When something is cruelly racist, the average American wants to pin it on the prejudiced feelings of individual actors. Here, a few “bad apples” are responsible for the gut-wrenching fate of Kevin González – an American teen who recently died from cancer after briefly reuniting with his deported parents in México. But the real force behind this cruelty against Mr. González and other Latinos is driven by something more sinister and less recognizable than a bad batch of fruit. The literal violence raining down on Latinos is being caused by an unstable racial hierarchy – a long-standing system rooted in using Black people as a yardstick for how Americans judge the worth of other people of color, including Latinos.

This hierarchy has no feelings. It simply follows an internal logic aimed at preserving White Americans’ political clout, economic power, and distinctiveness from people of color. This system considers Whites the most superior and American group, reflected in their collective advantages in politics and society (figure 1). Moreover, although this system casts Asian people as foreigners, it also treats them as superior to Latinos and Blacks, justified by stereotyping all Asians as well-to-do and less impertinent than other racial “minorities.” And Latinos? Well, they are not confused for being White, but many of them are deemed too much like Black people –which matters for how the hierarchy handles Latinos like Kevin González. The average Latino in the U.S. is Mexican, native-born with immigrant parents, bilingual, votes Democratic, and wants economic mobility without forfeiting their culture. This combo of cultural difference and left-of-center politics is what the racial order finds most threatening now.
The racial hierarchy’s cruelty against Kevin González and other Latinos is steeped in anti-Blackness. Indeed, it is a testament to this mainstay that all previous immigrant groups—Irish, Italians, Jews, Irish, and others—gradually assimilated and climbed in socio-economic status, to the point that the system now deems them fully White. But Black people, who have been here longer than all these groups and have worked just as hard if not harder, have yet to be fully integrated into the American family. In racial terms, they remain the hierarchy’s personae non gratae.
Like previous immigrant waves, Latinos are now confronting this decision: to assimilate and become White or remain culturally and politically distinct, like Black Americans. The hierarchy offers this choice to Latinos as alleged foreigners, even though two-thirds of them are born here in the U.S. Indeed, it is no coincidence that President Trump’s anti-Latino politics took shape immediately after the presidency of a Black president who drew extensively on Latino support. Remember, the logic of America’s racial hierarchy is that proximity to Blackness is Blackness, so the system clamps down. It is time for Latinos to recognize this dynamic, to value it as a positive development, and to use this instability in the system to begin dismantling it.
Hold on! But didn’t non-trivial shares of Latinos vote for President Trump and many are now actively helping him deport their co-ethnics? Please resist this lazy logic. All systems of racial oppression, including our own, thrive on the consensus of some of the oppressed. Latinos for Trump. Latino ICE agents. Latino apologists for the cruelty against their co-ethnics. These are all individuals who acutely sense their proximity to Blackness and who find it too close for comfort. They recognize the high price of being Black in America, do not want to be confused with them, and so publicly and fervently signal their differentiation from Black people by lumping “bad” Latinos with them – including those like Kevin González and his undocumented parents.
Despite these dastardly moves, it is essential to recognize that the center of gravity among the larger Latino population is still left-of-center, especially on racial matters. Getting this diagnosis right is imperative if we want effective, durable solutions to this cruelty. One solution: stop focusing on changing negative feelings toward Latinos. Racial prejudice is deep-seated and resistant to change. Focus instead on converting people’s indifference into active opposition to this racial system. Indifference is what lets the hierarchy operate unfettered. Second, speak up about the system’s cruelty against Latinos, Blacks, and other people of color. Focusing your peers’ attention on this structural dynamic nudges them to see that even without personal prejudices, a system organized around race is still racist if it privileges – intentionally or not—one group over others. Third, plan to vote. Having a plan to participate makes political action more likely. True, your own individual vote is not going to determine an election. But sitting out a context has major repercussions. Our politics offer only two major choices (Democrats versus Republicans) and is most responsive to large numbers of voters with similar preferences. The majority of Latinos are still Democrats and opposed to cruelty now targeting their group and others. Do not waste this majority by thinking others will carry the load for you – that, too, is how America’s racial hierarchy thrives.
