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Essay and photos by Melissa Hardin, Project Libertad Board Member At the end of a workday late last summer, the executive director of Project Libertad called for a volunteer to accompany a stranger who was scheduled to appear at a hearing in Immigration Court in Philadelphia the following morning – I use the word stranger to denote someone unknown to me and recalling its meanings in other languages: alien, foreigner, outsider. I immediately raised my hand. The goal was simply to lend moral support to a person who had no legal representation and would otherwise appear before a judge alone. The extent of my knowledge of immigration law and procedures was quite limited. By observing a hearing in court, I also hoped to learn more about how immigration processes worked, what the various roles of different groups and individuals involved entailed, and for what purpose. I was aware that hearings generally follow a particular order on a docket, are often brief, and can be unpredictable, and the only information I had about the person I would meet was his first name, gender, country of origin, and native language (one I did not speak). I arrived early to try to identify him and figure out where I needed to go. Unfamiliar with the area of downtown Philadelphia, I spent some time walking around the block to take stock of my surroundings. Everywhere I looked, I saw messages about freedom, knowledge, wisdom, and justice.  At the front entrance of the Immigration Court building, I saw a dozen or more people standing around, including many young men, several security guards, a court employee, and a few attorneys. Concerned that I hadn’t yet identified the person I was to meet, I messaged the individuals who had been in direct contact with him, asking them to tell him to look for a woman wearing red flat shoes. They sent me a blurry photo of a 6-foot-tall man in a black jacket and black t-shirt. As the scheduled hearing time drew near, everyone entered the building, but none who met that description, so I got in line to go through the metal detector, pausing to ask a security guard to confirm which floor I should go to. As I entered the elevator, I was struck by how friendly the security and building staff were and what a broad spectrum of cultures they represented. The elevator doors opened on the fifth floor to a long line of people – young and old, individuals and families with small children – waiting to speak with a woman who stood at the end of the hall checking IDs and writing on a clipboard. She directed everyone to a waiting room behind her. I felt my heart begin to race even though I was under no threat. When my turn came, I explained why I was there, and the woman checked my driver’s license and let me pass. Several other security guards lingered nearby; one sat, head down, at a desk near the elevator; another paced up and down the hallway just beyond the woman at her podium. The waiting area was a narrow room, not unlike other government facilities, with linoleum flooring, fluorescent lighting, and molded plastic chairs. At one end was an information desk with a staff member sitting behind a glass window. Covering the walls were posters and brochures in multiple languages that described legal requirements, including one colorful flyer that urged unauthorized immigrants to self-deport and proclaimed the benefits of doing so, such as receiving free one-way travel back to their native country and retaining the money they had earned in the U.S. The sound of voices in both familiar and unfamiliar tongues filled the room, but the din quieted quickly when, periodically, a voice boomed over the loudspeaker announcing instructions to turn off all cell phones or to report to court.  A tall, young, slender man in a plaid buttoned shirt approached me and uttered words I did not understand. He spoke again and I realized he was the person I was there to meet. I made my best effort to speak to him in the few words I knew of one of his country’s languages, and we both laughed. For several minutes we conversed haltingly until he told me he spoke another language that I happened to know well, and we laughed again. All the while, toddlers and small children chattered, played, and occasionally cried nearby as their families huddled together. A while later, another security guard, whose appearance could have been Mediterranean but whose nametag sounded eastern European, called everyone scheduled to appear before a judge to follow him. Everyone arose and followed, me included. We formed a crooked line in the crowded hallway, and the guard told us to get against the wall to leave room for others to pass. I detected a foreign accent but couldn’t pinpoint his native country or language. Starting with the first person in line, he confirmed which courtroom would conduct each person’s hearing. He told the wife and children standing beside a man ahead of us in line to go back to the waiting room until his hearing was over. As we approached, the security guard asked me if I was the attorney of record for my companion, the respondent. I said I was an observer, not a lawyer. “It’s too crowded,” he said and gestured behind me, “Look at the line.” He told me to go back to the waiting room and said he would call me if my companion “needed help.” I smiled at my companion and wished him luck. I sat in the waiting room for several hours and watched as one after another person came from the long hallway, reunited with their loved ones who had been waiting anxiously, and headed toward the elevators to exit the building. At one point, I got up and walked down the long hallway toward the restrooms, located near the door to access the courtrooms. I peeked around the corner and saw the security guard sitting there. I approached him to ask if I could enter the courtroom now. He asked me to show him my mobile phone and demonstrate that it was turned off. Once satisfied, he said, “Follow me,” and turned on his heels and walked very briskly down the hallway. I hurried to catch up.  