A Willmar family fights a father’s deportation as a daughter’s quinceañera nears

WILLMAR, MINN. – Isabel Dubón began cooking lunch before noon. From there, her responsibilities would continue until nearly dawn the next day.

Before going to work overnight at rural turkey farms, Dubón, 36, would have to wrangle her daughters for a trip to church and host a small, surprise birthday party for her eldest, Greysi.

The birthday is a monumental one – Greysi’s 15th, what should be celebrated with a quinceañera.

But extravagant parties are not possible right now. The family’s father, Noe Salinas Ramirez, 37, has been in immigration detention since February.

He is facing deportation to Honduras for the third time since 2007. He has no previous criminal history other than a misdemeanor conviction following an attempted illegal border crossing in 2016, according to court records.

President Donald Trump’s administration has said its crackdown on illegal immigration mainly focuses on those “who threaten the safety or security of the American people.” Salinas Ramirez’s case illustrates how some people with no violent criminal history have still been swept up.

Family members said they have not been the same since Salinas Ramirez’s detention. They used to go out for dinner, take trips to the Mall of America. Now they lay low. Dubón and the extended family have had to pool resources to fight Salinas Ramirez’s deportation, leaving little for his daughter’s quinceañera.

It was Feb. 26 in Grand Forks, N.D.

Salinas Ramirez, who split his time between there and Willmar because he made good money working construction as a welder, was a passenger in a car that police pulled over for a broken taillight.

Salinas Ramirez was allowed to leave. The driver, who had a warrant through Immigrations and Customs Enforcement, was not.

When Salinas Ramirez arrived at the home where he was staying that night, he thought he was safe. But police went back to find him there.

According to police and court records, the U.S. Border Patrol wanted Salinas Ramirez arrested for a deportation order because of past immigration violations. Grand Forks police visited the home and an officer coaxed Salinas Ramirez into opening a backyard gate by telling him the arrested driver was there and needed to be let inside.

He has been in custody since. Having been deported before – in 2007 and 2016 – he now faces a felony charge in federal court on the grounds that he entered the United States again without permission.

Salinas Ramirez said only violence awaits him in Honduras, where longstanding conflicts and no help from police have driven his extended family to flee to the U.S. over the years.

“I’m afraid that if I get deported, my kids will be left as orphans,” he said. “And I’m at risk of arriving to a situation where I could be executed.”

Salinas Ramirez faces long odds of staying here. He is only eligible for a status called “withholding of removal,” where he must demonstrate a 51% likelihood of persecution in his home country. Asylum seekers must meet a 10% threshold.

His application was rejected this summer. He filed an appeal in late August and an answer won’t come for at least four months.

“We went out together, we would go to parks, we would play soccer,” he said. “It hurts that I have all these memories … and now I can’t do that anymore.”

Back at the family home, Dubón finished lunch and turned to help her youngest daughter, Ivanna, get ready for church.

Greysi was expected to return home any minute from a four-night Bible camp. Lately, she had hardly left her bedroom, was not eating and talked of returning to Honduras, her mother said.

Dubón had heard about new friends, campfires and ziplining from Greysi. But she also said she didn’t want to come home.

Ivanna, an 8-year-old who never misses a chance to tease her sister, didn’t hesitate to chirp in.

Moments later, the front door opened. Greysi burst in, smiling wide, followed by her cousin and aunt. After hugs and hollers of “¡Hola!” the girls rushed into their rooms to change for church.

At Casa de Misericordia, a Pentecostal church serving Willmar’s Latino community, Dubón filed into a row of seats with her daughters and four extended family members.

The service, 2½ hours long, was scored with lively music that only slowed for sermons. On this Sunday, the pastor preached about the strength of faith.

Greysi, dressed in a red and gold gown, danced with two dozen girls at the start of the service. Ivanna stood up to give an offering.

Later, Dubón joined other women invited to the front. She stood and swayed to the music, her eyes closed as tears fell. When she retook her seat, Greysi rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.

Although separated from Salinas Ramirez at the time, Dubón brought their daughters to Minnesota to join relatives of their father. They started coming here about 12 years ago, fleeing the poverty, corruption and unchecked violence of Honduras.

Salinas Ramirez arrived in Minnesota in March 2022, and reconciled with Dubón afterward. She and her daughters, who do not have legal status as residents, are now seeking asylum.

In Honduras, Dubón’s family struggled for years with a dispute over land with a neighboring family. Police were no help, and the disagreement escalated to the deaths of her grandfather and two uncles, she said.

The final straw came when a man fired a gun outside her home, with her daughters present.

“We were specifically looking for refuge, to be away from where we felt unsafe and for a better life for our daughters,” Dubón said.

No white people work these jobs, said Maria Salinas, Dubón’s sister-in-law.

“I have 24 people working under me, so that means I’m supporting the economy,” said Salinas, whose job is to find day laborers to chase turkeys. “They’re all Latinos. We pay a lot of taxes. We do everything by law.”

Without a father or his income, Dubón’s family has been off balance since his incarceration. Dubón doesn’t have time to sleep for long. Greysi pitches in by looking after Ivanna and babysitting other kids. The extended family pools money to help pay for Salinas Ramirez’s food, phone calls and attorney fees.

The price of fighting deportation has skyrocketed under the Trump administration. Earlier this year, it would have cost $110 to file Salinas Ramirez’s appeal for withholding of removal status.

The cost jumped to $1,010 in July.

Behind them on the wall hung a Honduran flag. Four soccer medals won by their father are draped in front of it.

The door opened. It was Maria Salinas and her family, bearing birthday balloons, tres leches cake, fried chicken and other treats.

Greysi sat up, her eyes wide. The room soon filled to six adults, seven kids and one infant.

Everyone entered party mode. Greysi changed into a pink dress for photos outside. Her cousins played with a grasshopper and goofed around. The adults blew up balloons and ate.

It seems Dubón is always on her feet. She ate while standing, was the first to start cleaning the kitchen and helped hang birthday decorations. Another long shift chasing turkeys was just hours away.

“Maybe I’m just tired,” she said.

Her father wanted to throw a big celebration for her. He pictured a father-daughter dance to a song called “No Crezcas Más (Don’t Grow Anymore)” by Tercer Cielo. It’s about a father watching his daughter turn 15, when a girl transitions to womanhood in Latin American cultures.

At one point, a family member played the music video and everyone stopped. Tears flowed in the room. Finally, an uncle grabbed Greysi for a dance.