This story is the second installment of “No Way Back, No Clear Path Forward: A Family’s Fight for Stability in an Uncertain America,” a three-part series on the economic, legal, and personal barriers undocumented immigrants face in Merced County.
Through one family’s experiences, this story highlights the financial obstacles undocumented immigrants navigate despite their hard work and tax contributions. To protect their safety, Oscar and Dania are identified by first names only.
Click here to read the first installment of the series.
When Dania sought asylum in 2011, she carried a secret across the U.S-Mexico border: She was eight months pregnant.
“No one knew since I wasn’t showing,” she said.
As she stepped onto U.S. soil, she entered a new life full of unknowns — for herself and her unborn child.
She gave birth weeks later in a country she barely knew while navigating the realities of motherhood and awaiting an asylum decision after fleeing cartel violence in her hometown in the Mexican state of Michoacán.
There was no time to dwell on what-ifs. For Dania, the struggle to build stability in a country that wasn’t yet hers was just beginning.
Thousands of immigrant families like Dania’s in California’s San Joaquin Valley have built lives in the shadows of society. With limited educational opportunities, they often resort to working essential jobs while navigating an economic system that frequently excludes them.
A 2022 study by the Pew Research Center estimates that among U.S. states, California has the highest population of undocumented residents, at 1.8 million.
Despite their contributions, they work without many legal protections and live under constant financial and legal insecurity.
These unpredidictabilities compound as fears of mass deportations grow during President Donald Trump’s administration.
Blocked paths: education dreams deferred
Dania followed her sister’s advice and enrolled in English classes while adjusting to life as a new mother.
“It helped distract me since life was so much different than in Mexico,” Dania said.
Learning English could only take her so far. Without a college degree or professional training, Dania’s job prospects were limited. She took work in manufacturing, earning just enough to support her growing household.
While she worked toward a future for herself and her child, a different journey was unfolding — one marked not by asylum claims but by a different set of barriers.
When Oscar, Dania’s husband, arrived in California in 2009 as an undocumented migrant, he stepped into a world of possibilities and limitations.
He enrolled in high school and was determined to start fresh in his new home, but his status as an undocumented immigrant shaped every decision he made.
His father, a graphic designer in Mexico, took on freelance work creating logos and business cards. His mother worked at a supermarket in San Jose, avoiding the backbreaking labor common in rural areas of the Golden State.
“It was a bigger city, so they had more options,” Oscar said.
After high school, he dreamed of becoming a paramedic, eager to build a career helping others. But the dream collapsed before it could take shape.
“A counselor told me not to waste my money since it was going to be costly and, without papers, I wouldn’t be able to get a job,” he said. “The opportunities for someone without a Social Security number are limited.”
Undocumented residents of the U.S. cannot obtain Social Security numbers. Instead, they’re assigned Individual Taxpayer Identification Numbers (ITINS), which do not grant them any protections or status but allow them to file federal income taxes.
Determined to find another path, Oscar followed in his father’s footsteps, enrolling in a community college to study graphic design and animation. Seeing his classmates pay around $500 to $600 per semester, he assumed his tuition would be similar.
“Yo iba a tomar menos clases que ellos, así que pensé que me iba a ir mejor – I was taking fewer classes than them, so I figured I was going to be better off,” he said in Spanish.
Instead, when he received his tuition estimate, the number nearly knocked the wind out of him: $17,000 per semester since he was considered an out-of-state student.
“At that moment, I knew I couldn’t afford it,” he said.
California’s Assembly Bill 540, passed in 2001, was meant to open doors for undocumented students. It allowed those who spent at least three years in a California high school and earned a diploma or equivalent to pay in-state tuition. But for many, the door was only half open.
The law expanded access, but it didn’t erase financial barriers. Those who didn’t meet the criteria – or weren’t aware the policy existed — were left facing non-resident tuition rates, making higher education seem more like a distant dream than a real possibility.
Determined to continue, Oscar researched scholarships and reduced his tuition to $4,000 per semester. However, the financial and academic strain was too great even with that discount.
“I was able to go for two years until I couldn’t afford it anymore,” he said. “I was put in an (advanced English) class, which was too advanced, and I failed. That created a chain reaction where I lost my scholarships.”
With no access to federal financial aid, Oscar’s options narrowed. The cost of his education didn’t just stall his ambitions. It forced him to choose: keep chasing a degree he couldn’t afford or start earning whatever he could to survive.
Such narrow choices can significantly affect the options available to undocumented migrants as they make a life here in the Central Valley, according to Ma Vang, an associate professor of ethnic studies at UC Merced.
“The social and economic mobility impacts are great because it determines the life chances of immigrant families based on their ability to access higher education and transition to skilled jobs that can uplift a family’s economic status,” Vang said. “Even if families can maintain some economic stability, it is at the cost of working multiple jobs.”
The hidden workforce
With no path forward in school, Oscar turned to the only option left: the kind of work that didn’t ask for papers. He moved heavy furniture, hauled debris, and worked construction – trading long hours and backbreaking labor for a paycheck that barely covered the basics.
Despite their exclusion from federal benefits, undocumented workers remain taxpayers. Their contributions flow through property, sales, and income taxes — many deducted from wages tied to Individual Taxpayer Identification Numbers ITINs instead of Social Security numbers.
By 2022, their contributions soared to $96.7 billion in federal, state, and local tax revenue, with $8.5 billion originating in California, according to the Institute on Taxation and Economic Policy.
