For Lusenie Jean and Marckenson Gilles, it’s the question on their minds all the time: when their sons leave for school in the morning, while Gilles works his overnight shift, after Jean puts the children to bed.
Will the Supreme Court let the Trump administration end the humanitarian program that has allowed them to build their lives here? They know the decision, expected in the next month or so, will change their lives irrevocably.
“We are stressed. We wait, we hope for something good to happen,” Gilles said in French.
The couple, who live in Jamaica Plain with their three children, are able to lawfully reside and work in the United States because of the Temporary Protected Status program for Haitians. Some 330,000 Haitians across the country are living here legally under the program, which was created to help people from countries undergoing violent conflict, environmental catastrophes, or other dangerous conditions, and shields them from deportation. It was opened to Haitians after the earthquake that devastated the country in 2010.
But the Trump administration is fighting to terminate TPS, which it says was never meant to be permanent, and the issue is now before the Supreme Court. During oral arguments in April, the Justice Department asserted that it was squarely within the administration’s power to end the program — and that courts could not take that authority away. Attorneys for Haitians argued that the Trump administration’s decision to cancel TPS was motivated by “racial animus towards nonwhite immigrants and bare dislike of Haitians.”
The justices, who appeared divided during questioning, will issue a ruling sometime this month or in early July.
For Gilles and Jean, who have lived in the United States since 2022, losing their legal status would lead to the loss of everything they’ve worked for since 2014, when Gilles first left Haiti in hopes of escaping poverty and violence in the north of the country.
“I have a lot of dreams — to have legal documents, to work, to learn something professionally — but that depends on what the government can grant us," Jean, 35, said in Haitian Creole, with her husband translating into French.
One day, she hopes to become a nurse here. For now, her husband sustains the family financially, and for several years has worked at a long-term-care facility serving mostly elderly patients in Boston.
They cannot return to Haiti, they say. Armed conflict and gang violence have only worsened since they left, particularly since the 2021 assassination of the country’s president, Jovenel Moïse. Haiti’s economic conditions are deteriorating, too. Their relatives who remain in the country sometimes do not have enough money to eat, Gilles said.
So the family is grasping for alternatives. They’re saving money in case they decide to return to Brazil, where they spent about five years before coming to the United States. But they would have to start from scratch again, without housing or family to help. If their immigration status in the United States is suddenly revoked, they fear, they may have no choice but to stay here at least for a short time without any legal safeguards.
In that case, Gilles and Jean could be detained and separated from their children, or the family could be arrested, detained, and deported together.
“If you don’t have a status and they are waiting for you, and targeting you, it’s going to be hard,” Gilles, 38, said.
In the meantime, they continue their daily routine. Gilles commutes to his job housekeeping at the facility in Roslindale, sometimes working overnight shifts, cleaning the bathrooms and patient rooms. When his shift is over, he takes his 9-year-old son, Owen, to school.
Jean shuttles their 18-month old daughter, Kerlee, who has significant developmental delays because she was born three months premature, to her various medical appointments, including occupational therapy several times a week.
Their 17-year-old son, Marc Terson, is a self-sufficient high school junior who hopes to study computer science in college after he graduates, his father said. If he loses his status, it’s unclear if he will be able to graduate from high school in the United States, or go to college here like he’d hoped.
“He loves this country,” Gilles said.
One morning last week, he held Owen’s hand as they walked to their car. These were Owen’s last few weeks of fourth grade, maybe his last in the Boston Public Schools system. In his time here, he has swiftly learned English, discovered a love for science class, and relished soccer games in school.
The boy dreams of becoming a police officer. “Because,” he said, “I want to protect people.”
Owen is shy, but he has formed close bonds with his classmates. On his way to school, he skipped ahead of his father as a crossing guard helped him across the street, running up to a group of kids gathered on the front steps of his school in Mattapan.
Gilles watched his son from across the street. “He has a lot of friends,” Gilles said with a grin. “Let’s try and see if they will give us the opportunity to stay.”
They had risked their lives to get here.
Gilles made an early foray in 2016, hoping to build a life here and eventually bring his family over. With no networks, though, he missed his wife and sons, and soon returned to Brazil.
But the family struggled to sustain themselves in Brazil and saw scant opportunity for upward economic mobility. Gilles worked at a supermarket, and Jean worked in meat processing. So they decided to try the United States again, together this time, taking buses and trains, and trekking miles on foot through Central America and Mexico.
The scariest part, the family recalls, was crossing the Darién Gap, a dense jungle passage connecting Colombia and Panama known for its torrential rivers, dangerous animals, and armed bandits who target migrants.
Owen, who was then 5, remembers how bruised his legs became after days of trudging through the treacherous terrain. His dad carried him as much as he could.
The family crossed about a half-dozen countries to arrive at the US-Mexico border, in the city of Reynosa, where they lived in a shelter for six months as they waited for permission to enter the United States legally. Finally, in May 2022, US border officials allowed the family to enter, and they were given an immigration court date for 2028, where they would appear in front of a judge and request to remain, likely under asylum.
Eventually, the family settled in Boston, and secured their Temporary Protected Status. A few years later, Kerlee was born here, so early she was treated in the neonatal intensive careunit at Tufts Medical Center for three months before the family was allowed to bring her home.
Now, she is finally getting stronger, eating more, and has a trustworthy medical team in Boston who monitor her closely.
“She’s making progress,” Gilles added as the toddler grasped at their living room furniture, pulling herself up to standing.
What would happen to this daughter, a US citizen, if they were forced to leave? It’s one of his biggest worries. For now, he is holding on to hope that they are finally home.
Giulia McDonnell Nieto del Rio can be reached at giulia.mcdnr@globe.com. Follow her @giuliamcdnr.