Teaching “Mexican Repatriation”:

I first learned about “Mexican repatriation” during the Great Depression while studying for my master’s degree. It had never been mentioned in any history class I had taken before. This erasure supports the dominant narrative of the United States as a land of opportunity, while sidelining the realities of racialized labor exploitation and state violence. 

Between 1930 and 1933, up to 2 million Mexicans and Mexican Americans were forcibly taken from their homes and sent to Mexico. An estimated 60 percent of those expelled were U.S. citizens. The U.S. government justified these mass raids and expulsions by blaming Mexicans for widespread unemployment, claiming that they were taking jobs from American workers. This rhetoric is not new — it has been a mechanism of control wielded throughout U.S. history to scapegoat immigrants, justify exclusionary policies, and uphold white supremacy. The same logic that fueled mass deportations in the 1930s persists today, shaping contemporary immigration debates and reinforcing systemic inequality.

Disrupting the Myth of Universal Suffering During the Great Depression

Mainstream historical narratives often frame the Great Depression as a universal crisis, emphasizing the impact of the stock market crash of 1929 on U.S. unemployment. The Great Depression, a trade book for elementary and middle school students, includes this typical passage: “By 1932, one out of every four workers in the United States was unemployed. . . . They were good, hardworking men who wanted to earn an honest living. But there were no jobs for them.” These descriptions, often paired with images of white men lined up outside of soup kitchens, obscure the racialized dimensions of the Great Depression. The statistic that one out of every four men were unemployed is true only for white men. Black men experienced unemployment at twice that rate, reaching as high as 60 percent in cities like Philadelphia and Detroit, and soup kitchens often refused service to Black folks. Mexican and Mexican American communities faced not only higher rates of unemployment than white communities, but also lived under the fear of deportation — regardless of their status of citizenship. 

The omission of these stories reinforces a version of history that centers white, working-class suffering while ignoring racial and class divisions and erasing state-sanctioned violence inflicted upon communities of color. So-called Mexican repatriation reveals how economic recovery efforts were explicitly designed to reinforce white supremacy and economic exclusion. As white workers lost jobs, public and private institutions targeted Mexican and Mexican American communities as scapegoats, claiming they were taking jobs from “real” Americans. Mass deportations — many illegal — ensued, with little regard for citizenship status or legal protections.

Disrupting these misconceptions is essential, not just to fill in historical gaps, but to challenge how history is used to justify present-day policies. The term “repatriation,” defined by the Oxford English Dictionary as “the return of someone to their own country,” is misleading, as it implies a willing home-going, a voluntary process. Yet the reality of Mexican repatriation in the 1930s was not a willing choice made by Mexican and Mexican American families. Many were forcibly removed through raids, coercion, and threats, paralleling contemporary anti-immigrant policies.

Engaging Students in Critical Inquiry

My 5th-grade classroom was a vibrant mix of students from different racial and economic backgrounds, each bringing their own perspectives and lived experiences into our discussions. Drawing on their lives, I grounded my teaching in an inquiry-based approach to history, creating opportunities for students to question, analyze, and act. I took a chronological approach to teaching history, but in reverse order — teaching backwards. By starting with current events, and then working backwards through the timeline, we started the year by learning about the events most relevant and familiar to students. I found that by taking this approach, students asked important questions like “how did we get here?” And they made important connections across time, connecting the threads of history and current day. 

Because of this approach, our unit on the Great Depression began after we had studied the World War II era, which focused on the impact of the war on different groups of people in the United States. We had learned about Japanese incarceration camps, women at work, and the Bracero Program. The Bracero Program was an initiative by the U.S. government that brought Mexican laborers to work in the United States, primarily in agriculture — often under exploitative conditions. This unit was fresh on students’ minds as we began our unit on the Great Depression.

I framed our unit on the Great Depression around an essential question: How do communities and governments respond to economic crises? Follow-up questions encouraged students to explore the intersection of economics, immigration, and justice: How are economic, labor, and immigration policies related? How do people work together to resist unjust policies?

For this unit, I structured the space to facilitate exploration and dialogue. Student work covered the walls, alongside our timeline of major Great Depression events. We had spent a week learning about the stock market crash, unemployment, and the social activism of photographer Dorothea Lange. 

I arranged desks in clusters to encourage collaboration, and at the front of the room, I wrote “Who’s missing?” on the whiteboard — an invitation for students to interrogate whose experiences had not yet been included in our study of the 1930s. I stood at the front of the room, ready to jot down student contributions.

With the question posed, students brainstormed, listing people affected by the economic crisis — white farmers, unemployed factory workers, the families photographed by Lange. Then Elena said, “Brown people. We haven’t talked about Brown people at all,” and Riley added, “What about Mexicans?”

