History Is Repeating Itself—We Can’t Let It
By Carmen Perez-Jordan
History is not just repeating itself, it is accelerating. Nearly a century ago, my father, a U.S. citizen, was forcibly removed from his home and sent to a country he had never known. Now, Donald Trump is doing it all over again.
As a six-year-old boy, my father, Marcel Perez, lived in California, where he was born. He spent his days playing outside, his front teeth newly missing, running home from school with a heavy backpack weighing on his small frame. He had no reason to believe his world would change overnight. Then, one day, his mother told him and his siblings they had to pack their belongings. Her swollen, tear-streaked eyes said more than her words ever could.
With cold indifference, the federal government was uprooting them, banishing them to a foreign land they had never known, stripping them of their home, their security, their place in the only country they had ever called their own.
This is not just the fate of millions of children under Donald Trump’s immigration agenda, it is also the story of my father. The saying "history repeats itself" is painfully true. That is why we must tell these stories, not just to remember, but to learn from them, before it’s too late.
Marcel Perez was born in 1924 in Anaheim, California, into a family whose roots in the American Southwest stretched back generations, long before borders were drawn, before Spanish colonization, before the land was called the United States. His grandfather built a thriving business in Castroville. But when my father was just five years old, tragedy struck. His father was killed in a car accident, leaving behind a pregnant wife and four young children. That same year, Congress passed the 1929 Repatriation Act, scapegoating Mexican-American communities for the country’s economic turmoil. Almost overnight, families like my father’s, hardworking, deeply American, were treated as outsiders in their own homeland.
Between 1929 and 1936, the U.S. government forcibly removed an estimated two million people, the vast majority of whom were U.S. citizens of Mexican descent. Stripped of their rights and deported without due process, they lost their homes, businesses, and livelihoods. Entire communities were shattered, generational wealth was erased, and the trauma of forced displacement left scars that remain to this day.
My pregnant grandmother and her children were forced to leave with her in-laws and my father’s grandparents. Despite having owned property and businesses in California, they arrived in Mexico with nothing, no resources, no connections, and no safety net.
But this was not the end of their hardship. In the U.S., my family had been American enough to contribute to the economy, build businesses, and pay taxes, until the moment they became convenient scapegoats. In Mexico, they were not welcomed as returning countrymen but seen as burdens, referred to as pochos, a derogatory term for those who had assimilated into American culture. Like so many others, they fell into extreme poverty, struggling to survive in a country that never felt like home.
For my grandmother, the nightmare did not end with deportation. At a time when she should have been rebuilding her life and caring for her children, she was kidnapped and held against her will, disappearing from their lives for years. My father and his siblings, already orphaned by a government that forced them from their home, were now completely alone. They would not reunite with their mother until they were young adults, forever shaped by a childhood of separation, hardship, and displacement.
This was not an isolated event. In 1954, Operation Wetback, under President Dwight D. Eisenhower, unleashed mass deportations, state-sanctioned racial profiling, and widespread civil rights violations. Families lived in fear, knowing that even citizenship was not a guarantee of safety.
And now, nearly a century after the Repatriation Act, we are seeing history repeat itself. Donald Trump has pledged to conduct the largest deportation operation in American history, vowing to mobilize the National Guard to remove millions of people. He has promised to reinstate the “Remain in Mexico” policy and has ramped up ICE raids and family separations. The playbook is the same: blame immigrants for economic struggles, stoke fear, and strip people of their humanity.
This is not just about policy, it is about the lives of millions who will be torn from their homes, jobs, and communities. Families will lose everything they have built, just as my father’s family did.
The economic harm will be staggering, not just for those directly impacted but for the entire country. Latino workers, business owners, and families are integral to the U.S. economy, yet time and time again, they are the first to be blamed, the first to be expelled. Imagine the wealth that could have been built if families like mine had been allowed to stay, to thrive. The same is true today. Hardworking immigrants who contribute to their communities and this country deserve the right to build their futures without fear of being erased.
We Must Act–Before It’s Too Late
While my family may not be directly affected this time, I refuse to be a bystander while millions of others face the same devastation. We must act.
Support immigrant advocacy organizations that provide legal aid, resources, and protection.
Demand humane immigration policies by pressuring lawmakers and voting for leaders who value justice over xenophobia.
Most importantly, share the stories of those who came before us. Public awareness is our greatest defense against the rewriting of history and the repetition of past mistakes.
We cannot allow our government to recycle the injustices of the past under new names and policies. We must organize, resist, and demand a country that protects all families, regardless of where they were born.
As Assata Shakur reminds us, “We must love and protect one another.” Let that be our call to action, one that echoes across generations, fueled by resilience, solidarity, and a commitment to justice.