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Words That Refuse to Remain WordsDeportation. ICE. Visa. Travel restrictions. Social-media screening. An “admit-until” date.Lately, these words refuse to remain only words in my life.I hear them as a transnational scholar and in conversations with students who have crossed borders to study, answer a calling, or build lives across more than one place. A policy change can enter the classroom before we do—through a delayed visa appointment, a family member’s status, or the question of whether visiting home is worth another border crossing.As I write in early September 2026, changes under the Trump administration make this uncertainty more immediate. F, M, and J visa applicants remain subject to online presence review, while a Department of Homeland Security rule scheduled for September 15 would replace “duration of status” with fixed admission periods for F and J students and exchange visitors. Students and I are trying to understand what these changes mean for study, travel, work, and future plans.[i]In our classrooms, these words may be topics for theology, ethics, or pastoral care. But for some students, they arrive with bodies, papers, families, borders, prayers, fears, debts, and futures attached.What kind of pedagogy becomes possible when immigration policy is not an abstract topic, but a daily atmosphere?My first response is to protect my students. I want them to take intellectual risks without being forced into personal or legal ones—and to speak and create without calculating whether visibility itself is dangerous.But I do not want protection to become the only way I know how to see them. When Care Becomes Too CarefulEven as I try to imagine a pedagogy attuned to deportability, I hesitate.It can sound like one more instruction: Be careful. Be sensitive. Do no harm. All of this matters. I am not asking faculty to care less. I am asking what happens when care becomes a narrowing way of seeing.Care can become too careful when I lower expectations without asking what support a student wants, avoid difficult material, interpret silence only as fear, or turn a check-in into a request for disclosure. In trying not to harm a student, I may decide who they are before listening.Deportability is not an identity or a label for undocumented people. It names a condition produced through law, surveillance, uncertain status, and the possibility that immigration systems may interrupt a life.[ii] Undocumented students, international students, refugees, permanent residents, and citizens do not face the same legal conditions. Perhaps immigration precarity is broader, while deportability names its sharpest edge: exclusion, detention, or removal.Deportability also travels through families, friendships, congregations, and classrooms.A student may be physically present while part of their attention is elsewhere: a visa appointment, a family member’s status, or a future that feels suspended. This does not mean the student is less committed. It means learning is happening amid fear, responsibility, hope, humor, fatigue, and ordinary life. The Right to Be OrdinaryFaculty need to be careful about what we ask students to share and how easily “immigration policy” can become family, paperwork, debt, fear, prayer, and love.And yet, in our desire to care well, we may see students living under immigration precarity mainly through fear, trauma, risk, and vulnerability.By ordinary, I do not mean untouched by precarity. I mean not required to represent it—or to perform resilience for us.Students may live under real risk. But their lives are larger than risk. They may also be funny, brilliant, impatient, angry, joyful, bored, and intellectually restless.What if such a pedagogy makes room for uncertainty without letting it become a student’s whole story?Pedagogy cannot remove the legal conditions producing precarity, but it can refuse to make students prove, perform, or explain them. It may offer flexibility without forced disclosure, choices when assignments invite personal experience, and teaching that does not turn international or immigrant students into living case studies. It can maintain rigor while asking what support makes learning possible.It may also honor students’ right not to explain or translate their lives or turn private experiences into material for our learning.Perhaps it means creating classrooms where students can simply be students—students who disagree with us, love theory, are tired of theory, and talk about food, music, family, faith, work, beauty, and the future.Students who are shaped by deportability but not defined by it. Careful Enough for LifeI have listened to students wonder whether visiting family is worth another border crossing. Friends and colleagues have shared worries about visa status, work authorization, and the fragile timelines through which governments and institutions shape who may stay, teach, study, and belong. Some of us who teach carry these words too, though not with the same legal risk or institutional power.I do not know whether “deportability-attuned pedagogy” is the right phrase. But I want a pedagogy that does not confuse care with pity, sensitivity with surveillance, or trauma-awareness with a narrowed imagination of our lives.What might become possible in our classrooms when immigration precarity is recognized but not allowed to tell the whole story?What if fear, anger, boredom, humor, ambition, uncertainty, and joy can all become part of the learning we do together?Perhaps care is careful enough when it recognizes danger without allowing danger to tell the whole story—when it makes room for students to name who they are and who they are becoming. Notes & Bibliography[i] Sources current as of September 3, 2026: U.S. Department of State, “Announcement of Expanded Screening and Vetting for Visa Applicants,” March 25, 2026; U.S. Department of Homeland Security, “Establishing a Fixed Time Period of Admission and an Extension of Stay Procedure,” July 17, 2026. [ii] Nicholas P. De Genova, “Migrant ‘Illegality’ and Deportability in Everyday Life,” Annual Review of Anthropology 31 (2002): 419–447, DOI: 10.1146/annurev.anthro.31.040402.085432. 