I nodded and wrote “Brown people” and “Mexicans” on the board. “That’s a really important observation. Why do you think we haven’t talked about them yet?”

Elena furrowed her brow. “Because they weren’t affected by the Great Depression?”

I shook my head. “Good guess, but is that true? Do you think only some groups were affected, or might their experiences just not be included in the stories we hear most often?”

Makayla’s eyes lit up. “Maybe people left them out on purpose.”

“Oh, you mean that they might not be part of the dominant narrative in our textbooks?” I responded. “The dominant narrative isn’t just about what’s included — it’s also about what’s erased, and who gets to tell the story. Whoever writes the story has a lot of power, and they get to make important decisions about how that story is told.”

Elena said, “Like Japanese incarceration in World War II! That wasn’t in our textbooks either.” She paused, then added, “It’s like they didn’t want us to know the bad stuff America did.”

As the rest of the class murmured in agreement, I nodded, affirming her connection to our previous unit. “I think you’re right. Sometimes our history textbooks focus on stories that make the United States look good, and stories that make the United States look bad, like Japanese incarceration, are left out. Especially in elementary school textbooks, sometimes they don’t think you guys can handle the truth.” 

As students expressed their disapproval of the idea that they wouldn’t be able to “handle the truth,” I put up a slide with the word “repatriate” in bold.

I asked the class, “Has anyone heard this word before? What do you think this means? Look at the building blocks of this word — I see the prefix “re,” and I see “patriate.” Talk to a partner and see if you can come up with a prediction.”

Integrating English language arts and social studies was central to my teaching. Approaching our content words in social studies as “word detectives” allowed students to strengthen their literacy skills while engaging with historical concepts. 

The room buzzed as students conferred in pairs for a few minutes, and then I gathered them back together for a whole-group discussion. I called on Sofia, who hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Re- means again?” she offered.

“Yes, good!” I affirmed, underlining “re” and writing “again” underneath it. What about the next part?

Miguel jumped in. “Patria . . . it sounds like patriot?” 

I nodded. “Good thinking! ‘Patriot’ comes from the same root. What do you think it means to be a patriot?”

Makayla raised her hand. “I think it means, like, loving your country?”

I nodded. “Yes, patri has to do with someone’s country or a homeland.” I wrote “homeland” under “patri.” “So, based on that, what do you think this word might be describing?”

Working through predictions as a class, we arrived at the definition “return to someone’s home country.” 

After we worked through the meaning of the word, I turned back to the class. “So now that we understand what repatriation is supposed to mean, what do you think it has to do with Mexicans, Mexican Americans, and the Great Depression?”

“Some Mexicans went back to Mexico?” Miguel offered. 

“Yes, you are on the right track,” I affirmed. “What’s really upsetting though, is that ‘repatriation’ makes it sound like someone voluntarily returned to their home country. What happened in the United States during the Great Depression was not voluntary. Between 1930 and 1933, up to 2 million people of Mexican descent were forced out of the country. Most of the time, there wasn’t even any kind of process that government officials followed — local governments just arrested people and loaded them onto trucks or trains. Some people were pressured into signing papers that said they were leaving by their own choice. And the government didn’t care if they had done anything wrong, or how long they had been here, or even if they were U.S. citizens — they said, ‘We don’t have enough jobs here for “real” Americans, so you need to go back to Mexico.’”

A hush settled over the room. “Wait . . . they were citizens?” Miguel asked, his voice quieter than usual. “How did they let that happen?” Aisha pressed her lips together as she processed the weight of it. “That’s not fair,” another student murmured. The weight of the moment hung between us, and I gave them space to sit with it before speaking again. 

I nodded. I set down my marker and turned back to the class. “Today, we’re going to explore this history together. We’ve been asking whose stories get left out of the dominant narrative, and today we’ll look closely at one of those missing stories. We’re going to dig into the history of Mexican repatriation — what it was, why it happened, and who it impacted. We’ll use different sources — photographs and newspaper articles — to piece together a story that isn’t often told in textbooks.” I looked around the room. “As you work through these sources, I want you to think about what this history reveals about who belongs, who gets pushed out, and how those stories get told. Let’s get started.” 

“Wait . . . they were citizens?” Miguel asked, his voice quieter than usual. “How did they let that happen?” Aisha pressed her lips together as she processed the weight of it. “That’s not fair,” another student murmured. 

Analyzing Primary Source Accounts

Students were familiar with our structured routine for analyzing primary sources. We always began with observations — What do you see? Who or what is in the image, document, or article? Then, we moved to inferences, encouraging students to combine what they noticed with their prior knowledge — what do these details tell us? Finally, we asked bigger-picture questions: Whose perspective is represented in this source? What does it reveal about power, injustice, or resistance? 

