Diary of a Pandemic
Francis Garcia is a hotel worker in Las Vegas. She's also an advocate for immigrant rights. Photo courtesy of TPS Alliance.
AS THE CORONAVIRUS OUTBREAK WORSENS, PEOPLE ON THE FRONT LINE ARE SPEAKING OUT
Editor’s Note: As the coronavirus tightens its grip on the United States, professionals are feeling the impact, facing exposure and illness but staying on the job. We reached out to first responders, service industry workers and members of marginalized communities. The goal: An ongoing chronicle of first-hand experiences from real people living through difficult days.
By Andrea Arzaba, Cora Cervantes and Ricardo Sandoval-Palos
Taking a stand against uncertainty
In a conference call between reporters and people facing particular risk during the COVID-19 pandemic, one individual immediately stood out. Francis Garcia spoke on behalf of hotel workers as infections and the number of deaths started to accelerate across the country.
Garcia lives in Las Vegas -- a hub for the nation’s vital tourism industry. She’s in the United States under Temporary Protected Status -- a government program that forestalls deportation for undocumented immigrants who can’t return to countries where there’s danger from things like war or natural disaster. Garcia is among the leaders of the National TPS Alliance, a group working to pass legislation that provides permanent U.S. residency for TPS recipients.
Today that work is challenging -- not just because of the fear of COVID-19 infection. The federal government officially suspended TPS designation last year, and the protection remains only because of court challenges.
The alliance is concerned: TPS status gave some immigrants U.S. work permits and Social Security numbers, but they don’t have a direct path to legal U.S. residency or citizenship. And now they’re worried that if they collect government rescue funds in this pandemic they’ll be subject to a new federal rule. The federal government recently said immigrants with protections like TPS won’t be penalized if they receive rescue funds, but activists are leery. A new, so-called “public charge” test holds that immigrants can be barred from legal residency if they’ve received some social benefits.
Francis Garcia, hotel worker, Las Vegas, Nevada:
I think one of the largest challenges the TPS community is facing is the lack of information about our rights. There is a lot of fear among the TPS community who are being laid off, to fill out unemployment. They don't know if this is going to be used against them as a public charge. We also don't know if our work visa will be valid, because at this point it has expired since TPS was terminated recently.
Here in Nevada, in Las Vegas, like in many parts of the country, the city is completely paralyzed. People are scared to even go to hospitals because they don't know if that will have negative consequences in the future.
The government is giving aid to citizens around the country but that is aid TPS or DACA recipients (probably) won't qualify for. (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals -- DACA -- is a federal program, now in limbo, that shields immigrant children of undocumented residents from deportation)
As TPS holders we pay taxes and we have been paying taxes for many years. That is one of the disadvantages … and it makes us nervous. Not to take away from the crisis we are facing as a country, but this creates a very unstable situation for us. We are the most vulnerable populations.
We are vulnerable to misinformation and people taking advantage of our situation. So we hope that more attention is focused on the most vulnerable community, a community that has made this country grow.
Dr. Jorge Ramallo of the 16th Street Clinic, Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Face to face with the virus
On the south side of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Dr. Jorge Ramallo is an internist and pediatrician at a clinic now on the front lines between the coronavirus and mostly Latino clients who say they have to keep working because there’s no economic rescue lined up for them.
Ramallo was born in Bolivia and came to the United States at age 14. At the 16th Street clinic, 90% of his patients primarily speak Spanish and many work in service sectors and construction. For them, Ramallo says, no work means no money, so they’re risking everything because they fear they won't get unemployment or other pandemic benefits. That means he’s at risk every day, as well.
Dr. Jorge Ramallo, 16th Street Community Health Center, Milwaukee:
Yesterday I started early, seeing my first four patients, who were young children. I weighed them, measured, and made sure they were okay. I also spoke with family members about the prevention of COVID-19, which always comes up during these in-person encounters. Families, and especially mothers, are concerned.
The fear is real. The night before, I saw a desperate mother who actually works at another clinic. She was crying since she had tested positive for the coronavirus and was very anxious about the possibility of passing the virus to her baby. I gave her instructions on how to avoid infecting the baby and we told her what to do if the baby turned out positive.
After my in-person consultations, I spent several hours calling and following up with my patients who had tested positive for COVID-19, as well as those who tested negative. Two of every 10 cases that we have examined with the test have had COVID-19. I made about 27 calls during the day. I finished seeing patients in the afternoon, and then spent the night writing up reports. Then I went home.
At home, I had no purposeful contact with my family. First, I took off my clothes and took a hot shower. I put on fresh clothes. I had to make sure I wasn’t wearing anything from when I was on the job. I wanted to be close to my loved ones, and then prepare for the next day.
