Author name: moderat ereport

SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — Margery Koveleski didn’t know it at the time, but her life’s work began in 2018, when her former pastor asked the mother of six if she could interpret Sunday services for a group of recently arrived Haitians. Church services led to teaching English classes, which led to interpreting at a community health clinic, which led to opening an office in the back of a Haitian grocery store.  There, for nearly five years now, Margery has helped Haitians settle into this midwestern city of 60,000 that became a flashpoint for the country’s immigration debate during the 2024 presidential campaign.  At first, a lot of Margery’s work revolved around setting things up: utilities, cell phones, health care. Then, as President Donald Trump escalated his immigration crackdown to unprecedented levels, her focus shifted to winding things down. Margery is now a lifeline for her Haitian neighbors as they fight to stay in a country where fewer and fewer legal pathways are available to them. Without a last-minute reprieve, the clock has likely run out on many of their American journeys.  Margery has called Springfield home since she moved here about 24 years ago from New York, where she was born and raised. She learned Haitian Creole as a child by translating for her maternal grandmother, who joined them in New York from Haiti. Now, she shares the language of her ancestors — and her calling — with her 27-year-old daughter, Laura Koveleski, who moved home to Ohio from Florida about three years ago. Margery’s work, done from a desk in a closet-sized storeroom an arm’s length from where her daughter now sits, sometimes demands long hours, produces little income and isn’t the type of job you leave behind when you go home for the day. They know their clients are depending on them, now more than ever, and they’re willing to give them whatever they need most: a ride to court, a sympathetic ear, a call to an employer to negotiate family leave. Laura Koveleski works with her mother assisting Haitian immigrants in their Springfield, Ohio community and paints scenes from their lives as described to her by the immigrants they support. (Maddie McGarvey for The 19th) Lately, supporting clients as they try to sort out their immigration cases takes up more and more of their time. Margery’s massive desk calendar notes the increasingly frequent all-day trips they make with Haitians to Ohio’s main immigration court in Cleveland, about a three-hour drive. On one such day last autumn, Margery’s alarm went off at 3 a.m. She made her way to the guest bedroom downstairs to make sure Laura was awake. Within the hour, they were out the door to pick up a man on Springfield’s south side, where most of the city’s Haitian immigrants live. A soft rain fell as Laura merged their rental car — picked up the night before, to spare their own from the wear-and-tear — east on I-70, then north on I-71, past the soggy corn and soybean fields that line the interstates most of the way to Cleveland.  Mother and daughter talked quietly as their client caught up on sleep in the back seat. They all knew they were making the journey, which clocks in at least nine hours from pick-up to drop-off, despite near certainty that the man’s asylum claim would be denied. During a prior court appearance, a judge gave him 30 days to produce proof of personal persecution in Haiti, with the type of evidence that is all but impossible to get in a country where armed gangs rule the capital and routine government services barely exist.  It’s a now-familiar predicament for so many in his community.  The man was one of some 330,000 Haitians in the United States under a program known as Temporary Protected Status, or TPS, which gives people from certain countries in conflict or facing natural disasters the ability to live and work in the United States for a set period of time. He was seeking asylum because barring action from the federal courts, TPS for Haitians ends February 3. Less than two weeks now remain for hundreds of thousands of Haitians to make an impossible choice: go back to an unstable, violent and desperately poor country where they fear they might die; leave and start again in another new country; or slip into the shadows in the United States, unable to work or live freely. It all has Margery, a no-nonsense nurturer whom many clients call “manman” — Haitian Creole for “mother” — rethinking whether her city and country are the type of places where Haitians should try to put down roots and build lives. “I went through a process of grief, but I’m now at acceptance,” Margery said. Margery and Laura arrived back from the trip to Cleveland in the last light of the grey day. On the ride home, their client said he’d likely go to Mexico ahead of the TPS end date; other Haitians have told them they plan to leave for Brazil or Chile. After dropping him off at home, mother and daughter headed to Eat Greek and More, a favorite spot by the reservoir in Springfield’s northeast suburbs. They ordered at the counter, then slid into a booth. Their falafel arrived in plastic baskets lined with red-and-white checkered paper. Now that they’re regulars, the owner often makes eating there all the more enticing by sending over fries or dessert on the house. Margery first tried Greek food with Laura in Cincinnati, and she was thrilled to find such a good option a couple of miles from home. It’s become their go-to place to bring visitors, an introduction to their city that defies preconceived notions about small towns in red states far away from the country’s coasts.  It also serves as yet another reminder of the good that immigration has brought to Springfield at a time when the issue threatens to tear their city — and their country — apart.  I went

SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — Margery Koveleski didn’t know it at the time, but her life’s work began in 2018, when her former pastor asked the mother of six if she could interpret Sunday services for a group of recently arrived Haitians. Church services led to teaching English classes, which led to interpreting at a community health clinic, which led to opening an office in the back of a Haitian grocery store.  There, for nearly five years now, Margery has helped Haitians settle into this midwestern city of 60,000 that became a flashpoint for the country’s immigration debate during the 2024 presidential campaign.  At first, a lot of Margery’s work revolved around setting things up: utilities, cell phones, health care. Then, as President Donald Trump escalated his immigration crackdown to unprecedented levels, her focus shifted to winding things down. Margery is now a lifeline for her Haitian neighbors as they fight to stay in a country where fewer and fewer legal pathways are available to them. Without a last-minute reprieve, the clock has likely run out on many of their American journeys.  