It happened again this semester. I had planned a new class for this term called “Religion, Imagination, and Facing the Future.” While the class technically fulfills a first-year seminar curricular function of teaching graduate level reading, research, and writing, I can pick the theme. I chose it in light of the chaos in the United States right now and the fascinating conversations arising amongst scholars and organizers I admire about how to imagine a different future than the late-stage capitalist, wealth inequality laden, earth-destroying, violent social world we currently live in. I collected readings hoping to explore imagination as a key quality for religious leaders facing scary and death-dealing situations in their communities. We started with Ruha Benjamin’s Imagination: A Manifesto and moved into Octavia Butler’s The Parable of the Sower, with later readings from so many friends and colleagues I respect… Willie James Jennings, Sarah Farmer, Yara González-Justiniano. I created assignments and built a rhythm for the course with great care and excitement for the students I would encounter. I read and re-read the texts I had chosen, creating discussion prompts for the students to engage. The course was built out in Canvas, the students had been populated into it by the registrar, and it was time to hit the button to “publish” the course. I hesitated. I re-read the course description and its now seemingly impossible claims about what we would be exploring during the term. And then I sat there with the deep feelings of inadequacy that flooded my body. Who was I to be teaching such a course? I was achingly aware of the privilege of my social position, of my work as a professor rather than an organizer, of my lack of experience working in institutions that didn’t allow space for my vocation to emerge and be expressed. In those days I was watching former students and professional colleagues involved in organizing resistance to the ICE occupation in Minneapolis, living into the mutual aid, love for neighbor, solidarity, and bold witness that I have taught about for years. Deep in my bones and my gut, my intuition told me that I was inadequate to the task of teaching this course that I had put together. What did I do? I pushed the button and published the course anyway.Why? Because in my deeper wisdom, I know these are the questions and the struggles that my students need to wrestle with, whether or not I feel up to the task. They need to learn more than I can teach in this moment. That moment of profound humility before the work of teaching is absolutely the place to begin, at least for me. It marks a moment of letting go of the control of the learning environment and leaning in to trust that the students will show up. Together we might begin a journey that won’t be fruitless. They will learn things that I intend to teach them, and they will learn things that I never imagined or don’t yet understand myself. They will teach me what they know from the work they engage where they are, from the mentors who have guided them, from the challenges they have already survived, from the faith they have when I am lacking. Together, we are good enough to engage these questions that they are already responsible to in their lives well beyond my classroom. If I only taught the things I feel expertise and skill in teaching, I would fail to provide the education they need in this moment. It takes courage and vulnerability to recognize my limits and to still take necessary risks for significant learning anyway.

Watching news of ICE arrests and protests in Los Angeles, I cannot help but think how we have got here. The perception of many people who voted for President Trump is that there are too many “illegals” in this country. The reason for this impression, perhaps, is that the Latino presence in some states has increased exponentially in the last few decades. Towns with minimal or no Latino presence now have significant immigrants. The image below demonstrates this change in non-traditional Latino states, where the unprecedented growth has taken place.[i] According to the U.S. census bureau, between 2022 and 2023, the Hispanic population accounted for just under 71% of the overall growth of the United States population.[ii] Hispanics of any race grew to just over 65 million, an increase of 1.16 million (1.8%) from the prior year.[iii] This growth significantly contributed to the nation's total population gain of 1.64 million in 2023.[iv]I live in the small town of Cleveland, TN. I remember first arriving in Cleveland when I was in the first grade. I have been in and out of Cleveland since I was six years old. Back in those days—and aside from my sister—I was the only “Hispanic” kid in the school. No one knew much about me except that I spoke Spanish and that I was learning English. I may not have been fluent in English, but I was good at learning things and came to the classroom with strong abilities. Though I did not have the language skills to keep up with my peers at the beginning, a particular instance let me know that I could do what my peers could do. I remember the teacher gave out a math worksheet on my first day of class that I finished before all my peers. I also got all my answers correct. Later, I steadily learned English and spoke it fluently within a year. In fact, I spoke English with a southern accent. One time, my parents recorded a greeting to send to my grandmother on a cassette tape. When I visited my native Honduras in the late 1990s, my sister and I found the exact cassette tape with the recording on it. When we listened to it after all those years, we laughed because we had a thick southern accent.            I am now in my 40s, and the school system has changed. There are many more children of Latin American descent, as well as other heritages. My son’s middle school has a lot of Hispanic students. He played soccer on his team with children whose parents were 1st generation immigrants of Argentine, Chilean, Dominican, Honduran, Guatemalan, and Mexican heritage (among many non-Latin American backgrounds, of course). He would sometimes come up to me and ask me questions about what certain Spanish words meant. Here I am, nearly forty years after I first arrived in Cleveland and things have changed in this small town. But even though all the children I have met here have arrived through the proper channels or are born U.S.-citizens, there is a strong anti-immigrant sentiment in my community.            