Union Panic Politics: How Rumors Empty California Classrooms

Paul Riverbank, 1/30/2026Fear-driven rumors of ICE raids empty California classrooms, straining budgets and eroding community trust.

In Los Angeles, Superintendent Alberto Carvalho hasn’t shied away from the emotional toll this fear takes. “Concerns over enforcement are real for families,” he admitted during a tense school board meeting, knotting his hands as he spoke. Sometimes, on the Monday morning after a rumor, it’s impossible to ignore the difference—rows in classrooms thinned out, certain familiar faces missing. It isn’t theoretical; schools in California are funded according to daily attendance. When students don’t show up, budgets wobble.

But is ICE really showing up on campuses? The question seems simple, but assurances from district leaders don’t always cut through the static. Kenney Enney, on the board at Paso Robles Unified, fields calls from anxious parents every week. “There’s really no reason for federal law enforcement to come to a school,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Frankly, I can't think of a scenario where that would happen.” Still, even after those reassurances, the phone rings again: “Is ICE parked by the playground?” The fear lingers, tangible as morning fog.

The Department of Homeland Security has tried to quell that unease. An official, Tricia McLaughlin, stated it plainly in recent testimony: “DHS does not go to schools to arrest children.” The agency sent letters to district leaders spelling out their policy, hoping to stem the tide of panic. On rare occasions, McLaughlin acknowledged, agents pursue a high-risk individual—but targeting students? It isn’t happening.

Yet, the facts sometimes lose out to suspicion, particularly when prominent groups amplify stories of danger. The California Teachers Association, for instance, has published strong warnings online: “ICE agents have raided schools, used tear gas on students, and created a climate of fear,” reads one message posted to educators’ forums. Board members in several districts push back hard. “ICE is not entering schools or conducting enforcement actions on campuses. Claims suggesting otherwise are misinformation,” said Sonja Shaw from Chino Valley Unified, clearly frustrated. The message from administrators is consistent: We want children here, in class, safe.

Some, however, suspect that the panic itself is being weaponized for political leverage. Andrew Hayes, a school board president in San Diego County, looks past the handwringing. “It’s about the 2026 midterm, really. That’s what it’s about—instilling fear so that declining attendance lets districts press Sacramento for more money,” he argues. To Hayes, the narrative is being driven by activism, not enforcement.

Meanwhile, actual school responses crowd in on the procedural: Oceanside Unified has stepped up campus security, put up new signage, and posted uniformed officers near entrances—not because agents have appeared, but because the perception of risk is hard to shake.

But fear here doesn’t confine itself to what happens on California soil. Take what happened in Minneapolis: a nurse named Alex Pretti shot to death during a standoff with federal law enforcement. That news, quickly national, rattled parents thousands of miles away. The trauma travels.

Over 133,000 undocumented students are estimated to be enrolled in California public schools. For their parents, even one unreliable story can be enough to keep a child home for a week or more. Absenteeism isn’t just a statistic—it’s a daily decision, an act of caution.

“People will seize language and stoke fear—it’s a pattern,” Jenn Wiersma, a Temecula Valley school board member, tells me. She points to what she sees as deliberately charged messaging from educator groups as much as anything ICE is, or isn’t, doing.

This is where politics, policy, and panic all collide. Districts react as best they can—revision of visitor policies, relaying messages out to families, sometimes just holding extra meetings to answer questions that have already been answered. While the impact on budgets is measurable, the greater damage may be the erosion of trust—the feeling in some communities that truth is slow and rumors race ahead.

Nobody is claiming ICE routinely posts up at school gates in California. Even so, each empty desk tells its own story: not just of lost funding, but of uncertainty and fear that linger, outlasting policy clarifications. Until trust returns, the absence in the classroom will keep speaking for itself, one story at a time.

California’s public schools have become haunted territory for many families, not because of what’s happening on campuses, but because of rumors swirling just outside their gates. It begins, almost inevitably, with a stray whisper: someone mentions immigration agents, others repeat it, and within hours the mood shifts in hallways and parking lots. Anxiety spreads quickly—and it doesn’t just dissipate when officials issue clarifying statements.In Los Angeles, Superintendent Alberto Carvalho hasn’t shied away from the emotional toll this fear takes. “Concerns over enforcement are real for families,” he admitted during a tense school board meeting, knotting his hands as he spoke. Sometimes, on the Monday morning after a rumor, it’s impossible to ignore the difference—rows in classrooms thinned out, certain familiar faces missing. It isn’t theoretical; schools in California are funded according to daily attendance. When students don’t show up, budgets wobble.But is ICE really showing up on campuses? The question seems simple, but assurances from district leaders don’t always cut through the static. Kenney Enney, on the board at Paso Robles Unified, fields calls from anxious parents every week. “There’s really no reason for federal law enforcement to come to a school,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Frankly, I can't think of a scenario where that would happen.” Still, even after those reassurances, the phone rings again: “Is ICE parked by the playground?” The fear lingers, tangible as morning fog.The Department of Homeland Security has tried to quell that unease. An official, Tricia McLaughlin, stated it plainly in recent testimony: “DHS does not go to schools to arrest children.” The agency sent letters to district leaders spelling out their policy, hoping to stem the tide of panic. On rare occasions, McLaughlin acknowledged, agents pursue a high-risk individual—but targeting students? It isn’t happening.Yet, the facts sometimes lose out to suspicion, particularly when prominent groups amplify stories of danger. The California Teachers Association, for instance, has published strong warnings online: “ICE agents have raided schools, used tear gas on students, and created a climate of fear,” reads one message posted to educators’ forums. Board members in several districts push back hard. “ICE is not entering schools or conducting enforcement actions on campuses. Claims suggesting otherwise are misinformation,” said Sonja Shaw from Chino Valley Unified, clearly frustrated. The message from administrators is consistent: We want children here, in class, safe.Some, however, suspect that the panic itself is being weaponized for political leverage. Andrew Hayes, a school board president in San Diego County, looks past the handwringing. “It’s about the 2026 midterm, really. That’s what it’s about—instilling fear so that declining attendance lets districts press Sacramento for more money,” he argues. To Hayes, the narrative is being driven by activism, not enforcement.Meanwhile, actual school responses crowd in on the procedural: Oceanside Unified has stepped up campus security, put up new signage, and posted uniformed officers near entrances—not because agents have appeared, but because the perception of risk is hard to shake.But fear here doesn’t confine itself to what happens on California soil. Take what happened in Minneapolis: a nurse named Alex Pretti shot to death during a standoff with federal law enforcement. That news, quickly national, rattled parents thousands of miles away. The trauma travels.Over 133,000 undocumented students are estimated to be enrolled in California public schools. For their parents, even one unreliable story can be enough to keep a child home for a week or more. Absenteeism isn’t just a statistic—it’s a daily decision, an act of caution.“People will seize language and stoke fear—it’s a pattern,” Jenn Wiersma, a Temecula Valley school board member, tells me. She points to what she sees as deliberately charged messaging from educator groups as much as anything ICE is, or isn’t, doing.This is where politics, policy, and panic all collide. Districts react as best they can—revision of visitor policies, relaying messages out to families, sometimes just holding extra meetings to answer questions that have already been answered. While the impact on budgets is measurable, the greater damage may be the erosion of trust—the feeling in some communities that truth is slow and rumors race ahead.Nobody is claiming ICE routinely posts up at school gates in California. Even so, each empty desk tells its own story: not just of lost funding, but of uncertainty and fear that linger, outlasting policy clarifications. Until trust returns, the absence in the classroom will keep speaking for itself, one story at a time.