I was the last person in the US who knew him before he left
In Detroit and across the United States, teachers are being called to a form of care that no credential prepared them for — becoming legal advocates, emotional anchors, and witnesses to the displacement of their own students. Kristen Schoettle, an ESL teacher at Western International High School, spent months as the primary lifeline for four students detained by ICE and held 1,500 miles away in a Texas family detention center. Her story reflects a broader reckoning in American education: when institutions fracture, it is often teachers who stand in the breach — not because it is their job, but because no one else does.
- Four of Schoettle's students were arrested by ICE — one in handcuffs during a school field trip — and transferred to a detention facility in Dilley, Texas, leaving their teacher as their only consistent point of contact with the outside world.
- Students inside the facility described contaminated food, undrinkable water, and psychological despair, sending messages through Microsoft Teams that read less like homework and more like pleas: 'Is there anyone trying to help us?'
- Fear of enforcement has hollowed out classrooms nationwide — Schoettle estimates 20 percent of her students skipped school this year, with some requesting full transfers to virtual learning rather than risk being seen.
- Teachers unions have responded with emergency kits, rights-training webinars, and school board partnerships, while Schoettle herself led a student walkout, declaring her community was 'being terrorized.'
- By March, three detained students were released and returned to Detroit, but the student Schoettle watched led away in handcuffs was deported with his family — leaving her as, in her own words, the last American face he saw before he left.
Kristen Schoettle knew the number by heart: 866, the area code for the detention facility in Dilley, Texas, where four of her students were being held after arrests by Immigration and Customs Enforcement. The calls came from 1,500 miles away. She had watched one student led away in handcuffs during a school field trip. The others followed over the course of a year.
What began as a teacher's instinct grew into something far larger. Schoettle — who teaches ESL at Western International High School in Detroit — became a de facto lawyer, therapist, and lifeline. She spent her own money on phone credits, tracked court dates, contacted lawyers and congresspeople, and messaged students through Microsoft Teams when they could access it from inside the facility. She offered to sponsor one student's release herself.
The messages she received were stark. 'I'm afraid I won't be able to return, miss,' one student wrote. Another: 'Is there anyone trying to help us? We want to get out of here, teacher.' Students described food contaminated with insects and mold, undrinkable water, and constant illness. The facility declined to comment beyond a statement saying it worked to keep families 'safe, healthy and well.'
Back at Western International — a school of roughly 1,900 students, about one-fifth immigrants and another 70 percent children of immigrants — empty desks became a daily presence. Schoettle estimates 20 percent of her students missed classes this year out of fear. Some requested virtual transfers. Others asked for work through Teams rather than come to campus. 'My classroom used to be a place of joy,' she said. 'It's definitely become a place of fear.'
Last month, she led a student walkout in front of the school. 'This is not normal,' she told the crowd. 'This is our community being terrorized, and we're sick of it.'
By March, three of her detained students were released and returned to Detroit. But the student she had watched led away in handcuffs was deported with his family. 'It's crazy to think that I was the last person in the United States who knew him,' she said.
Schoettle is not alone. The American Federation of Teachers has launched webinars, distributed emergency kits, and created rights-training materials for educators navigating ICE enforcement. For Schoettle, the work continues: 'I want them to know that people want them released. People are fighting for them and will keep fighting for them. I don't want them to feel alone.'
Kristen Schoettle's phone rang at odd hours with a number she came to recognize instantly: 866, the area code for the detention facility in Dilley, Texas, where four of her students were being held. The calls came from 1,500 miles away—her English-language learners, arrested by Immigration and Customs Enforcement and transferred to a sprawling family detention center in South Texas. She had watched one of them led away in handcuffs during a school field trip in May. The others followed over the course of a year.
What began as a teacher's instinct to help her students evolved into something far larger. Schoettle, who teaches ESL at Western International High School in Detroit, became a de facto lawyer, therapist, and lifeline for teenagers locked behind razor wire. She spent her own money buying phone credits so they could call home. She tracked birth dates, searched for overseas contacts, learned the labyrinth of immigration court procedures. She messaged them through Microsoft Teams when they could access the school's video platform from inside the facility. She contacted lawyers, congresspeople, and immigration advocates, offering to sponsor one student's release herself if necessary.