This is xenophobia: the dislike of or prejudice against people from other countries. Just because a person is brown, it does not mean that they were or have been “illegal.” Seeing ICE arrest U.S. citizens even after providing proper ID is a clear sign of racial profiling by those who are supposed to keep us safe. Seeing the military deployed at protests is a politicization of the military. The way that these politics are working out makes me wonder if brown people will ever be perceived as true U.S. citizens and equal. The Latino community has increased exponentially. It is nothing to fear. And even if one day they were to become a majority in the U.S., like the case of Blacks in South Africa, it appears they would still be a minority in terms of economics and/or power. I am a Christian and there are two important elements of faith that are important for us. The first is hospitality as a qualifier for leadership in the local church (1 Peter 4:9; 1 Timothy 3:2; Titus 1:8). I would also argue that it is a mark of a true Christian and a Spirit-filled life (Hebrews 13:2). The other element is compassion. If we remember the story of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10), good will and compassion extend beyond cultural, ethnic, racial, socio-economic, and nationalistic barriers. The radical nature of the Samaritan’s aid to the Hebrew man cannot be understated. The immigrant—whether legal or “illegal,” documented or undocumented—is our neighbor. We must now consider what it means for them to be our neighbor and what hospitality requires of us. Notes & Bibliography[i] US Census Bureau, “Percentage Change in the Hispanic or Latino Population by Country: July 1, 2022 to July 1, 2023,” https://www.census.gov/library/visualizations/2024/comm/hispanic-population-change.html, last accessed June 19, 2023.[ii] US Census Bureau, “New Estimates Highlight Differences in Growth Between the U.S. Hispanic and Non-Hispanic Populations,“ June 27, 2024, https://www.census.gov/newsroom/press-releases/2024/population-estimates-characteristics.html (last accessed June 5, 2025).[iii] Ibid.[iv] Ibid.

Imagine quickly stepping out for a coffee break between classes. It sounds simple enough: latte or mocha? But for international students, especially those with F-1 visas, that seemingly easy choice turns into a mental checklist: Am I carrying my passport? My I-20 form? Do I have a valid driver’s license—if that’s even permitted? Could today be the day I’m stopped and questioned?As theological education shifts into virtual and hybrid formats, many international students remain physically tied to campus to meet strict visa requirements. Dorms and seminary apartments become their main living spaces—where they eat, sleep, and study. Yet in a climate of anti-immigrant rhetoric and possible Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) visits, the usual rule—carry your identification at all times—can feel like a heavy emotional burden.When domestic students pick up their backpacks, they carry laptops, books, and perhaps a snack. International students carry something extra: proof that they belong here, documents that validate their right to study and exist in this country. A simple stroll to the campus café can trigger anxieties like: What if someone demands my papers? Do I have everything in order? Behind these immediate concerns lurks a deeper, more painful fear—do I truly belong in a place intended to nurture my spiritual and intellectual growth?Of course, it’s not only about paperwork. The possibility of being asked for legal documents at any time creates an ongoing stress that many domestic students may never feel. It can negatively impact their class interactions, making them cautious about speaking up or standing out. It’s hard to fully focus when part of you is always on alert.Additionally, international students often encounter explicit and implicit biases—messages implying they’re outsiders, job-stealers, or perpetual foreigners. I’ve spoken with students who describe exhaustion from continually navigating these prejudices, worrying about complicated reentry processes if they travel home, or feeling anxious about political shifts that could abruptly alter their visa status or employment prospects. While their peers confidently pursue internships and research opportunities, international students wrestle daily with layers of uncertainty.As graduation nears, the pressure piles on. Optional Practical Training (OPT) and finding a visa-sponsoring employer can feel like uphill battles in an already competitive job market. Whenever I talk with students about their futures, I sense the stress they carry around from potential bias or outright hostility—an unfair burden during what should be an exciting time.For those of us who teach or mentor—whether or not we’ve ever navigated immigration rules ourselves—that small question, Do I need to carry my F-1 visa papers at all times on campus? opens a window into their day-to-day experiences. It’s a reminder that institutions meant to nurture faith and scholarship can sometimes feel more like guarded checkpoints.Belonging isn’t cultivated by a single individual’s effort; it flourishes within communal care. If we pause to recognize the emotional toll our students carry, we can more intentionally practice radical hospitality. Instead of leaving international students to shoulder their anxieties alone, our campuses could provide accessible legal support and staff trained specifically to handle immigration-related encounters. In our classrooms, we can intentionally create opportunities for students to share global perspectives, fostering empathy and breaking down harmful stereotypes.Institutionally, we might consider advocating for clear campus-wide policies protecting students from sudden ICE interventions and providing ongoing training to equip faculty and staff with a deeper understanding of immigration complexities. Many schools already work hard to support international learners, yet it’s always helpful to ask: What does genuine safety look like here? How do we ensure no one feels compelled to carry the weight of constant legal anxiety?When we truly listen to the question—Do I need to carry my F-1 visa papers at all times on campus?—we’re challenged to see the campus through international students' eyes—a place where daily life in a place they call home can still feel uncertain. It invites us to imagine, create, and nurture educational spaces where every student can learn, engage, and thrive without having to endlessly prove they belong.Thus, this question is not just about legal documentation. It's about belonging, empathy, and our shared responsibility as theological educators to build communities where no student must carry the weight of constant vigilance alone.