Margery has called Springfield home since she moved here about 24 years ago from New York, where she was born and raised. She learned Haitian Creole as a child by translating for her maternal grandmother, who joined them in New York from Haiti. Now, she shares the language of her ancestors — and her calling — with her 27-year-old daughter, Laura Koveleski, who moved home to Ohio from Florida about three years ago. Margery’s work, done from a desk in a closet-sized storeroom an arm’s length from where her daughter now sits, sometimes demands long hours, produces little income and isn’t the type of job you leave behind when you go home for the day. They know their clients are depending on them, now more than ever, and they’re willing to give them whatever they need most: a ride to court, a sympathetic ear, a call to an employer to negotiate family leave. Laura Koveleski works with her mother assisting Haitian immigrants in their Springfield, Ohio community and paints scenes from their lives as described to her by the immigrants they support. (Maddie McGarvey for The 19th) Lately, supporting clients as they try to sort out their immigration cases takes up more and more of their time. Margery’s massive desk calendar notes the increasingly frequent all-day trips they make with Haitians to Ohio’s main immigration court in Cleveland, about a three-hour drive. On one such day last autumn, Margery’s alarm went off at 3 a.m. She made her way to the guest bedroom downstairs to make sure Laura was awake. Within the hour, they were out the door to pick up a man on Springfield’s south side, where most of the city’s Haitian immigrants live. A soft rain fell as Laura merged their rental car — picked up the night before, to spare their own from the wear-and-tear — east on I-70, then north on I-71, past the soggy corn and soybean fields that line the interstates most of the way to Cleveland.  Mother and daughter talked quietly as their client caught up on sleep in the back seat. They all knew they were making the journey, which clocks in at least nine hours from pick-up to drop-off, despite near certainty that the man’s asylum claim would be denied. During a prior court appearance, a judge gave him 30 days to produce proof of personal persecution in Haiti, with the type of evidence that is all but impossible to get in a country where armed gangs rule the capital and routine government services barely exist.  It’s a now-familiar predicament for so many in his community.  The man was one of some 330,000 Haitians in the United States under a program known as Temporary Protected Status, or TPS, which gives people from certain countries in conflict or facing natural disasters the ability to live and work in the United States for a set period of time. He was seeking asylum because barring action from the federal courts, TPS for Haitians ends February 3. Less than two weeks now remain for hundreds of thousands of Haitians to make an impossible choice: go back to an unstable, violent and desperately poor country where they fear they might die; leave and start again in another new country; or slip into the shadows in the United States, unable to work or live freely. It all has Margery, a no-nonsense nurturer whom many clients call “manman” — Haitian Creole for “mother” — rethinking whether her city and country are the type of places where Haitians should try to put down roots and build lives. “I went through a process of grief, but I’m now at acceptance,” Margery said. Margery and Laura arrived back from the trip to Cleveland in the last light of the grey day. On the ride home, their client said he’d likely go to Mexico ahead of the TPS end date; other Haitians have told them they plan to leave for Brazil or Chile. After dropping him off at home, mother and daughter headed to Eat Greek and More, a favorite spot by the reservoir in Springfield’s northeast suburbs. They ordered at the counter, then slid into a booth. Their falafel arrived in plastic baskets lined with red-and-white checkered paper. Now that they’re regulars, the owner often makes eating there all the more enticing by sending over fries or dessert on the house. Margery first tried Greek food with Laura in Cincinnati, and she was thrilled to find such a good option a couple of miles from home. It’s become their go-to place to bring visitors, an introduction to their city that defies preconceived notions about small towns in red states far away from the country’s coasts.  It also serves as yet another reminder of the good that immigration has brought to Springfield at a time when the issue threatens to tear their city — and their country — apart.  I went

SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — Margery Koveleski didn’t know it at the time, but her life’s work began in 2018, when her former pastor asked the mother of six if she could interpret Sunday services for a group of recently arrived Haitians. Church services led to teaching English classes, which led to interpreting at a community health clinic, which led to opening an office in the back of a Haitian grocery store.  There, for nearly five years now, Margery has helped Haitians settle into this midwestern city of 60,000 that became a flashpoint for the country’s immigration debate during the 2024 presidential campaign.  At first, a lot of Margery’s work revolved around setting things up: utilities, cell phones, health care. Then, as President Donald Trump escalated his immigration crackdown to unprecedented levels, her focus shifted to winding things down. Margery is now a lifeline for her Haitian neighbors as they fight to stay in a country where fewer and fewer legal pathways are available to them. Without a last-minute reprieve, the clock has likely run out on many of their American journeys.  Margery has called Springfield home since she moved here about 24 years ago from New York, where she was born and raised. She learned Haitian Creole as a child by translating for her maternal grandmother, who joined them in New York from Haiti. Now, she shares the language of her ancestors — and her calling — with her 27-year-old daughter, Laura Koveleski, who moved home to Ohio from Florida about three years ago. Margery’s work, done from a desk in a closet-sized storeroom an arm’s length from where her daughter now sits, sometimes demands long hours, produces little income and isn’t the type of job you leave behind when you go home for the day. They know their clients are depending on them, now more than ever, and they’re willing to give them whatever they need most: a ride to court, a sympathetic ear, a call to an employer to negotiate family leave. Laura Koveleski works with her mother assisting Haitian immigrants in their Springfield, Ohio community and paints scenes from their lives as described to her by the immigrants they support. (Maddie McGarvey for The 19th) Lately, supporting clients as they try to sort out their immigration cases takes up more and more of their time. Margery’s massive desk calendar notes the increasingly frequent all-day trips they make with Haitians to Ohio’s main immigration court in Cleveland, about a three-hour drive. On one such day last autumn, Margery’s alarm went off at 3 a.m. She made her way to the guest bedroom downstairs to make sure Laura was awake. Within the hour, they were out the door to pick up a man on Springfield’s south side, where most of the city’s Haitian immigrants live. A soft rain fell as Laura merged their rental car — picked up the night before, to spare their own from the wear-and-tear — east on I-70, then north on I-71, past the soggy corn and soybean fields that line the interstates most of the way to Cleveland.  