The First Responder
For two decades, Tomas has served in Los Angeles County as a firefighter, responding to everything from big commercial blazes to home medical emergencies. He and his team know well the routine of donning special equipment when mobilizing for a hazardous waste spill or a bio-contamination. There are protocols for that kind of incident.
All that didn’t prepare Tomas for what he and his firehouse colleagues have lived in the last six weeks. The region, like the rest of California, is in lockdown. Gov. Gavin Newsom called for restricted civilian movement when it became clear a surge on COVID-19 infections was about to hit the state.
(Tomas is not his real name. Because he is not an authorized department spokesman, palabra. Is respecting his wish to remain anonymous.)
Tomas, Firefighter, Los Angeles County:
I have been a firefighter for more than 15 years, in a community that is majority Latino.
In my time serving this community, I have seen many good times and bad. Because of my job, I’ve missed birthdays, anniversaries and holidays.
I can honestly say that I have been on thousands of 911 responses. I’ve been exposed to tuberculosis, I have been quarantined after a meningitis scare. And, I have had HIV blood exposure. Through all of these incidents, we first responders relied on our training. We were taught to wear the appropriate PPE (personal protective equipment). But in recent weeks there is a change in how we operate.
As firefighters living in close quarters in what’s run like a paramilitary organization, we are expected to maintain a cleaning schedule for our fire stations that is designed to limit the spread of germs. But the fire service has recently had to adjust our standard operating procedures in order to fight the spread of COVID-19, as well as keep fire service personal safe so we can keep our level of services available for the public that really needs us now.
Fire department personnel have had to increase decontamination procedures. We decontaminate multiple times a day, and we have increased the protective gear we wear on all 911 responses. We are now required to wear Goggles, masks, and depending on the level of possible exposure, a full gown.
This change is unsettling. It’s something that has never happened in all my years, or with any other potential exposure. I don’t know where this is taking us.
Food delivery truck driver Jose Hernandez, with his three sons. Hernandez is an undocumented worker in Los Angeles who continues to work despite the danger of exposure. He delivers food to grocery stores in California, Nevada and Arizona. Photo courtesy of the Hernandez family.
A most-essential employee
Jose Hernandez is a commercial truck driver and produce distributor, moving food from farmers and wholesalers around the western U.S. In a week’s time, he might drive to multiple cities in California, then to Nevada and through Arizona before returning to his three sons and his home in Los Angeles.
Jose Hernandez is not his real name. palabra. is respecting his request to use this pseudonym because he is an undocumented resident and fears deportation, even in the middle of a pandemic. He’s almost as afraid of deportation as he is of contracting the coronavirus and spreading it to his family.
Still, he remains on the job. Despite his fears, he believes that what he’s doing is essential to the public in this crisis.
Hernandez is also working because he’s concerned about his income. As an undocumented immigrant, he doesn’t have a Social Security number, but uses a government-issued employee identification number. Without legal status, he realizes that he won’t qualify for a rescue or any government stimulus funds.
Rescues recently authorized by Congress and signed by President Donald Trump will go to taxpayers with legitimate Social Security. Hernandez will have to rely on a recent promise a rescue fund for undocumented residents from California legislators.
Jose Hernandez, wholesale grocery truck driver, Los Angeles:
I drive all night and I'm making longer trips to make sure markets are stocked. I am in contact with a lot of people. I wear a face mask, but I am still placing my family at risk.
I can't afford to stay home. I need to put food on the table. Right now we hear a lot about people being let go. I need to show my value and push hard to protect my job.
My eldest son has a heart condition. I worry that I might get him sick. I try to stay away from him when I come home. It has been really difficult for my family.
I am proud of the work I do. It is dignified work that makes sure that I can provide for my family and that makes sure families have food on their tables, too. But sometimes it seems like I am invisible. My wife may lose her job, and we don't qualify for any assistance. We watch the news and most of the services we see require some type of Social Security number, and we don't have that.
I pay taxes too, and I am scared that if I get sick my family will miss my work and I won't be able to take care of them and that the country won't support it.
We see immigrants picking fruits in the fields, and immigrants like me getting it to grocery stores across the country, but we are still invisible. I don't know when they will see us and give us a chance to get papers. I am hopeful that this situation will bring us together.
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Ricardo Sandoval-Palos is palabra. managing editor.
Cervantes is a freelance journalist in Los Angeles who focuses on immigration and diversity, equality and inclusion issues. She has produced stories for multimedia outlets, including NBC News, Al-Jazeera, NPR’s Latino USA, and Narratively.
Arzaba is a freelance journalist currently based in D.C. She holds a master’s degree in Latin American Studies from Georgetown University. She’s reported from throughout Latin America for Transparency International, 100Reporters and palabra.