Drawing inspiration, guidance, and resources from Ursula Wolfe-Rocca’s Zinn Education Project article “Downplaying Deportations: How Textbooks Hide the Mass Expulsion of Mexican Americans During the Great Depression,” I created five primary source stations, each designed to help students analyze different aspects of Mexican repatriation through the firsthand accounts and historical documents curated by Wolfe-Rocca. I divided students into four groups, and for the next 40 minutes, students worked with their groups to rotate through, spending roughly 10 minutes at each station.

Students used a structured graphic organizer to guide their analysis. For each source, they recorded its title and type — whether it was a newspaper article, letter, or photograph. They then described what they saw, noting key details such as the people involved, when and where the source was created, and its purpose. Finally, they reflected on what the document revealed about Mexican repatriation, encouraging them to synthesize information across multiple perspectives. This scaffolded approach helped students develop their historical thinking skills while making sense of a complex and often overlooked chapter of U.S. history.

The classroom transformed into a historical archive — each table holding a different kind of document: personal testimonies, newspaper clippings, government memos. Students moved station to station, jotting down questions, underlining key phrases, and whispering to one another. As they worked, I walked through the room, stopping at each group to listen in on their discussions. I pointed out details they might have missed, helped students struggling to read a difficult passage, and asked guiding questions to push their thinking further. Occasionally, I had to redirect a student who had lost focus or gently remind a group to stay on task. They were 5th graders, full of energy and both on-and-off task contributions to make, but the energy was real — students were engaged in uncovering a piece of history they had never been taught before.

At Station One, students found a Dorothea Lange photograph depicting families labeled as “voluntary evacuees.” Clipboards, paper, and pencils in hand, students worked in their small groups to make observations and analyze the source. Students recorded details like the worn-out clothing, the belongings stacked beside families, and the expressions on people’s faces. “They look like they’re waiting for something,” one student observed. “Their bags are packed, but they don’t look happy about leaving,” another noticed.

At Station Two, students analyzed a newspaper article about the La Placita Raid, a mass immigration raid that took place in Los Angeles on Feb. 26, 1931. The article described how immigration agents suddenly sealed off La Placita Park, a gathering place for the city’s Mexican American community. Agents rounded up hundreds of people, demanding proof of citizenship. Many were arrested and deported, while others ran away. “Wait, people were just sitting in the park, and they got taken?” another student asked. “That’s scary.” They discussed how this raid wasn’t just about the people who were arrested — it sent a message to the whole community that they weren’t safe. 

At Station Three, students analyzed a newspaper article from Boulder, Colorado, reporting on the deportation of sugar beet workers and their families. They reflected on how media coverage framed these expulsions, using language like “deportation to their native land,” when in reality, some of these U.S. citizens had never been to Mexico before, and they discussed how this article revealed that “families including numerous children were being loaded onto trains, many of them not understanding what it was all about.”

At Station Four, students studied a photograph of a woman protesting deportations with a sign reading “STOP ILLEGAL RAIDS BY IMMIGRATION DEPT.” They discussed how people fought back, noticing details in the photograph like the woman’s determined expression and the bold lettering on her sign. “She looks serious,” one student noted, “she’s not scared.” Another added, “She’s telling them to stop, like she’s standing up for her family.” We talked about how protesting was one way people resisted unfair treatment and made their voices heard.

At Station Five, students engaged with a powerful quote from a mother photographed by Dorothea Lange: “Sometimes I tell my children that I would like to go to Mexico, but they tell me, ‘We don’t want to go, we belong here.’’’ Joining a group of students working through this station, I asked what they noticed about the photograph, and what stood out to them about the mother’s words. Two students with family in Mexico shared their connections. “Sometimes I feel like that,” Isabella said. “My mom wants to go home to Mexico sometimes, but we live here. My friends are here.” 

“Me too,” Joshua said. “It’s fun to visit my cousins, but I would be so mad if we had to move to Mexico.” 

“Those are great connections,” I affirmed. “Even though your family identifies as Mexican or Mexican American, it sounds like you feel like you belong here. Home to you means more than where your parents or grandparents were born. How do you think the ideas of identity and belonging are similar or different?” 

“Well, I am Mexican and American,” Isabella said. “I kind of belong both places, but mostly here.” 

“I don’t even speak Spanish,” Joshua said. “My mom is Mexican, but I belong here.”

“Hmm, so it sounds like we can’t make assumptions about someone’s home based on their ethnic identity. Can you make a connection between those ideas and Mexican repatriation?” I encouraged students to continue talking through these ideas, and to record their notes on their graphic organizers as I rotated to check in with another group. 

