National anti-immigrant rhetoric does not stop at a school’s gates. It enters classrooms through the language students use with one another, shaping who belongs, who feels safe, and who is treated as (fully) American. Yet, many educators, myself included, are unprepared to confront this language when it’s spoken by the very students it targets.
In my Southern California middle school classroom, I react swiftly when students use slurs. When I hear homophobic taunts, the “R” word, or the “N” word, the teacher compass in me directs me to the source, and I intervene immediately. Over a decade of teaching experience has conditioned me to recognize these moments as urgent and harmful.
Recently, I’ve heard slurs and teasing that made me freeze—not because they were louder or more aggressive but because they were new:
An English learner taunting other EL students about not being allowed back in the United States because they’re “illegal.”
That same student proudly claiming that they can leave and enter the country because they are not “illegal,” while assuming that other students in the classroom do not have the privilege that he does.
Eighth grade girls discussing the history teacher’s mock election results. “I voted for Trump because I’m not an illegal … [and] can’t get deported.” President Donald Trump was victorious in all six classes’ elections.
These comments passed through the air of my English-language development class as if they were unexceptional, as if the adolescents in the room were used to hearing them.
The language itself unsettled me—anti-immigrant rhetoric used by one Latino student against others. But I was more disturbed by my own hesitation to address this in the moment. Why did I respond quickly to other forms of hateful language yet struggle to respond to this?
The lesson I’d mistakenly taught that day was that acceptance in the U.S. can be measured by citizenship status and by distance from newly arrived immigrants.
And why did no other student stop in their tracks as I did? Was this rhetoric considered less harmful because it sounded political?
Part of my hesitation came from uncertainty about what exactly I should do.
Schools spend countless hours training teachers on how to respond to slurs, bullying, and harassment. But I have yet to be trained on how to respond to anti-immigrant language disguised as political opinion, patriotic language, or humor. Why haven’t districts paid tens of thousands of dollars for a set of 90-minute online modules that convert teachers into experts at noticing and responding to xenophobia? Are we hearing this rhetoric so often that it has become normalized? When students, along with the rest of the country, repeat phrases they hear in videos, reels, or social media posts, the harm becomes ingrained, making it difficult to name and much more difficult to confront.
Children did not make “illegal” a slur. They make derivations of “skibidi” and have an obsession with “6-7,” but they did not come up with “illegal” as an insult. No, my students are absorbing this type of language from the political, social, and online environments that envelop them.
Across the nation, political discourse surrounding immigrants has become increasingly dehumanizing. Politicians regularly use terms such as “illegal alien,” “illegals,” and “mass deportation” in ways that paint immigrants as threats to the personal safety of Americans. Elected representatives have referred to immigrants generally as invaders, criminals, and burdens on American society. Texas’s 26th District U.S. Rep. Brandon Gill, a Republican, fans the flame with X posts such as, “[Immigrants] are transforming our communities, tearing our social fabric apart, and absolutely undermining the economic independence of American citizens.” This language circulates rapidly online and eventually reaches young people.
The day I heard that first surprising slur from my student, I drove home with no music on, reflecting on why I froze. I realized that immigrant-origin students hear these remarks while trying to assimilate into American society, a process that begins when they enroll in an ELD class to learn English at school.
What upset me most—besides my lack of action—was that Latino students were using words to separate themselves from one another. The negative clause, “I am not illegal,” signaled more than immigration status; it was a way for one student to claim legitimacy and belonging in this country.
The lesson I’d mistakenly taught that day was that acceptance in the United States can be measured by citizenship status and by distance from newly arrived immigrants; all I had to do was stand idly by.
Such interactions are not minor; they shape how immigrant-origin students experience school and whether they feel accepted, valued, and safe. The students also notice who advocates for them and who stands by silently.
As a Latino educator, I feel the weight of these moments and remarks especially deeply. I froze in part because I was personally affected by my students’ remarks. I was in 4th grade when my parents gained their U.S. citizenship, old enough to remember the fears of having parents without documentation. The anti-immigration rhetoric is not abstract in my classroom. When students repeat these words, they are talking about communities that include their classmates, teachers, and sometimes themselves.
The next time this happens, I will not be unprepared. Although teachers cannot control national rhetoric, we can shape what becomes acceptable language in our classrooms and schools. Next time I hear something similar, I will halt the class and use the incident as a teachable moment, as I do when I hear other slurs.
Recognizing the language as harmful, naming it clearly when it happens, and having an intervention ready must become part of the work of teaching.