I entered the courtroom and saw 8 or 10 individuals seated in front of me, facing the judge’s bench, but my companion was not among them. Where could he be? Had his hearing already ended? Could I have missed him among those who had exited earlier? I noticed a large monitor on the right of the judge’s bench where respondents, attorneys, and interpreters would soon participate in procedures. The court assistant approached to take note of those who were present. She told me that the judge might need to question me and enter my name into the record (which did not happen after all). At one point, several more individuals, including my companion, entered the room, and took a seat in the front row. He did not see me, and I did not speak. The judge then looked out at the audience from behind her large computer monitor to greet everyone and explain what would happen next. She spoke slowly, with kindness in her voice, and paused frequently to ensure that everyone had heard. She interacted with the language interpreters (for Creole, Polish, Portuguese, Russian, and Spanish, among others) who appeared on the large screen to ensure that the virtual video conferencing tools were working properly. Attempts were made to improve the poor volume and sound quality of some of those participating online with only marginal success. The judge addressed the individuals seated in the courtroom and said, “My job today is to answer two questions: (1) Is the respondent eligible for some form of relief? and (2) if not, is the respondent removable?” It was the first time I had heard that term. Other terms flashed in my mind involuntarily: disposable, deportable, deplorable. It was the first time I had heard that term: removable. The judge then called the proceedings to order and turned her attention to the monitor. She heard several cases in succession. She asked each respondent the same questions: “What is your current address? Do you have an attorney? Do you want more time to find an attorney?” She explained their options to find legal representation, among other matters. The benefit of witnessing several other hearings conducted first was seeing the implications of others’ answers to such questions. For example, the great majority of respondents did not request an opportunity to seek legal counsel. The judge scheduled all of them to reappear in court in less than two weeks – sometimes in less than a week. For the few respondents who answered affirmatively that they wanted more time to find an attorney, the judge scheduled their next hearing months later. Although the judge made an effort to explain next steps and outline options to respondents, it was unclear if they grasped fully the implications of their answers for their cases. A few respondents asked the judge for permission to speak, which the judge granted in every instance. One respondent explained that she had a lawyer whom she had asked to submit an asylum application on her behalf. The judge told her that there was no record of an application. The respondent insisted, “but I paid my lawyer, and he said he submitted it,” going on to explain the reasons she believed she qualified for relief and asylum. The judge reiterated that there was no such filing on record. Furthermore, she said that the deadline to do so had long passed and, therefore, the respondent was now removable. The judge then ended the hearing and scheduled the woman to reappear in court six days later for the next phase of the process. Finally, the judge called my companion and two of his compatriots to approach. She repeated her introduction for their interpreter. She asked the respondents to state their current addresses. I had already observed that many of the previous respondents’ current addresses were different than those that appeared on their NTAs (Notice to Appear). I gathered that unauthorized immigrants move frequently from one place of residence to another. The judge directed them to submit a Change of Address Form EOIR-33/IC before they could leave court. When the judge asked my companion if he had an attorney, he answered no. When she asked him if he needed time to find one, he answered yes. She then scheduled him to reappear months later, all the way into the new year. It was the most positive outcome possible for his case. The judge then moved on to hear cases virtually, leaving the three compatriots to complete their forms. I noticed that my companion sat motionless. He was not filling out his form. Had he not understood the judge’s instructions? Did he not know how to write? Then it dawned on me: he did not have a pen handy! I waited several minutes. He began to look around the room, and then he saw me. I held up a pen and looked at him quizzically. He smiled broadly and approached to take the pen from my hand. He handed his completed form to the court assistant, and we exited the courtroom together.  In the hallway, I congratulated him on the outcome. We chatted quietly on our way down the elevator, out the front doors of the mammoth building, and into the city street. I walked next to him for two blocks until we arrived at an unsightly parking lot made more attractive by the giant colorful murals that looked down on it. We said a brief goodbye, he turned into the lot where his ride awaited him, and I continued on my way. I glimpsed the city in my rear-view mirror and, in less than an hour, I was back home in my suburban development, aware that half of my neighbors had been born and raised within a 10-mile radius and the other half had come from some of the same foreign countries I had seen represented in Immigration Court.