Mother and daughter talked quietly as their client caught up on sleep in the back seat. They all knew they were making the journey, which clocks in at least nine hours from pick-up to drop-off, despite near certainty that the man’s asylum claim would be denied. During a prior court appearance, a judge gave him 30 days to produce proof of personal persecution in Haiti, with the type of evidence that is all but impossible to get in a country where armed gangs rule the capital and routine government services barely exist.  It’s a now-familiar predicament for so many in his community.  The man was one of some 330,000 Haitians in the United States under a program known as Temporary Protected Status, or TPS, which gives people from certain countries in conflict or facing natural disasters the ability to live and work in the United States for a set period of time. He was seeking asylum because barring action from the federal courts, TPS for Haitians ends February 3. Less than two weeks now remain for hundreds of thousands of Haitians to make an impossible choice: go back to an unstable, violent and desperately poor country where they fear they might die; leave and start again in another new country; or slip into the shadows in the United States, unable to work or live freely. It all has Margery, a no-nonsense nurturer whom many clients call “manman” — Haitian Creole for “mother” — rethinking whether her city and country are the type of places where Haitians should try to put down roots and build lives. “I went through a process of grief, but I’m now at acceptance,” Margery said. Margery and Laura arrived back from the trip to Cleveland in the last light of the grey day. On the ride home, their client said he’d likely go to Mexico ahead of the TPS end date; other Haitians have told them they plan to leave for Brazil or Chile. After dropping him off at home, mother and daughter headed to Eat Greek and More, a favorite spot by the reservoir in Springfield’s northeast suburbs. They ordered at the counter, then slid into a booth. Their falafel arrived in plastic baskets lined with red-and-white checkered paper. Now that they’re regulars, the owner often makes eating there all the more enticing by sending over fries or dessert on the house. Margery first tried Greek food with Laura in Cincinnati, and she was thrilled to find such a good option a couple of miles from home. It’s become their go-to place to bring visitors, an introduction to their city that defies preconceived notions about small towns in red states far away from the country’s coasts.  It also serves as yet another reminder of the good that immigration has brought to Springfield at a time when the issue threatens to tear their city — and their country — apart.  I went

SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — Margery Koveleski didn’t know it at the time, but her life’s work began in 2018, when her former pastor asked the mother of six if she could interpret Sunday services for a group of recently arrived Haitians. Church services led to teaching English classes, which led to interpreting at a community health clinic, which led to opening an office in the back of a Haitian grocery store.  There, for nearly five years now, Margery has helped Haitians settle into this midwestern city of 60,000 that became a flashpoint for the country’s immigration debate during the 2024 presidential campaign.  At first, a lot of Margery’s work revolved around setting things up: utilities, cell phones, health care. Then, as President Donald Trump escalated his immigration crackdown to unprecedented levels, her focus shifted to winding things down. Margery is now a lifeline for her Haitian neighbors as they fight to stay in a country where fewer and fewer legal pathways are available to them. Without a last-minute reprieve, the clock has likely run out on many of their American journeys.  Margery has called Springfield home since she moved here about 24 years ago from New York, where she was born and raised. She learned Haitian Creole as a child by translating for her maternal grandmother, who joined them in New York from Haiti. Now, she shares the language of her ancestors — and her calling — with her 27-year-old daughter, Laura Koveleski, who moved home to Ohio from Florida about three years ago. Margery’s work, done from a desk in a closet-sized storeroom an arm’s length from where her daughter now sits, sometimes demands long hours, produces little income and isn’t the type of job you leave behind when you go home for the day. They know their clients are depending on them, now more than ever, and they’re willing to give them whatever they need most: a ride to court, a sympathetic ear, a call to an employer to negotiate family leave. Laura Koveleski works with her mother assisting Haitian immigrants in their Springfield, Ohio community and paints scenes from their lives as described to her by the immigrants they support. (Maddie McGarvey for The 19th) Lately, supporting clients as they try to sort out their immigration cases takes up more and more of their time. Margery’s massive desk calendar notes the increasingly frequent all-day trips they make with Haitians to Ohio’s main immigration court in Cleveland, about a three-hour drive. On one such day last autumn, Margery’s alarm went off at 3 a.m. She made her way to the guest bedroom downstairs to make sure Laura was awake. Within the hour, they were out the door to pick up a man on Springfield’s south side, where most of the city’s Haitian immigrants live. A soft rain fell as Laura merged their rental car — picked up the night before, to spare their own from the wear-and-tear — east on I-70, then north on I-71, past the soggy corn and soybean fields that line the interstates most of the way to Cleveland.  Mother and daughter talked quietly as their client caught up on sleep in the back seat. They all knew they were making the journey, which clocks in at least nine hours from pick-up to drop-off, despite near certainty that the man’s asylum claim would be denied. During a prior court appearance, a judge gave him 30 days to produce proof of personal persecution in Haiti, with the type of evidence that is all but impossible to get in a country where armed gangs rule the capital and routine government services barely exist.  It’s a now-familiar predicament for so many in his community.  