LaMonica McIver
June 19, 2026
Rep. LaMonica McIver in Newark, N.J., in July 2025. Chrystofer Davis for Rolling Stone The path to liberation does not run through comfort. That much has always been true.
In some tellings, as the Pharaoh’s army chased Moses towards the Red Sea, a member of the tribe had to wade nearly up to their chin in the raging waters before Moses raised his staff and the sea split in two.
Despite not knowing how to swim, Harriet Tubman plunged into the waterways of Maryland’s Eastern Shore to help others escape their bondage.
Staring down billy clubs and snarling dogs, John Lewis and the marchers summoned the strength to cross the Edmund Pettus Bridge over the Alabama River.
All surrendered themselves to the perilous, uncertain waters — literal or metaphorical — on the faith that they would win their freedom. Activist April Albright of Black Voters Matters has a phrase for taking this plunge: going neck-deep.
In this moment of national memory — 161 years after Union troops arrived in Galveston to share news of emancipation that was long overdue — I think about the question Sister April asks about these stories: Are we neck-deep people, too?
Juneteenth is a complicated holiday. It’s a celebration of Black liberation and resilience. It’s also a reminder that no victory in the fight for freedom is permanent. Perhaps most of all, it’s a call to a nation with a soul divided to ask ourselves what the path to liberation looks like today — and what it takes to follow it.
Lately, though, it seems that path is growing more treacherous. Seemingly every day, we bear witness to audacious and crafty new ways to strip away Black and brown power. We see it in the backlash against affirmative action and equal opportunity employment. We see it in the recent Supreme Court decision that cleared the way for Republicans to gerrymander communities out of their vote. We see it in widening health disparities, re-segregating schools, and a fraying social safety net. And we see it in a country that, as it approaches its 250th anniversary, still lives in the shadows of racism — shadows that grow deeper and wider as this president appeals to a vision of America in which belonging is about blood and soil.
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As urgent and painful an example as any is how Donald Trump has marshaled the full force of the federal government to terrorize and brutalize communities of color, including our immigrant communities. At its core, Juneteenth teaches us that liberation must include everyone — not just those who conform to the people in power’s idea of what it means to be an American.
These are the raging waters of our moment — and I’ve found myself more than neck-deep.
It’s not a battle I sought out. I’d be the first to admit that I didn’t know much about federal immigration policy when I got to Congress. But it’s the battle that found me. And it is worth fighting.
When Donald Trump took power again, the first immigrant detention center he opened was right in the heart of the New Jersey district I represent in the United States Congress. It’s called Delaney Hall, and it’s probably as close as you can get to hell on earth. The stench is overwhelming. The inside is dark and cramped. The halls echo with gasps and sobs, folks begging to see their families again, to speak to a lawyer. There’s hardly a whiff of food to be found, and I’ve been told what little food detainees are served is moldy, green, and full of live worms. Detainees report being beaten and pepper-sprayed by guards. A 41-year-old Haitian man died in ICE custody just a day after arriving at Delaney last year.
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The people inside Delaney Hall have desperately pleaded their cases to me. The vast, vast majority of them have no criminal record, and many were following the legal processes to stay in this country when they were rounded up. Yet hundreds are held hostage, forced to suffer as understaffed and overwhelmed immigration courts slog through an ever-growing backlog of cases.
I’ve gone inside many times, and I’m always shaken to my core. You can’t help but wonder: If this isn’t torture, then what is?
Delaney Hall stands in the heart of my community — among the least wealthy districts in the country and made up of mostly Black and brown families, with nearly a third of our neighbors born outside the country. It’s precisely the type of community this administration is targeting, precisely the type of community they want to be afraid.
Masked, badgeless men roll through in SUVs. Neighbors disappear from their own driveways. Pepper spray is wielded at point-blank range. It’s created an atmosphere of palpable fear that has forced parents to skip shifts at work, or stay home from doctors appointments, or stretch a week’s worth of groceries, medicine, and diapers into two or three.
One thing you should know about me: I’m fiercely protective of my people. Maybe it comes from being the oldest child and helping raise my siblings, or being a mom myself. But if you come for my community, you will answer to me.