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by Olivia Mercedez, Project Libertad Volunteer (Hands Off Our Families Rapid Response Project) I recently volunteered through Project Libertad to accompany an individual to their ICE check-in. As I walked up to the building, I noticed two men talking. One was the man I was there to accompany. The other, undocumented as well, asked me if I was a lawyer, because he needed one. He had been there earlier for an appointment, because the ankle tracking device that had been put on him at a prior appointment had injured him. The man I was there to meet tried to motivate and lift the spirits of the man with the ankle tracking device. I observed him during that initial exchange; he had a backpack with his papers organized, and he was polite and kind. The other man told us that he was going back to work. I saw his tired and sad looking eyes; he looked exhausted. We had trouble finding the office as it isn’t accessed through the main entrance. It bothered me that others with appointments may struggle to find the office for these crucial appointments. Once we entered the office, I noticed signs stating that no phones are allowed at all. My plan had been to have my phone on me as backup, in case anything unfortunate should happen. Wanting to have a phone to document anything didn’t become an issue, because I was told to leave almost immediately. They wouldn’t let me stay in the waiting room. The woman at the desk told me I had to leave because I wasn’t a lawyer or translator. When I repeated that I was there for translation support, she said that they had plenty of people who speak Spanish. I'm still here, and I will continue to be right outside." I went and stood right outside the door to the office. Eventually I went and sat down on the curb. I waited an hour and a half then I went in to check on the person. He was still sitting in the waiting room with his head in his hands. When he saw me, I said, "I'm still here, and I will continue to be right outside."
Thirty minutes later, he came out of the office. He was wearing an ankle tracking device. The smile on his face from earlier was gone. They hadn’t explained why he had to wear the device or when it would come off. They had told him to walk around for a few minutes, then return. We walked together as some realities set in. First, they were going to track his whereabouts from then on and possibly were testing it out while he and I were walking. Second, the device was starting to get uncomfortable as we looped around the parking lot. He told me that they had given him more appointments for the coming weeks. He returned to the office and came back out a little later. I don’t know why the appointment took so long. We were there for two and a half hours after his scheduled appointment time. I watched the man deflate over a period of hours. By the end, his hopeful smile was gone. We shook hands and said goodbye. That evening, I received a message that there had been an error, and he would have to return for yet another arbitrary appointment. by Diana Torres Ramirez, NCSP Case Manager for Project Libertad  Diana pictured with a student at one of Project Libertad's summer camp programs. Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) is a program put in place by then-president Obama, that allowed young immigrants who were brought to the United States as children to work legally and provided a temporary protection from deportation for two-year increments. We receive an Employment Authorization Document (EAD) and a social security card, which allows us to find legal employment and get a driver’s license. It also provides an opportunity for us to breathe out in relief every once in a while. For the past 12+ years, DACA has been through many ups and downs. Some believed that there would be a path to citizenship for DACA recipients, because why not? It would make sense to allow us to become US citizens. As a DACA recipient, you must have a clear criminal record, with no felonies, misdemeanors, etc., not pose a threat to public safety or national security, and have completed high school or have a GED. We have to answer the same questions every two years when we renew, update our files and applications, and pay over $600 in fees -- and that does not include the payment to a lawyer if you have one. Government administrations have come and gone and DACA still continues to be pushed aside, but brought up when politicians want to manipulate it for political reasons.  