Jennifer Cullison, a history professor at Stanislaus State, noted that undocumented workers are often trapped in a cycle of financial instability, subject to wage theft, underpayment, and intimidation by employers who exploit their vulnerable status.
“They are often not provided any benefits, including health insurance, in their under-the-table jobs,” Cullison said.
“Overall, with the stability of their employment being precarious, their wages often too low, and their health care severely lacking, you can imagine that people without documentation usually have to be extra resourceful and creative with their medical care, housing, and other needs,” she said.
Oscar knows that struggle firsthand. No matter how hard he worked, opportunity was always just out of reach.
“I know I have the ability to get a better-paying job,” Oscar said. “I’d get calls — ‘Come work here, we’ll hire you, the job is yours.’ But because of my status, I couldn’t take them.”
Construction became his bread and butter. It wasn’t the work he dreamed of, but it was the work available to him.
Building a family and home
A decade after arriving in the U.S., around 2021, Oscar and Dania met at a family gathering in the Bay Area. Dania’s uncles introduced them, and they quickly connected over shared experiences and long-term goals.
“We started getting to know each other and talking, and we decided to start dating,” Oscar said with a smile, but without giving out too many details of their romance. “We got to know each other, continued talking, and decided to start a relationship.”
He moved to Richmond to be closer to her, but the skyrocketing cost of living in the Bay Area quickly changed their plans.
Between 2010 and 2020, San Francisco Bay Area housing prices surged, with median home costs soaring from around $659,000 in 2012 to over $1.2 million by 2021. In Richmond, where homes once averaged $170,700 in 2000, values skyrocketed to $646,300 by 2022 — pushing affordability further out of reach for working-class families.
The couple scoured California for somewhere more affordable and eventually found it in Merced County, where they faced yet another challenge: securing a home loan.
“We looked at different places where we could apply for a loan since we wanted to have a more stable life,” Dania said. “It was hard finding a place that would let both of us apply.”
Dania’s Social Security number opened the door to traditional bank loans, but for Oscar, it slammed shut. Many lenders refused to recognize his ITIN, forcing them into an uphill battle where borrowing power was slashed, options were limited, and interest rates were steep.
“We found a place that would accept both of us,” Dania said. “The interest rate was really high.”
This is a common issue for ITIN holders. While some lenders offer ITIN mortgages, they often require larger down payments and impose higher interest rates than traditional loans.
Even with steep interest, the couple saw an opportunity where homeownership meant building equity instead of paying rent into a void.
“It was a matter of choosing one or the other,” Dania said. “Either we were giving our money away in rent, or it could go toward something that was ours. Maybe one day, if Oscar can get a Social Security number, things will be different.”
Changing landscape for undocumented residents
Over the years, California has enacted policies to ease everyday life for undocumented immigrants with state-level protections that provide a safety net that federal laws do not. Still, they come with limitations.
One of the most transformative policies came in 2015, when California granted driver’s licenses to undocumented residents, making basic mobility safer and more accessible.
“Medi-Cal and driver’s licenses have been the biggest game-changers,” Oscar said, speaking of the benefits he received from such policies. “Before, we had to travel to other states just to get a license, and if you got pulled over here without one, they’d take your car away — even if it was just for running a stop sign.”
Having a license unlocks more than just the ability to drive. For Oscar, it means the possibility of financing a vehicle, traveling by plane within the U.S., and even working legally in certain industries.
“Now, there are even contractor’s licenses for people with an ITIN,” Oscar said. “That opens doors for starting a business. Before, undocumented people had to rely on someone else’s name for everything — from car loans to home purchases.”
Homeownership, once nearly impossible, became slightly more attainable.
“When we started looking for a house, the down payment for someone without a Social Security number used to be 25% — who has that kind of money?” Oscar said. “Now, it’s down to 10%. That’s a drastic change.”
While these policy shifts offer more opportunities, undocumented immigrants remain excluded from critical social services despite paying billions in taxes.
“Undocumented immigrants and asylum seekers pay taxes and contribute to the economy, yet they remain excluded from essential services such as SNAP, Medicaid, and Social Security Income,” said Vang.
Even though California has created protections, immigration enforcement extends far beyond the border.
“Immigration policy is ultimately the responsibility and domain of the federal government,” said Tanya Golash-Boza, executive director of the University of California Washington Center. “California can create some protections, but it cannot protect against deportation.”
Even with state-level safeguards, undocumented families remain in limbo, caught between temporary protections and the absence of federal immigration reform. Resources such as driver’s licenses and ITIN-based financial services provide stability but stop short of offering legal status or a path to citizenship.
“It stresses me out,” Oscar said of the missed opportunities because of his status. “It doesn’t let us go forward.”
Oscar and Dania have built a life in Merced County over the past six months — a home, jobs, and a place for their children to grow.
But Oscar’s undocumented status casts a shadow over every decision, adding a question mark to even their most hopeful moments.
“I would like to be able to add him to my (asylum) case so that he could also at least have a work permit,” said Dania, speaking of what could help their situation. “As to when (the case will be resolved), I have no idea. It’s been 14 years.”
As federal immigration policies shift under Trump’s renewed administration, families like Oscar and Dania’s face heightened fears.
Recent executive orders, most of which have been challenged in the federal court system, intensified immigration enforcement, which leaves undocumented families navigating a complex and often contradictory legal landscape.
In the final installment of No Way Back, No Clear Path Forward, we examine how shifting immigration policies and economic uncertainty weigh on undocumented families — and the impossible choices they face as they fight to stay together.