So when we learned about the atrocities at Delaney Hall, I did what I’m supposed to do as a member of Congress. I went to see for myself what the Trump administration was doing in our name and with our tax dollars.
What should have been a short and peaceful congressional oversight visit (members of Congress have the explicit legal right to visit detention facilities unannounced) quickly descended into chaos manufactured by ICE.
After an agent at Delaney Hall received orders from then-Deputy Attorney General Todd Blanche (whom Trump has since tapped to lead the Justice Department), armed and masked ICE agents waded into a crowd and began pushing and shoving so they could arrest the mayor of Newark, Ras Baraka. Days later, the administration brought criminal charges against me stemming from that confrontation.
Today, I’m facing up to 17 years in prison — for crimes that I did not commit.
Why drum up charges to go after me? Why did ICE tell so many lies that a federal judge said they should stop? They aren’t trying to punish me for what I did; they’re trying to punish me for what I believe, what I’ve said, and for doing my job. It was shocking, but it shouldn’t have been surprising.
On top of all of that, we know Trump is no stranger to attacking Black women. And those attacks take a real toll. They can drain you of your financial resources, not to mention your energy and joy. Many nights, I lie awake thinking about how this ordeal is tormenting the people I love. My mother is worried sick about the death threats. My husband is stretched thin while I’m wrapped up in court. My 10-year-old is terrified of losing her mom. I worry about what it means for all of them — and for the baby that I’m carrying right now — that I could be gone for 17 years.
But here’s what I know: My prosecution is about so much more than me. It’s about the 800,000 people who sent me to Congress to be their voice. When I walk into a hearing room, or step onto the floor of the House, or visit somewhere like Delaney Hall, I’m not just there as LaMonica. I’m there as an elected representative of my community, the place I grew up, the people I’ve known my whole life. I’m there on behalf of Black and brown families, folks who have been terrorized by ICE, people whose lives have been made worse by this administration. So when this administration tries to criminalize doing my job — tries to silence me, drain me of financial resources, and drown me in legal procedure — they’re not just tearing down one person. They’re trying to exert dominance over an entire community, one that doesn’t look or think like them. It’s Jim Crow resurrected, in unmarked cars, marble halls, trumped-up charges, and legal briefs.
These efforts to intimidate will not stop with my case. If they can make an example of me, then they can bully even more elected leaders — or anyone at all — into submission. That’s how they amass more power for themselves and put people who don’t look or think like them back in their place, which is the entire goal of their political project.
That’s nothing new in our country. In fact, for most of our history, people in power didn’t have to care about people like the ones I represent. But the brute force of the ballot box has made them care. That’s why my legal fight is also a fight for the most powerful recourse the powerless have at their disposal: democracy itself. And I think that’s worth fighting for.
For what it’s worth, Black women have always known this. We’ve never had the luxury of taking democracy for granted. It’s why we’ve always stepped into the gaps — for our families, our communities, and everybody else’s, too. Go to any protest. We’re on the front lines. Check any election. We vote, we organize, we show up. Because we know precisely what’s at stake.
This administration’s purpose in imposing so much suffering, in keeping its feet on our necks, is to make us feel afraid. That terror is their most powerful weapon. So many of us have lived it.
But the path to freedom has never been easy. That is the story of our nation’s 250-year history. When our founders defied a formidable empire, when slaves threw off the yoke of tyranny, when suffragists gathered at Seneca Falls, when young people flocked to Selma and Stonewall, Ferguson and Lafayette Square, they had no idea if, when, or how ultimate victory would be won. They simply had faith the first step was the right one — and kept on walking.
You don’t need to be Black or brown to notice that our nation is retreating on the path to freedom. But our communities feel it in our bones. What was once hidden in dog whistles is now screamed in our faces. What was once buried in statutes is now openly declared as the law of the land.
In this heavy moment, Juneteenth reminds us that freedom never comes overnight — and it is never permanent. For every step forward, we’re dragged a half step back. But that doesn’t mean we stop walking.
We are not called to certainty — we are called to courage. It’s what this moment demands of all of us. Our freedom depends on it. We don’t have to know how we’ll get across the sea before we wade in neck-deep.