Diana (right) presents about mental health and social services to students in Norristown, PA. On September 5th, 2017, the Trump administration ended the DACA program, putting the future of over 800,000 DREAMers -- because that is who we are and what we are known as -- on the line. At the time, I was 19 years old and entering my second year in college. I was preparing to submit my request for Advance parole (AP), which would have allowed me to study abroad. Advance parole is a travel document that allows certain non-U.S. citizens to travel outside of the United States. In other words, it is a permission slip from the government. There is always a chance for you to be rejected for AP, and you have to plan for it well in advance, because the processing time can take up to a year. I wanted to study abroad during my junior year and become a psychologist that could understand my clients on a deeper level, after gaining first-hand experiences and knowledge, but that never happened. With the news of DACA being terminated, many DREAMers rushed back to the US. Some were allowed back in, but others were not. I am pained for the DREAMers who were stuck in a country that they had no foundation in. They lost their homes, their families were separated, and they had to start over, all within days.  Diana pictured at one of Project Libertad's summer camp programs. On a personal level, I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t understand the level of severity of this decision at the time. My EAD was valid until 2019, so I still had two years to work and two years of protection from deportation. I wondered why my father was angry and why my mother was upset. They would both tell me everything was going to be okay, and that we were going to continue to move forward as a family. My father took up extra jobs to pay my college tuition out of pocket, because he was scared I was going to lose my private scholarships or be charged as an international student. He was prepared to walk every step of the way by my side for me to finish my education. In January 2018, we got the news that renewal applications would be received; however, no new DACA or AP applications would be accepted. Since then, litigation has continued, throwing us into a here-we-go-again cycle that continues to this day. Whenever there is an update on DACA, I get a notification from my supervisor, Rachel Rutter, who has followed the journey of this deferred action with keen eyes. I keep up with the updates through a DREAMer page I follow on social media that provides resources to us when times get difficult. There is always a prick of anxiety that comes with the terms ‘DACA’ and ‘court’. It doesn't get easier to accept that at any moment, we can be stripped of our homes and hard work. Without our work permits and social security cards, there is no stable job, and no income. Our skills, certifications, and education will be overlooked and set aside because of our immigration status. Our mental health has also been neglected. We tried to purchase health insurance coverage in May of 2024, but that only lasted about three months before suits were filed by several states that prevented us from accessing health insurance. Every time we take a hit in the courtroom, it adds to my stress and anxiety, almost making me feel defeated. But then I think of the wonderful support we have nationally and the brave organizations and lawyers that stand up for us, and it brings hope. Now that I am older, I can say with confidence that, regardless of what happens with DACA, I can provide for my family and keep us moving forward. My family and I take it one day at a time, because we don’t see the benefit of thinking down the road when we are unsure of what tomorrow will bring with this administration. At this moment, us being united and having that open communication with one another is key to keeping us afloat. I have met many kids, teenagers, and adults, who, if they had the chance, would take the opportunity of being a DACA recipient, because some relief is better than no relief, and that is something that we as DREAMers should not take for granted. I will forever be thankful for having the opportunity to be a DACA recipient. I am a proud DREAMer who has gained an education beyond my imagination, alongside the tools and skills to make it far, regardless of where I am in the world. We will not let this administration keep us in the dark and instill fear in us. We will keep moving forward, and we will do that with our families by our side. About the Author: Diana is a Nationally Certified School Psychologist dedicated to promoting equity and justice in education. With expertise in addressing the unique needs of immigrant students, Diana advocates tirelessly for their rights and equal access to opportunities.
