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As I take in news reports about ICE raids and fearful immigrants in my community and around the country, I wonder how many of us know our own family immigration histories, writes Linda Engelhard. My father was firmly committed to family and shared with us what he knew of their journeys. He was the son of new immigrants, born in the now famous Springfield, Ohio, 98 years ago. At that time, his mother was miserable. She spoke only Dutch and had no one to talk with except my grandfather, the man who had convinced her to cross the Atlantic in the belly of a ship. She gave him a choice: buy her passage back to the Netherlands or move to Michigan near other Dutch immigrants.

They pick our cherries in the summer and our apples in the fall. They care for our vineyards and clean our rental houses. They raise children here, enroll them in public schools and celebrate quinceañeras in local parks. Many have lived in Leelanau County for decades. Out of 22,000 residents—according to the latest Census—as many as 1,000 of our neighbors identify as Hispanic or Latino. Many have an undocumented parent or family member living here in northern Michigan, now as rooted here as the pine trees, though they crossed illegally into the United States years ago. The local Latino community is acutely aware that the subject of immigration is tossed around like a political football during this presidential election season. They hear Republican candidate Donald Trump’s threats to carry out the “largest deportation in American history” and his maligning of non-white immigrant communities—and it frustrates and concerns them. Some worry about being racially profiled; some have grown more cautious about sharing their legal status with fellow community members; some worry about an environment of anxiety surrounding their kids, most of whom were born here and have U.S. citizenship.