The messages she received painted a stark picture of daily life in detention. "I'm afraid I won't be able to return, miss," one student wrote in December. "I'm sad. I don't want to be here." Another: "I'm a little sad today. I miss everyone. Is there anyone trying to help us? We want to get out of here, teacher." The students described meals served at fixed times—breakfast at 7 a.m., dinner at 5 p.m.—and conditions that deteriorated with each passing week. Food arrived contaminated with insects and mold. The water was undrinkable. The commissary prices were astronomical. People got sick constantly. When asked about these conditions, the facility declined to comment beyond a prepared statement asserting it worked to keep families "safe, healthy and well."
At one point, two of Schoettle's students encountered each other inside the detention center without knowing the other had been arrested. When they recognized each other, one was so shocked she couldn't speak. Schoettle found the moment haunting: the place where these two should have been seeing each other every day was a classroom, not a prison.
Back at Western International High School, which serves roughly 1,900 students—about one-fifth immigrants, another 70 percent children of immigrants—empty desks became a daily reminder of absence. The remaining students lived in fear. Schoettle estimates that 20 percent of her students missed classes this year out of terror they might be next. Some requested transfers to virtual school. Others asked teachers to assign work through Teams rather than come to campus. "My classroom used to be a place of joy, of learning English, of community," Schoettle said. "It's definitely become a place of fear."
She tried to teach them what she could about protecting themselves: which neighborhoods to avoid, how to drive safely, what rights they had if stopped. But the fear ran deeper than practical advice could reach. Last month, Schoettle led a student walkout in front of the school. "This is not normal," she told the gathered crowd. "This is our community being terrorized, and we're sick of it."
By March, three of her detained students were released and returned to Detroit. One, a 17-year-old Venezuelan asylum seeker, came back to school. But the student Schoettle had watched being led away in handcuffs in May was deported along with his family. "It's crazy to think that I was the last person in the United States who knew him, who saw him before he left," she said. The weight of that finality—of being the last American face her student would see—stayed with her.
Schoettle is not alone. Teachers across the country are expanding their roles far beyond curriculum and classroom management, according to Randi Weingarten, president of the American Federation of Teachers, the nation's largest teachers union. "Thousands of people are scared and outraged by what's happening and afraid for their students," Weingarten said. "Teachers care about their students and families, and they really don't have any particular view on immigration, regardless of whether they voted for Trump or not." The union has launched webinars to help educators respond, distributed emergency kits with whistles, and created materials explaining rights during ICE encounters. Schoettle and other educators in Detroit are working with the school board on safer transportation options and "know your rights" training sessions.
For Schoettle, the work continues. "It's about trying to get our kids out of ICE detention centers," she said. "It's about talking to parents, talking to lawyers, understanding the legal system. I want them to know that people want them released. People are fighting for them and will keep fighting for them. I don't want them to feel alone."
Citas Notables
My classroom used to be a place of joy, of learning English, of community. It's definitely become a place of fear.— Kristen Schoettle, ESL teacher
Teachers care about their students and families, and they really don't have any particular view on immigration, regardless of whether they voted for Trump or not.— Randi Weingarten, president of the American Federation of Teachers
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
When you first saw one of your students being led away in handcuffs, what went through your mind?
The shock of it, honestly. You're on a field trip with your class, and suddenly ICE agents are there. But after that first time, something shifted in me. I realized I had to learn the system fast—who to call, what steps to take—because these were my students and they were going to need someone on the outside.
You spent your own money on phone credits. Why was that non-negotiable for you?
Because they were isolated 1,500 miles away. A phone call might be the only connection they had to home, to someone who knew them as people, not just detainees. If I could give them that, I had to.
What did those calls and messages reveal about conditions inside?
The reality of it. Contaminated food. Mold in the water. People getting sick. But also their fear—not just about what might happen to them legally, but about whether anyone on the outside still cared, whether they'd been forgotten.
You mentioned one student was deported. How do you process that?
It's the hardest part. I was the last American who knew him, who saw him before he left the country. That stays with you. You can't unhear that.
Twenty percent of your remaining students stopped coming to school out of fear. How do you teach in that environment?
You can't, not really. Not in the way teaching is supposed to work. You're managing terror. You're trying to give them information about their rights, about safe routes, about what to do if they're stopped. But the fear is bigger than any lesson plan.
What do you want people to understand about what teachers are being asked to do right now?
That this isn't our job description, but it's become our responsibility. We're not immigration lawyers or therapists. But our students needed us to be, so we became those things. And we're not alone—teachers everywhere are doing this.