Dear Supporters,
There's no way to sugarcoat this: the 2024 presidential election outcome poses unprecedented threats to immigrant communities. At the same time, Project Libertad's mission to empower newcomer immigrant youth and families is more critical than ever. Our commit remains fierce. Immigrant children and youth are disproportionately vulnerable, facing heightened risks of detention, deportation, and family separation. The consequences of these actions are severe: anxiety, depression, toxic stress, PTSD, and long-term developmental harm, in addition to the threat of deportation to dangerous environments. Our Unwavering Commitment
We've navigated challenging landscapes before – under Trump and Biden administrations. Our resolve strengthens. Call to Action You may be feeling powerless today, but there are ways to help:
Your unwavering support ensures dignity, rights, and bright futures for immigrant children. Sincerely, Rachel Rutter, Esq. Founder and Executive Director Project Libertad  2023 Highlights:
Check out the full 2023 Impact Report available on our website! "I finally found a partner who really understood what my students needed" In PROJECT LIBERTAD1/9/2024 by Christine Gartner, Board Vice President for Project Libertad and English Language Development teacher, Norristown Area School District, [email protected] Teaching students English who speak another language at home has been my passion for over 20 years! Watching my students blossom from shy and unsure into fully integrated students in the school’s culture is really rewarding and something to see. I enjoy sharing not only their new language, but also our culture and their part in it. Students bring their knowledge, culture, dreams, and often - trauma - to their new school. Teachers need a variety of skills and strategies to assist their students.  Christy with her students during Project Libertad's Newcomer Support Program. It is the responsibility of schools to ease the transition and assist in their learning. However, I have found over the years that schools do not have the right tools to reach our new ELD (English Language Development) students in very subtle ways. Specifically, I have experienced frustrations in helping my students in the areas of mental health and social issues. For years, I struggled with finding help for my students and their families but often ran into challenges in inability to access certain resources or a huge waiting line while my student needed immediate help. Many organizations had no language assistance or knowledge of new immigrants and their needs. Often I was turned away and told they didn’t know where else to suggest to connect in our community.  Christy with her students during Project Libertad's Newcomer Support Program. When Project Libertad came to my school, I finally found a partner who really understood what my students needed! New immigrants have their own very specific needs as students and often general resources can’t address these needs. Project Libertad can provide what school districts just can’t for many reasons. Now, they are my partner for mental health, a weekly club where students have their own community, and access to resources that are specific to immigrant youth and their families. There is no other organization in our area right now that can provide what my students need! We have come to depend on Project Libertad to support our new students and have seen incredible gains since our partnership began.
