Michael came to San Francisco from Nicaragua five years ago, when he was 21. Working as a day laborer was never easy, he said, but it used to be a reliable way to make money.
“We work from the morning to the night, without eating, in the cold or in the sun,” Michael said in Spanish. “We’ve suffered a lot of racism because we’re immigrants — as much from brown people as from white people.”
Michael, who withheld his last name for fear of immigration enforcement, added that there have been times he performed a job and the employer refused to pay him, knowing he wouldn’t go to police. Now he can barely earn a living, he said. There used to be between 20 and 30 laborers at the SoMa U-Haul location where he waits for work every day, but on Friday afternoon, there were only three.
“We’re a little afraid of the situation that has unfolded over the last few months,” he said, referring to the crackdown by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. “But we need to work.”
Michael is one of the few day laborers still hitting the streets in search of work, even while ICE raids jornalero hot spots across the state and arrests people at San Francisco Immigration Court. Michael speculated that fear of la migra (slang for immigration officers) has caused some laborers to retreat to their homes, find other jobs, or leave the city entirely. There’s less work for undocumented laborers now, he and others agreed, but they have to pay the rent somehow. Nearly all laborers who talked to The Standard asked to withhold their last names.
Danilo, a day laborer from Guatemala who has been in San Francisco for three years, said employers are just as scared as workers. Even though employers rarely face legal consequences for hiring undocumented employees, the bosses — especially at established companies — seem spooked, Danilo said.
“All the companies are seeking people with work permits, so we just get little construction jobs,” Danilo, 39, said in Spanish. He was sitting in an office chair outside another U-Haul location, this one on Bayshore Drive in the Bayview, alongside a handful of other laborers. One played with a small dog while Danilo spoke.
“Everything has gone down,” Danilo said. “Some days there’s work; some days there isn’t.”
Danilo said he used to work four or five times a week, but now it’s twice. Michael has worked three times in the last month, he said. Neither has seen ICE agents in San Francisco, but they’ve heard plenty of talk.
“Most people here are seeking political asylum and are in the process,” Danilo said, “but now [ICE] doesn’t respect anything.”
Residential streets in the southern Mission were quiet Friday afternoon. Laborers in pairs and small groups dotted the sidewalks, resting on retaining walls and leaning against corner stores. They wore flannels, boots, and ball caps, some with American flag logos.
Standing under an oak tree, Evodio Fernandez Chavez cracked a Budweiser. He and three friends, all in their 40s and 50s, were chatting in front of a garden wall. Bright roses bloomed in the yard beyond. Sunlight filtered through the oak branches onto the men — who were also short on work.
“They don’t want to pick us up,” Chavez said of prospective employers. For the last few months, he’s had trouble coming up with $600 for rent each month. One of his friends, who did not provide a name, said it started with the pandemic, but Chavez said the shortage intensified when Donald Trump returned to office.
Chavez can no longer send as much money to his adult children in Mexico. He said he sees fewer laborers on the streets, but he isn’t worried about being detained.
“If they send you to your country, no problem,” he said, adding that if he got deported, he’d hang out with his family.
Others are less blasé. Geronimo, 48, has been in San Francisco for 28 years.
“Right now, it’s very difficult,” he said. “People don’t want to hire us.”
He said he lives with his girlfriend, who cleans houses, and work is slow for both of them. They get rental assistance from the social services organization La Voz Latina, he said, and food from La Raza Community Resource Center’s pantry. Geronimo, too, used to send money to his family in Mexico but hasn’t been able to since 2020.
“Right now, I don’t have anything,” he said.
Down the street, on the edge of a public park, Manuel nursed a tall can in a paper bag. He’s 62 and has been working all his life — gardening, yard work, construction, demolition. Now, he says, there’s no work, but he waits outside on the off chance somebody will roll up and hire him.
“I’m here,” he said. “Looking at my phone, watching videos, drinking beer.”