How Anti-Black Racism is Fueling the Widespread Cruelty Against Kevin González and Other Latinos was first published by California Latino News and was republished with permission.Dr. Efrén Pérez is professor of political science and psychology at UCLA, where he directs the Race, Ethnicity, Politics, & Society (REPS) Lab. He is the author of several award-winning books, including Diversity’s Child: People of Color and the Politics of Identity. His data-based research can be accessed at https://eoperez.com




















Demonstrators rally outside the U.S. Supreme Court as justices hear oral arguments on whether President Donald Trump can deny citizenship to children born to parents who are in the United States illegally or temporarily, on Capitol Hill, in Washington, Wednesday, April 1, 2026. (AP Photo/Mariam Zuhaib)
Luz Angela Nuñez with her daughter Aisha Quershi Nuñez at their home in College Point, Queens. Photo: Mia Anzalone for Documented.
Kimberly Alvarez, 25, with her daughter Evangeline and her husband John Alvarez in Medellin, Colombia. Photo courtesy of Kimberly Alvarez.Alvarez arrived in New York City in February 2024 with her husband John Alvarez as asylum seekers from Venezuela. In April 2025, Alvarez found out she was pregnant with her first child, a baby girl. Her first reaction, she said, was fear.“How am I going to keep her alive?” she said. “That’s what I was thinking. ‘How am I going to be able to take care of her?’”At the beginning of Alvarez’s pregnancy, she said she was aware of the immigration enforcement occurring around the country, but vowed not to let it deter her from showing up to her doctor’s appointments.“When you went out, you were always on alert because you didn’t know if [ICE] might be around. I never saw anything suspicious,” Alvarez said. “But of course, you feel scared.”In October, when Alvarez was six months pregnant, her husband was detained by ICE agents at 26 Federal Plaza. When the immediate shock wore off, she obsessively checked the Online Detainee Locator System to find out where her husband went. A day later, she discovered that he was being kept at Delaney Hall detention center in New Jersey. Alvarez quickly set up an account to pay for phone calls, and every two days, she would pay about $10 for a one-hour call, updating her husband about the baby, her appointments and how she was doing.“Crying was the only way for me to release the tension,” said Alvarez, who worried that her lack of sleep and bad diet were impacting her baby. “Crying was the only way for me to release the tension.”—Kimberly AlvarezThat tension built up day by day, week by week following her husband’s arrest. Alvarez had stopped her work as a cleaner in the neighborhood’s synagogues two weeks before her husband’s detention because of her pregnancy. The plan, she said, was to rely solely on his income as a maintenance worker for “the food, the rent, everything.” Left with few choices, Kimberley had to rely on her mother’s income as a cleaner. The older woman had moved to New York from North Carolina to assist with Alvarez’s pregnancy. “I feel like I’m supposed to help my mom, not the other way around,” Alvarez said. “I felt powerless because I couldn’t do anything.”On Dec. 9, Alvarez gave birth to a daughter, Evangeline. While her baby was healthy, Alvarez’s anxieties did not go away. While she returned to cleaning synagogues a few months after Evangeline’s birth to help make ends meet, Alvarez and her daughter rarely left home. Alvarez said she felt paralyzed, getting frequent alerts from a neighborhood WhatsApp group when ICE was spotted nearby. One day, she said, ICE arrested her friend’s husband in Sunset Park, in an area where she would sometimes take Evangeline for walks.“I’m so afraid that I’ll go out and run into one of them and that they’ll take her away from me,” Alvarez said. “That’s my biggest fear, that someone will take her away from me and I won’t know where my daughter is.”In March, her husband decided to voluntarily remove himself from the United States and move back to Colombia, where he is originally from. It was a family decision, but it was not a happy one — hiring immigration lawyers was too expensive, Alvarez said, adding that staying in the U.S. felt too uncertain. 