenship – but under current law, these little girls couldn't do that for at least 15 years.

"When the focus is on what's in the best interest of the child, this family is probably what's in the best interest of the child," said Irene Steffas, a Georgia-based attorney specializing in immigration and adoption. It would also be in the best interest for the children to remain with their parents in the U.S., she said, but, "there is no solution for this until the oldest adoptive child turns 21."

In the worst case scenario, Steffas said the parents could rely on the contingency plan they developed during the adoption process in case of their death. That could extend to the parents' detention or deportation, she said.

S.M. and A.A. do have a plan for what would happen if they're both picked up by immigration agents. It's painful for them to consider, after having had deportation protection for nearly two decades, but this is it: A.A.'s youngest brother, an American citizen, would care for the girls while the parents figure out their next steps.

"Sometimes I dream and I have one of these nightmares," S.M. said. "And then I wake up and open my eyes and say, 'thank God it was a nightmare.'"

Rebecca Plevin covers immigration and equality for The Desert Sun. Contact her at rebecca.plevin@desertsun.com or @rebeccaplevin on Twitter.