In addition, the Professional Development training for teachers has expanded knowledge with the staff that also have interactions with my students. This has not only aided my job frustrations, but also expanded something even more incredible - more allies for our students to rely on when the teachers are taught what new immigrant students need and where they come from. Teachers have reported to me a new level of empathy when they attended a professional development session with Project Libertad - specifically a deeper understanding of common traumas that our students experience and strategies gained on how to assist them. Again, there has been no other training like this that is specific to our students in our area. We need this partnership in order to serve our new students and their families in the most respectful and supportive ways. Project Libertad has provided for the needs I have been searching for and I value our partnership. Finally, I found an organization that understands my students, their families and provides support. I was so impressed that when I was offered a chance to help I said “yes”! I joined the Board and have been part of an incredible team that is ensuring the future with Project Libertad. Interested? Come join us! Contact us and see how you can help my students and me! We will find the right fit for you. by Olivia Knight, MAS, Juntos para Jóvenes/United for Youth Case Manager  Case Manager Olivia (right) accompanies her clients to a court hearing. Today I want to share a heartwarming story of a student whose custody hearing I observed in person. I started working with the student last year, when I first began working at Project Libertad as a case manager. This particular client was an excellent student during her first year of school in the United States, and she had received almost all As, despite the fact that none of the teachers at school spoke her first language, an indigenous language.  Case Manager Olivia (second from right) with Project Libertad staff and volunteers at a Know Your Rights event. Things changed during her second year, and I still remember the first messages we exchanged, in which she told me about her pregnancy. She was scared and unsure of how to proceed. She had a lot of absences from school, and when her baby was born in the spring, she left school due to a lack of childcare.  Case Manager Olivia (left) and Executive Director Rachel at Hispanic Heritage Night at Eisenhower Middle School in October 2023. We knew that she had a track record of academic excellence, and we also knew that school attendance would be an important factor in obtaining Special Immigrant Juvenile Status. So, at Project Libertad, we strongly advocated for her. We helped her reach out to a custody lawyer who was willing to take her case and worked closely with her on it. We connected with her teachers and high school administrators, who created a personalized path for her to continue school online. We arranged for a social worker to evaluate past trauma, to help explain why she left her home country, and why she missed so much school. And finally, we connected with her father, who is her caregiver and was instrumental in providing all the resources she needed to be successful.
Thanks to all of these efforts and collaborations, we obtained the custody order required for her immigration case, and her Special Immigrant Juvenile Status application was filed this week! Learn more about Olivia's work here. by Rogelio Ayllon, Board President Recently, I had the opportunity to help Rachel, our Executive Director, with legal intakes for middle school students in one of the school districts we serve. It was an opportunity to see our work on the ground and meet many of the youth that we serve.  Board President Rogelio (center) with Newcomer Support Program Coordinator Lauren (left) and Executive Director Rachel (right). The legal intake process was tough — it was difficult to not sound shocked or emotional as the youth shared their stories. As a board member, I am generally removed from the day-to-day operations, so getting to experience our daily work helped me appreciate even more the work that our staff and volunteers do day in and day out. It is not easy work, and yet our volunteers choose to help because they believe in the importance of what we do. In many ways, this experience also amplified my belief in Project Libertad’s mission and why our work is so critically important. I spoke to a newcomer who had endured a brutal 3-month trip to the United States with his family, exposed to life-threatening situations to seek protection. Throughout his trip, they crossed two borders, saw friends die along the way, were threatened by various people, went hungry, and slept on the pavement as they awaited processing into the US.  Newcomer Support Program Coordinator Diana (left) and Dr. Susanna Francies from Immigrant Psychology Network present at the Know Your Rights Event at Eisenhower Middle School. Immigration has a multifaceted impact on children’s lives. On top of not being entitled to legal representation through the immigration process, the arduous trip to seek entrance into the US takes a toll on their physical and mental health. When they are successfully admitted, they often face financial insecurity and are vulnerable to abuse due to their status.
At Project Libertad, we aim to bridge that gap by providing legal, educational, and mental health programs for immigrant youth. The support that we get from donors, advocates, and volunteers goes a long way to ensure that we meet the needs of these children. Every donation, whether it’s $5 or $1,000, allows us to help more youth like the ones I met recently. I hope you’ll help us make an impact. Please consider donating or volunteering! Rogelio by Olivia Knight, MAS, Case Manager  Hi everyone! I recently went through the process of transferring my case records to a different tracking system, and in the process I learned a few things about what I have accomplished since last October, when I started working at Project Libertad.
