Copyright The Boston Globe
In this tech-savvy age, when many get their questions answered online by swiping a phone or clicking a mouse, the consulate sessions are a throwback to another era, when problems were addressed face to face. People grumble about difficulties nabbing an appointment for a Mexican passport or dual citizenship, or complain about the security guards who screen visitors at the consulate entrance. There are desperate pleas from people facing removal from the country, and there are other, odder inquiries. A man at one meeting claimed he could prove that the homeland of the Aztecs was in the United States and that he just needed the consulate’s help getting his research in front of Mexican President Claudia Sheinbaum. The meetings unfold in what feels like a colorful DMV lobby. González Gutiérrez and his deputy, Gustavo Martínez Cianca, sit at a table draped in green cloth in the consulate’s lobby, with a Mexican flag and the seal of Mexico behind them. The attendees fill a few rows of metal chairs in front of the table, as Mexican historical figures look on from a mural on a wall. The chatter from people waiting in line at the surrounding service windows makes it hard to hear those speaking. The meetings began in the spring to fulfill a mandate from Sheinbaum requiring the country’s consulates in the United States to do more to engage with constituents. The focus of the sessions shifted after the federal raids started June 6. Yet González Gutiérrez said that as foreign guests of the American government, there is a limit to how much he and his office can do for the Angelenos who show up Monday mornings. The consulate often helps people get legal advice or provides financial assistance. A network of immigration lawyers that works with the consulate offers free consultations, and in some cases, the office helps pay for legal fees. But González Gutiérrez stops short of speaking out against the Trump administration’s hard line on immigration at the meetings, even though Mexican nationals living in Los Angeles said they wished he would. “We are not activists,” González Gutiérrez said. “We don’t go to demonstrations. I don’t opine about the president of this country or the politics of this country.” González Gutiérrez typically begins each meeting with a number. Last week, it was 1,041. That’s how many Mexican nationals have been in immigration detention in Los Angeles since June 6 and have been interviewed by consulate officials. Then, he usually goes down the list of stats. Almost 90 percent of those detainees have been men. Nearly half of the 1,041 had been living in the United States for more than a decade. And nearly half of them had already been deported. Three percent have been released from custody on bail. After running through the numbers and the news, González Gutiérrez and his deputy listen as a microphone is passed around among those seated in front of them. There are a few meeting regulars. One of them, Maggie Gonzalez, livestreams the meetings to her followers on TikTok to spread the word about the resources being offered by the consulate. She and others have pushed for the consulate to do more to publicize the meetings to increase the turnout. At a recent meeting, Gonzalez brought Lizeth Bazan, who sat in the front row, directly across from González Gutiérrez. Bazan fiddled with her hands, her bright pink jacket making her stand out. Then, it was time for him to hear from the public. About a dozen or so people filled the chairs. Bazan, who came to the United States 25 years ago from Mexico City, rose to speak. Her voice trembled. “I took the liberty of coming to see if there’s any sort of help for my case,” Bazan told the consul in Spanish. “At this point, I don’t know if I’m really going to be able to stay in this country or not.” She said she was arrested July 7 by immigration agents while at a grocery store in the city of Downey in Los Angeles County. Eventually, she was taken to a detention facility two hours away, where she was held for a month. She said she was able to get out on bail. González Gutiérrez, who wore a pin with the flags of California and Mexico on his lapel, listened and jotted down notes. Bazan told him that her legal fees had piled up to $15,000 and she had lost the ability to work. Her every move was now tracked by an ankle monitor, which she lifted up the leg of her jeans to reveal. And she was worried about providing for her 19-year-old autistic son. She said she needed to produce a Mexican identification document at her next immigration hearing and had experienced difficulty obtaining an appointment to have one issued. The identification issue could be dealt with swiftly, González Gutiérrez told her. Given the facts of her case, including that she had lost work, she could be eligible to receive financial assistance. He told her they would talk to her one-on-one to see what could be done. “We will help with what we can,” González Gutiérrez said. Bazan’s eyes were still watery. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