The man was one of some 330,000 Haitians in the United States under a program known as Temporary Protected Status, or TPS, which gives people from certain countries in conflict or facing natural disasters the ability to live and work in the United States for a set period of time. He was seeking asylum because barring action from the federal courts, TPS for Haitians ends February 3. Less than two weeks now remain for hundreds of thousands of Haitians to make an impossible choice: go back to an unstable, violent and desperately poor country where they fear they might die; leave and start again in another new country; or slip into the shadows in the United States, unable to work or live freely. It all has Margery, a no-nonsense nurturer whom many clients call “manman” — Haitian Creole for “mother” — rethinking whether her city and country are the type of places where Haitians should try to put down roots and build lives. “I went through a process of grief, but I’m now at acceptance,” Margery said. Margery and Laura arrived back from the trip to Cleveland in the last light of the grey day. On the ride home, their client said he’d likely go to Mexico ahead of the TPS end date; other Haitians have told them they plan to leave for Brazil or Chile. After dropping him off at home, mother and daughter headed to Eat Greek and More, a favorite spot by the reservoir in Springfield’s northeast suburbs. They ordered at the counter, then slid into a booth. Their falafel arrived in plastic baskets lined with red-and-white checkered paper. Now that they’re regulars, the owner often makes eating there all the more enticing by sending over fries or dessert on the house. Margery first tried Greek food with Laura in Cincinnati, and she was thrilled to find such a good option a couple of miles from home. It’s become their go-to place to bring visitors, an introduction to their city that defies preconceived notions about small towns in red states far away from the country’s coasts.  It also serves as yet another reminder of the good that immigration has brought to Springfield at a time when the issue threatens to tear their city — and their country — apart.  I went

SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — Margery Koveleski didn’t know it at the time, but her life’s work began in 2018, when her former pastor asked the mother of six if she could interpret Sunday services for a group of recently arrived Haitians. Church services led to teaching English classes, which led to interpreting at a community health clinic, which led to opening an office in the back of a Haitian grocery store.  There, for nearly five years now, Margery has helped Haitians settle into this midwestern city of 60,000 that became a flashpoint for the country’s immigration debate during the 2024 presidential campaign.  At first, a lot of Margery’s work revolved around setting things up: utilities, cell phones, health care. Then, as President Donald Trump escalated his immigration crackdown to unprecedented levels, her focus shifted to winding things down. Margery is now a lifeline for her Haitian neighbors as they fight to stay in a country where fewer and fewer legal pathways are available to them. Without a last-minute reprieve, the clock has likely run out on many of their American journeys.  Margery has called Springfield home since she moved here about 24 years ago from New York, where she was born and raised. She learned Haitian Creole as a child by translating for her maternal grandmother, who joined them in New York from Haiti. Now, she shares the language of her ancestors — and her calling — with her 27-year-old daughter, Laura Koveleski, who moved home to Ohio from Florida about three years ago. Margery’s work, done from a desk in a closet-sized storeroom an arm’s length from where her daughter now sits, sometimes demands long hours, produces little income and isn’t the type of job you leave behind when you go home for the day. They know their clients are depending on them, now more than ever, and they’re willing to give them whatever they need most: a ride to court, a sympathetic ear, a call to an employer to negotiate family leave. Laura Koveleski works with her mother assisting Haitian immigrants in their Springfield, Ohio community and paints scenes from their lives as described to her by the immigrants they support. (Maddie McGarvey for The 19th) Lately, supporting clients as they try to sort out their immigration cases takes up more and more of their time. Margery’s massive desk calendar notes the increasingly frequent all-day trips they make with Haitians to Ohio’s main immigration court in Cleveland, about a three-hour drive. On one such day last autumn, Margery’s alarm went off at 3 a.m. She made her way to the guest bedroom downstairs to make sure Laura was awake. Within the hour, they were out the door to pick up a man on Springfield’s south side, where most of the city’s Haitian immigrants live. A soft rain fell as Laura merged their rental car — picked up the night before, to spare their own from the wear-and-tear — east on I-70, then north on I-71, past the soggy corn and soybean fields that line the interstates most of the way to Cleveland.  Mother and daughter talked quietly as their client caught up on sleep in the back seat. They all knew they were making the journey, which clocks in at least nine hours from pick-up to drop-off, despite near certainty that the man’s asylum claim would be denied. During a prior court appearance, a judge gave him 30 days to produce proof of personal persecution in Haiti, with the type of evidence that is all but impossible to get in a country where armed gangs rule the capital and routine government services barely exist.  It’s a now-familiar predicament for so many in his community.  The man was one of some 330,000 Haitians in the United States under a program known as Temporary Protected Status, or TPS, which gives people from certain countries in conflict or facing natural disasters the ability to live and work in the United States for a set period of time. He was seeking asylum because barring action from the federal courts, TPS for Haitians ends February 3. Less than two weeks now remain for hundreds of thousands of Haitians to make an impossible choice: go back to an unstable, violent and desperately poor country where they fear they might die; leave and start again in another new country; or slip into the shadows in the United States, unable to work or live freely. It all has Margery, a no-nonsense nurturer whom many clients call “manman” — Haitian Creole for “mother” — rethinking whether her city and country are the type of places where Haitians should try to put down roots and build lives. “I went through a process of grief, but I’m now at acceptance,” Margery said. Margery and Laura arrived back from the trip to Cleveland in the last light of the grey day. On the ride home, their client said he’d likely go to Mexico ahead of the TPS end date; other Haitians have told them they plan to leave for Brazil or Chile. After dropping him off at home, mother and daughter headed to Eat Greek and More, a favorite spot by the reservoir in Springfield’s northeast suburbs. They ordered at the counter, then slid into a booth. Their falafel arrived in plastic baskets lined with red-and-white checkered paper. Now that they’re regulars, the owner often makes eating there all the more enticing by sending over fries or dessert on the house. Margery first tried Greek food with Laura in Cincinnati, and she was thrilled to find such a good option a couple of miles from home. It’s become their go-to place to bring visitors, an introduction to their city that defies preconceived notions about small towns in red states far away from the country’s coasts.  It also serves as yet another reminder of the good that immigration has brought to Springfield at a time when the issue threatens to tear their city — and their country — apart.  I went

SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — Margery Koveleski didn’t know it at the time, but her life’s work began in 2018, when her former pastor asked the mother of six if she could interpret Sunday services for a group of recently arrived Haitians. Church services led to teaching English classes, which led to interpreting at a community health clinic, which led to opening an office in the back of a Haitian grocery store.  There, for nearly five years now, Margery has helped Haitians settle into this midwestern city of 60,000 that became a flashpoint for the country’s immigration debate during the 2024 presidential campaign.  At first, a lot of Margery’s work revolved around setting things up: utilities, cell phones, health care. Then, as President Donald Trump escalated his immigration crackdown to unprecedented levels, her focus shifted to winding things down. Margery is now a lifeline for her Haitian neighbors as they fight to stay in a country where fewer and fewer legal pathways are available to them. Without a last-minute reprieve, the clock has likely run out on many of their American journeys.  Margery has called Springfield home since she moved here about 24 years ago from New York, where she was born and raised. She learned Haitian Creole as a child by translating for her maternal grandmother, who joined them in New York from Haiti. Now, she shares the language of her ancestors — and her calling — with her 27-year-old daughter, Laura Koveleski, who moved home to Ohio from Florida about three years ago. Margery’s work, done from a desk in a closet-sized storeroom an arm’s length from where her daughter now sits, sometimes demands long hours, produces little income and isn’t the type of job you leave behind when you go home for the day. They know their clients are depending on them, now more than ever, and they’re willing to give them whatever they need most: a ride to court, a sympathetic ear, a call to an employer to negotiate family leave. Laura Koveleski works with her mother assisting Haitian immigrants in their Springfield, Ohio community and paints scenes from their lives as described to her by the immigrants they support. (Maddie McGarvey for The 19th) Lately, supporting clients as they try to sort out their immigration cases takes up more and more of their time. Margery’s massive desk calendar notes the increasingly frequent all-day trips they make with Haitians to Ohio’s main immigration court in Cleveland, about a three-hour drive. On one such day last autumn, Margery’s alarm went off at 3 a.m. She made her way to the guest bedroom downstairs to make sure Laura was awake. Within the hour, they were out the door to pick up a man on Springfield’s south side, where most of the city’s Haitian immigrants live. A soft rain fell as Laura merged their rental car — picked up the night before, to spare their own from the wear-and-tear — east on I-70, then north on I-71, past the soggy corn and soybean fields that line the interstates most of the way to Cleveland.  Mother and daughter talked quietly as their client caught up on sleep in the back seat. They all knew they were making the journey, which clocks in at least nine hours from pick-up to drop-off, despite near certainty that the man’s asylum claim would be denied. During a prior court appearance, a judge gave him 30 days to produce proof of personal persecution in Haiti, with the type of evidence that is all but impossible to get in a country where armed gangs rule the capital and routine government services barely exist.  It’s a now-familiar predicament for so many in his community.  The man was one of some 330,000 Haitians in the United States under a program known as Temporary Protected Status, or TPS, which gives people from certain countries in conflict or facing natural disasters the ability to live and work in the United States for a set period of time. He was seeking asylum because barring action from the federal courts, TPS for Haitians ends February 3. Less than two weeks now remain for hundreds of thousands of Haitians to make an impossible choice: go back to an unstable, violent and desperately poor country where they fear they might die; leave and start again in another new country; or slip into the shadows in the United States, unable to work or live freely. It all has Margery, a no-nonsense nurturer whom many clients call “manman” — Haitian Creole for “mother” — rethinking whether her city and country are the type of places where Haitians should try to put down roots and build lives. “I went through a process of grief, but I’m now at acceptance,” Margery said. Margery and Laura arrived back from the trip to Cleveland in the last light of the grey day. On the ride home, their client said he’d likely go to Mexico ahead of the TPS end date; other Haitians have told them they plan to leave for Brazil or Chile. After dropping him off at home, mother and daughter headed to Eat Greek and More, a favorite spot by the reservoir in Springfield’s northeast suburbs. They ordered at the counter, then slid into a booth. Their falafel arrived in plastic baskets lined with red-and-white checkered paper. Now that they’re regulars, the owner often makes eating there all the more enticing by sending over fries or dessert on the house. Margery first tried Greek food with Laura in Cincinnati, and she was thrilled to find such a good option a couple of miles from home. It’s become their go-to place to bring visitors, an introduction to their city that defies preconceived notions about small towns in red states far away from the country’s coasts.  It also serves as yet another reminder of the good that immigration has brought to Springfield at a time when the issue threatens to tear their city — and their country — apart.  I went

SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — Margery Koveleski didn’t know it at the time, but her life’s work began in 2018, when her former pastor asked the mother of six if she could interpret Sunday services for a group of recently arrived Haitians. Church services led to teaching English classes, which led to interpreting at a community health clinic, which led to opening an office in the back of a Haitian grocery store.  There, for nearly five years now, Margery has helped Haitians settle into this midwestern city of 60,000 that became a flashpoint for the country’s immigration debate during the 2024 presidential campaign.  At first, a lot of Margery’s work revolved around setting things up: utilities, cell phones, health care. Then, as President Donald Trump escalated his immigration crackdown to unprecedented levels, her focus shifted to winding things down. Margery is now a lifeline for her Haitian neighbors as they fight to stay in a country where fewer and fewer legal pathways are available to them. Without a last-minute reprieve, the clock has likely run out on many of their American journeys.  