Connecting Patterns of Discriminatory Policies and Labor Exploitation

The next day, I started by asking students to reflect on the primary sources from the day before. “What stood out to you the most?” I asked, giving them time to revisit their notes and talk with a partner before sharing with the whole class. Hands shot up. “The people in the pictures didn’t look like they wanted to leave,” one student said. “The newspaper from the beet farm made it sound like they were just being sent home, but that wasn’t true,” another pointed out.

I then displayed a slide that showed the dictionary definition of “repatriate,” and the following three questions:

1. Based on what we have learned, do you think this time period should be referred to as repatriation?
2. Why do you think the U.S. government called it repatriation?
3. What should we call it instead?

“They weren’t reunited! They were deported!” Miguel exclaimed. “Yeah, deported or kidnapped!” Isabella added. The class murmured in agreement — repatriation was not the right word.

“Well, if that’s the case,” I asked, “why would the government, or dominant narratives in textbooks, call it repatriation?”

“Probably because it makes it sound like, ‘Oh, it’s not that big of a deal, people wanted to go home,’” Makayla said. “They’re not going to call it kidnapping because that sounds so bad.”

“Sometimes the truth doesn’t sound very nice, does it?” I asked. “I agree with you — I think that calling this ‘repatriation’ sugarcoats these events. If you were in charge of rewriting the textbook, what would you call it? Turn and talk to a partner.”

Students worked in pairs and small groups to brainstorm alternatives, landing on words like deportation, kidnapping, expulsion, and forced removal. 

I then showed students a political cartoon made by an artist in 2003. The cartoon showed Uncle Sam pointing toward Mexico, telling a group of Mexican Americans, “You look like Mexicans.” One student read aloud the words from a child in the cartoon: “But we were born here . . . we’re Americans.” I guided the class through an analysis: “What do you notice? Why do you think the artist drew Uncle Sam so big and scowling, while the families are small? What is the artist telling us about power?” 

After discussing the cartoon, students each responded to two questions in their interactive notebooks: What was Mexican repatriation? Why was Mexican repatriation unjust? Then, they each chose between two final reflection activities. Some wrote letters to a Texas lawmaker, arguing that the history of Mexican repatriation should be included in textbooks and explaining why leaving this history out gives an incomplete picture of the Great Depression. Others redrew the cartoon to illustrate how the U.S. government’s policies toward Mexican labor evolved in the following decades, particularly during the Bracero Program. 

In our previous unit, we had explored how the U.S. government recruited Mexican laborers during the war through the Bracero Program, promising fair wages and working conditions. They had also looked at how these employers routinely broke these promises, with workers facing exploitation, discrimination, and unsafe living conditions. Now, learning about Mexican repatriation during the Great Depression, students recognized the pattern — Mexican laborers were welcomed only when their work was needed, but discarded when economic conditions changed. This long history of labor exploitation helped students make connections not just across historical periods, but to present-day immigration policies as well. 

My student Carter’s political cartoons illustrated this relationship. He drew two different cartoons, one illustrating the start of the Bracero Program in the 1940s, in which he captioned Uncle Sam saying, “Come on! We need you! You’ll get money,” and he captioned four people on the Mexican side of the border saying, “Remember when they kicked us out?” in reference to Mexican repatriation the decade prior.

His second cartoon depicted the end of the Bracero Program 22 years later, with Uncle Sam once again kicking four stick figures out of the United States. Carter captioned the laborers saying, “Not again!”

Carter’s cartoon illustrated the history of the United States’ exploitation of Mexican labor and disregard for the humanity of Mexican people. He drew a link between the mass expulsions of the 1930s and the cycle of labor exploitation that continued decades later. Carter’s work, along with many of his classmates’, showed an understanding of how the U.S. economy has long relied on Mexican labor while denying those workers rights and stability. U.S. government and business leaders have historically welcomed Mexican workers when their labor was needed, only to force them out when economic conditions shifted. This cycle of exploitation and expulsion reflects a deep power imbalance between the United States and Mexico — one that continues to shape immigration policy and labor practices today.

The Importance of Teaching Mexican Repatriation

Including Mexican repatriation in our teaching is not just about correcting omissions — it is about empowering students to challenge dominant narratives and see themselves as historical actors with the power to challenge injustice, disrupt exclusionary narratives, and advocate for more just policies. By exposing patterns of white supremacy and labor exploitation, students gain the analytical skills needed to confront injustice in their own time.

When I first led this unit in 2020, my students quickly recognized the parallels between past and present. Now, those connections feel even more urgent. Understanding this history equips students to recognize the ways in which racialized labor exploitation and xenophobia are not just remnants of the past, but ongoing realities shaping immigration policy today.

Teaching Mexican repatriation isn’t just about the past; it’s about equipping students with the tools to understand the world they live in now. But that work must be done with care. Teachers need to know their students, recognize the weight of these discussions, and ensure their classrooms are spaces where students feel seen, heard, and safe.