I spend a great deal of time working with clients applying for something called Special Immigrant Juvenile Status (SIJS), which you can read more about in this blog post. SIJS is a type of immigration status for children who have been abused, abandoned, or neglected by a parent. The first step in an SIJS case is to obtain a state court order (usually through custody or dependency proceedings) with special findings related to SIJS. My role is to work with our legal team on these cases by connecting students to custody lawyers, helping them turn in the necessary records and paperwork, and supporting them through any academic deficiencies. In certain counties, this is often a frustrating process for children hoping to apply for SIJS. Some courts can be very particular about educational success as a prerequisite for custody. In some cases, a judge will not sign a custody order unless the caretaker is working closely with the child to ensure sufficient academic progress. Grades and school attendance records are everything. So, you can end up with situations where the child has strong facts that qualify them for SIJS (meaning clear abuse, abandonment, or neglect by a parent), but they are unable to obtain the required custody order due to academic challenges. Without that custody order, they are not eligible for SIJS. Trauma causes many of our clients to struggle with school attendance and grades. One study found that, “Two-thirds of [migrant] youth experienced at least one traumatic event [during migration], 44% experienced an event once, and 23% experienced two or more traumatic events during migration.” “Traumatized students are in every single classroom, every day—no matter the grade or subject…For these youth, navigating life, even in the safety of your classroom, can be challenging. Seemingly commonplace occurrences and routines can actually become classroom trauma triggers that cause a domino effect of negative reactions. And once triggered, a traumatized student can’t be engaged in your lesson, and their learning stops.” -- We Are Teachers My journey to transfer case records began with my belief that I was about to uncover a long list of students for whom I’d been instrumental in obtaining custody orders. But when I counted them up, I realized there were just four, with six more on the “in process” list. The amount of time it has taken to help just four students in the first step of their SIJS cases was pretty shocking. But when I look back on all the systems that need to come together to coordinate a successful custody case—individual families, schools, private lawyers, and the judicial system—it is not so shocking. Each system has idiosyncrasies that make it challenging to work with. Caretakers work long days, schools are overwhelmed, private lawyers have specific office hours, and the judicial system is rigid. One factor that makes a huge impact is having counselors, teachers, and other school staff who not only understand trauma but implement proven strategies to better support students living with trauma. With perseverance and the right amount of advocacy and creativity, we at Project Libertad are here to help children win their cases, remain in the United States, and achieve the best possible outcomes. by Lauren Dunoff, Newcomer Support Program Coordinator  Lauren (far right) with the students and staff of Project Libertad's summer program in 2022. My day begins with planning and preparing materials for this week's Newcomer Support Programs and sharing the lesson plans with the teachers and volunteers. I also correspond about some other fun upcoming things at Project Libertad, including our evening at a Philadelphia Union soccer game and inviting visitors to our summer camp program. I then load my car with materials and drive to this afternoon's classes at Phoenixville Area High School. There, I meet our volunteer Courtney. We will see just over 30 students today, from countries including Guatemala, Mexico, Honduras, El Salvador, and Thailand. Our activities today include making candy sushi, bird feeders, and a traditional Mexican craft called Ojo de Dios (Eye of God). We will also review some English language vocabulary about Spring. The candy sushi activity is a big hit, and the students participate well with the vocabulary. The art projects take a little more persuading, especially in our all-boys' Healthy Masculinity Program. In the end, each student has made an Ojo de Dios and seems happy about it.  Lauren (right) working on mixed-media self-portraits with middle school students. The highlights of my day include catching up with a student from last year's RISE girls' program who is now a junior, and I’m happy to hear she’s doing well. I also had a great conversation with one of our ninth-grade boys. He asked me why he has to take all of these classes, like English, Math, and Chemistry, when that isn't what he wants to do for a career. We discussed the ways education and learning English can benefit his future. With three more years of high school ahead for him with his caring teachers and mentors, I anticipate he will do well. Opportunities to connect with the students in a positive way like this happen every day, and that is the best part of this job for me. I learn so much from the teachers I meet, as well as from the students. Being able to connect with and relate to people who grew up in cultures different from mine is a wonderful feeling. It motivates me to continue to learn Spanish, strive to listen to others, and have more meaningful conversations. I am truly grateful to know the students of Project Libertad and grow from these experiences.  Lauren (left) with Board President Rogelio (center) and Executive Director Rachel. |
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