Margery has called Springfield home since she moved here about 24 years ago from New York, where she was born and raised. She learned Haitian Creole as a child by translating for her maternal grandmother, who joined them in New York from Haiti. Now, she shares the language of her ancestors — and her calling — with her 27-year-old daughter, Laura Koveleski, who moved home to Ohio from Florida about three years ago. Margery’s work, done from a desk in a closet-sized storeroom an arm’s length from where her daughter now sits, sometimes demands long hours, produces little income and isn’t the type of job you leave behind when you go home for the day. They know their clients are depending on them, now more than ever, and they’re willing to give them whatever they need most: a ride to court, a sympathetic ear, a call to an employer to negotiate family leave. Laura Koveleski works with her mother assisting Haitian immigrants in their Springfield, Ohio community and paints scenes from their lives as described to her by the immigrants they support. (Maddie McGarvey for The 19th) Lately, supporting clients as they try to sort out their immigration cases takes up more and more of their time. Margery’s massive desk calendar notes the increasingly frequent all-day trips they make with Haitians to Ohio’s main immigration court in Cleveland, about a three-hour drive. On one such day last autumn, Margery’s alarm went off at 3 a.m. She made her way to the guest bedroom downstairs to make sure Laura was awake. Within the hour, they were out the door to pick up a man on Springfield’s south side, where most of the city’s Haitian immigrants live. A soft rain fell as Laura merged their rental car — picked up the night before, to spare their own from the wear-and-tear — east on I-70, then north on I-71, past the soggy corn and soybean fields that line the interstates most of the way to Cleveland.  Mother and daughter talked quietly as their client caught up on sleep in the back seat. They all knew they were making the journey, which clocks in at least nine hours from pick-up to drop-off, despite near certainty that the man’s asylum claim would be denied. During a prior court appearance, a judge gave him 30 days to produce proof of personal persecution in Haiti, with the type of evidence that is all but impossible to get in a country where armed gangs rule the capital and routine government services barely exist.  It’s a now-familiar predicament for so many in his community.  The man was one of some 330,000 Haitians in the United States under a program known as Temporary Protected Status, or TPS, which gives people from certain countries in conflict or facing natural disasters the ability to live and work in the United States for a set period of time. He was seeking asylum because barring action from the federal courts, TPS for Haitians ends February 3. Less than two weeks now remain for hundreds of thousands of Haitians to make an impossible choice: go back to an unstable, violent and desperately poor country where they fear they might die; leave and start again in another new country; or slip into the shadows in the United States, unable to work or live freely. It all has Margery, a no-nonsense nurturer whom many clients call “manman” — Haitian Creole for “mother” — rethinking whether her city and country are the type of places where Haitians should try to put down roots and build lives. “I went through a process of grief, but I’m now at acceptance,” Margery said. Margery and Laura arrived back from the trip to Cleveland in the last light of the grey day. On the ride home, their client said he’d likely go to Mexico ahead of the TPS end date; other Haitians have told them they plan to leave for Brazil or Chile. After dropping him off at home, mother and daughter headed to Eat Greek and More, a favorite spot by the reservoir in Springfield’s northeast suburbs. They ordered at the counter, then slid into a booth. Their falafel arrived in plastic baskets lined with red-and-white checkered paper. Now that they’re regulars, the owner often makes eating there all the more enticing by sending over fries or dessert on the house. Margery first tried Greek food with Laura in Cincinnati, and she was thrilled to find such a good option a couple of miles from home. It’s become their go-to place to bring visitors, an introduction to their city that defies preconceived notions about small towns in red states far away from the country’s coasts.  It also serves as yet another reminder of the good that immigration has brought to Springfield at a time when the issue threatens to tear their city — and their country — apart.  I went

SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — Margery Koveleski didn’t know it at the time, but her life’s work began in 2018, when her former pastor asked the mother of six if she could interpret Sunday services for a group of recently arrived Haitians. Church services led to teaching English classes, which led to interpreting at a community health clinic, which led to opening an office in the back of a Haitian grocery store.  There, for nearly five years now, Margery has helped Haitians settle into this midwestern city of 60,000 that became a flashpoint for the country’s immigration debate during the 2024 presidential campaign.  At first, a lot of Margery’s work revolved around setting things up: utilities, cell phones, health care. Then, as President Donald Trump escalated his immigration crackdown to unprecedented levels, her focus shifted to winding things down. Margery is now a lifeline for her Haitian neighbors as they fight to stay in a country where fewer and fewer legal pathways are available to them. Without a last-minute reprieve, the clock has likely run out on many of their American journeys.  Margery has called Springfield home since she moved here about 24 years ago from New York, where she was born and raised. She learned Haitian Creole as a child by translating for her maternal grandmother, who joined them in New York from Haiti. Now, she shares the language of her ancestors — and her calling — with her 27-year-old daughter, Laura Koveleski, who moved home to Ohio from Florida about three years ago. Margery’s work, done from a desk in a closet-sized storeroom an arm’s length from where her daughter now sits, sometimes demands long hours, produces little income and isn’t the type of job you leave behind when you go home for the day. They know their clients are depending on them, now more than ever, and they’re willing to give them whatever they need most: a ride to court, a sympathetic ear, a call to an employer to negotiate family leave. Laura Koveleski works with her mother assisting Haitian immigrants in their Springfield, Ohio community and paints scenes from their lives as described to her by the immigrants they support. (Maddie McGarvey for The 19th) Lately, supporting clients as they try to sort out their immigration cases takes up more and more of their time. Margery’s massive desk calendar notes the increasingly frequent all-day trips they make with Haitians to Ohio’s main immigration court in Cleveland, about a three-hour drive. On one such day last autumn, Margery’s alarm went off at 3 a.m. She made her way to the guest bedroom downstairs to make sure Laura was awake. Within the hour, they were out the door to pick up a man on Springfield’s south side, where most of the city’s Haitian immigrants live. A soft rain fell as Laura merged their rental car — picked up the night before, to spare their own from the wear-and-tear — east on I-70, then north on I-71, past the soggy corn and soybean fields that line the interstates most of the way to Cleveland.  Mother and daughter talked quietly as their client caught up on sleep in the back seat. They all knew they were making the journey, which clocks in at least nine hours from pick-up to drop-off, despite near certainty that the man’s asylum claim would be denied. During a prior court appearance, a judge gave him 30 days to produce proof of personal persecution in Haiti, with the type of evidence that is all but impossible to get in a country where armed gangs rule the capital and routine government services barely exist.  It’s a now-familiar predicament for so many in his community.  The man was one of some 330,000 Haitians in the United States under a program known as Temporary Protected Status, or TPS, which gives people from certain countries in conflict or facing natural disasters the ability to live and work in the United States for a set period of time. He was seeking asylum because barring action from the federal courts, TPS for Haitians ends February 3. Less than two weeks now remain for hundreds of thousands of Haitians to make an impossible choice: go back to an unstable, violent and desperately poor country where they fear they might die; leave and start again in another new country; or slip into the shadows in the United States, unable to work or live freely. It all has Margery, a no-nonsense nurturer whom many clients call “manman” — Haitian Creole for “mother” — rethinking whether her city and country are the type of places where Haitians should try to put down roots and build lives. “I went through a process of grief, but I’m now at acceptance,” Margery said. Margery and Laura arrived back from the trip to Cleveland in the last light of the grey day. On the ride home, their client said he’d likely go to Mexico ahead of the TPS end date; other Haitians have told them they plan to leave for Brazil or Chile. After dropping him off at home, mother and daughter headed to Eat Greek and More, a favorite spot by the reservoir in Springfield’s northeast suburbs. They ordered at the counter, then slid into a booth. Their falafel arrived in plastic baskets lined with red-and-white checkered paper. Now that they’re regulars, the owner often makes eating there all the more enticing by sending over fries or dessert on the house. Margery first tried Greek food with Laura in Cincinnati, and she was thrilled to find such a good option a couple of miles from home. It’s become their go-to place to bring visitors, an introduction to their city that defies preconceived notions about small towns in red states far away from the country’s coasts.  It also serves as yet another reminder of the good that immigration has brought to Springfield at a time when the issue threatens to tear their city — and their country — apart.  I went

SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — Margery Koveleski didn’t know it at the time, but her life’s work began in 2018, when her former pastor asked the mother of six if she could interpret Sunday services for a group of recently arrived Haitians. Church services led to teaching English classes, which led to interpreting at a community health clinic, which led to opening an office in the back of a Haitian grocery store.  There, for nearly five years now, Margery has helped Haitians settle into this midwestern city of 60,000 that became a flashpoint for the country’s immigration debate during the 2024 presidential campaign.  At first, a lot of Margery’s work revolved around setting things up: utilities, cell phones, health care. Then, as President Donald Trump escalated his immigration crackdown to unprecedented levels, her focus shifted to winding things down. Margery is now a lifeline for her Haitian neighbors as they fight to stay in a country where fewer and fewer legal pathways are available to them. Without a last-minute reprieve, the clock has likely run out on many of their American journeys.  Margery has called Springfield home since she moved here about 24 years ago from New York, where she was born and raised. She learned Haitian Creole as a child by translating for her maternal grandmother, who joined them in New York from Haiti. Now, she shares the language of her ancestors — and her calling — with her 27-year-old daughter, Laura Koveleski, who moved home to Ohio from Florida about three years ago. Margery’s work, done from a desk in a closet-sized storeroom an arm’s length from where her daughter now sits, sometimes demands long hours, produces little income and isn’t the type of job you leave behind when you go home for the day. They know their clients are depending on them, now more than ever, and they’re willing to give them whatever they need most: a ride to court, a sympathetic ear, a call to an employer to negotiate family leave. Laura Koveleski works with her mother assisting Haitian immigrants in their Springfield, Ohio community and paints scenes from their lives as described to her by the immigrants they support. (Maddie McGarvey for The 19th) Lately, supporting clients as they try to sort out their immigration cases takes up more and more of their time. Margery’s massive desk calendar notes the increasingly frequent all-day trips they make with Haitians to Ohio’s main immigration court in Cleveland, about a three-hour drive. On one such day last autumn, Margery’s alarm went off at 3 a.m. She made her way to the guest bedroom downstairs to make sure Laura was awake. Within the hour, they were out the door to pick up a man on Springfield’s south side, where most of the city’s Haitian immigrants live. A soft rain fell as Laura merged their rental car — picked up the night before, to spare their own from the wear-and-tear — east on I-70, then north on I-71, past the soggy corn and soybean fields that line the interstates most of the way to Cleveland.  Mother and daughter talked quietly as their client caught up on sleep in the back seat. They all knew they were making the journey, which clocks in at least nine hours from pick-up to drop-off, despite near certainty that the man’s asylum claim would be denied. During a prior court appearance, a judge gave him 30 days to produce proof of personal persecution in Haiti, with the type of evidence that is all but impossible to get in a country where armed gangs rule the capital and routine government services barely exist.  It’s a now-familiar predicament for so many in his community.  The man was one of some 330,000 Haitians in the United States under a program known as Temporary Protected Status, or TPS, which gives people from certain countries in conflict or facing natural disasters the ability to live and work in the United States for a set period of time. He was seeking asylum because barring action from the federal courts, TPS for Haitians ends February 3. Less than two weeks now remain for hundreds of thousands of Haitians to make an impossible choice: go back to an unstable, violent and desperately poor country where they fear they might die; leave and start again in another new country; or slip into the shadows in the United States, unable to work or live freely. It all has Margery, a no-nonsense nurturer whom many clients call “manman” — Haitian Creole for “mother” — rethinking whether her city and country are the type of places where Haitians should try to put down roots and build lives. “I went through a process of grief, but I’m now at acceptance,” Margery said. Margery and Laura arrived back from the trip to Cleveland in the last light of the grey day. On the ride home, their client said he’d likely go to Mexico ahead of the TPS end date; other Haitians have told them they plan to leave for Brazil or Chile. After dropping him off at home, mother and daughter headed to Eat Greek and More, a favorite spot by the reservoir in Springfield’s northeast suburbs. They ordered at the counter, then slid into a booth. Their falafel arrived in plastic baskets lined with red-and-white checkered paper. Now that they’re regulars, the owner often makes eating there all the more enticing by sending over fries or dessert on the house. Margery first tried Greek food with Laura in Cincinnati, and she was thrilled to find such a good option a couple of miles from home. It’s become their go-to place to bring visitors, an introduction to their city that defies preconceived notions about small towns in red states far away from the country’s coasts.  It also serves as yet another reminder of the good that immigration has brought to Springfield at a time when the issue threatens to tear their city — and their country — apart.  I went

SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — Margery Koveleski didn’t know it at the time, but her life’s work began in 2018, when her former pastor asked the mother of six if she could interpret Sunday services for a group of recently arrived Haitians. Church services led to teaching English classes, which led to interpreting at a community health clinic, which led to opening an office in the back of a Haitian grocery store.  There, for nearly five years now, Margery has helped Haitians settle into this midwestern city of 60,000 that became a flashpoint for the country’s immigration debate during the 2024 presidential campaign.  At first, a lot of Margery’s work revolved around setting things up: utilities, cell phones, health care. Then, as President Donald Trump escalated his immigration crackdown to unprecedented levels, her focus shifted to winding things down. Margery is now a lifeline for her Haitian neighbors as they fight to stay in a country where fewer and fewer legal pathways are available to them. Without a last-minute reprieve, the clock has likely run out on many of their American journeys.  Margery has called Springfield home since she moved here about 24 years ago from New York, where she was born and raised. She learned Haitian Creole as a child by translating for her maternal grandmother, who joined them in New York from Haiti. Now, she shares the language of her ancestors — and her calling — with her 27-year-old daughter, Laura Koveleski, who moved home to Ohio from Florida about three years ago. Margery’s work, done from a desk in a closet-sized storeroom an arm’s length from where her daughter now sits, sometimes demands long hours, produces little income and isn’t the type of job you leave behind when you go home for the day. They know their clients are depending on them, now more than ever, and they’re willing to give them whatever they need most: a ride to court, a sympathetic ear, a call to an employer to negotiate family leave. Laura Koveleski works with her mother assisting Haitian immigrants in their Springfield, Ohio community and paints scenes from their lives as described to her by the immigrants they support. (Maddie McGarvey for The 19th) Lately, supporting clients as they try to sort out their immigration cases takes up more and more of their time. Margery’s massive desk calendar notes the increasingly frequent all-day trips they make with Haitians to Ohio’s main immigration court in Cleveland, about a three-hour drive. On one such day last autumn, Margery’s alarm went off at 3 a.m. She made her way to the guest bedroom downstairs to make sure Laura was awake. Within the hour, they were out the door to pick up a man on Springfield’s south side, where most of the city’s Haitian immigrants live. A soft rain fell as Laura merged their rental car — picked up the night before, to spare their own from the wear-and-tear — east on I-70, then north on I-71, past the soggy corn and soybean fields that line the interstates most of the way to Cleveland.  Mother and daughter talked quietly as their client caught up on sleep in the back seat. They all knew they were making the journey, which clocks in at least nine hours from pick-up to drop-off, despite near certainty that the man’s asylum claim would be denied. During a prior court appearance, a judge gave him 30 days to produce proof of personal persecution in Haiti, with the type of evidence that is all but impossible to get in a country where armed gangs rule the capital and routine government services barely exist.  It’s a now-familiar predicament for so many in his community.  The man was one of some 330,000 Haitians in the United States under a program known as Temporary Protected Status, or TPS, which gives people from certain countries in conflict or facing natural disasters the ability to live and work in the United States for a set period of time. He was seeking asylum because barring action from the federal courts, TPS for Haitians ends February 3. Less than two weeks now remain for hundreds of thousands of Haitians to make an impossible choice: go back to an unstable, violent and desperately poor country where they fear they might die; leave and start again in another new country; or slip into the shadows in the United States, unable to work or live freely. It all has Margery, a no-nonsense nurturer whom many clients call “manman” — Haitian Creole for “mother” — rethinking whether her city and country are the type of places where Haitians should try to put down roots and build lives. “I went through a process of grief, but I’m now at acceptance,” Margery said. Margery and Laura arrived back from the trip to Cleveland in the last light of the grey day. On the ride home, their client said he’d likely go to Mexico ahead of the TPS end date; other Haitians have told them they plan to leave for Brazil or Chile. After dropping him off at home, mother and daughter headed to Eat Greek and More, a favorite spot by the reservoir in Springfield’s northeast suburbs. They ordered at the counter, then slid into a booth. Their falafel arrived in plastic baskets lined with red-and-white checkered paper. Now that they’re regulars, the owner often makes eating there all the more enticing by sending over fries or dessert on the house. Margery first tried Greek food with Laura in Cincinnati, and she was thrilled to find such a good option a couple of miles from home. It’s become their go-to place to bring visitors, an introduction to their city that defies preconceived notions about small towns in red states far away from the country’s coasts.  It also serves as yet another reminder of the good that immigration has brought to Springfield at a time when the issue threatens to tear their city — and their country — apart.  I went