backgroun with three scenerios, one man walking on the street in Shanghai, one man crossing the border, and a man working in a warehouse in Los Angeles

Slipping Into Trump’s America, and Abandoning the Middle Class

Tens of thousands of Chinese migrants have crossed the U.S.-Mexico border since the pandemic, many trading a middle-class life in China for one that’s humbler and one that remains threatened under Trump’s second administration.

By Edison Wu and Iris Qiu

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A t 5 a.m., Denvy Jiang’s alarm buzzes to life.

Jiang rises quietly, careful not to wake his wife and two children or the four other families in the shared house. He wolfs down a few bites of the breakfast his wife set out the night before, grabs his car key and slips into his secondhand Honda.

Minutes later, he’s merging onto the 88 highway, bound for a delivery warehouse nearly 20 miles away.

Six months ago, his life looked quite different. He lived in China with his wife, where they owned their home and enjoyed a more comfortable life as private tutors — a profession offering social respect and substantial earnings.

But Jiang had publicly questioned the government, putting him and his family at risk.

They sold their home and car, traveled through Japan and then made their way to Mexico. Under the cover of night, they crossed the U.S.–Mexico border with their young son and daughter—entering a country they had never set foot in.

Since the pandemic, a record number of Chinese nationals have crossed the border, making China the fastest-growing source of undocumented migration.

Many left behind middle-class jobs and stable lives, hoping to plant new roots in unfamiliar soil and escape political repression and economic uncertainty.

Chinese Immigrants' Border Crossing Surged After the Pandemic

Over 68,000 Chinese migrants have been apprehended crossing from Mexico since 2022

Source: U.S. Customs and Border Protection

Unlike many migrants flee war or extreme poverty, many Chinese newcomers come from China’s urban middle class, who were once teachers, business owners, and civil servants.

In post-pandemic China, a slowing economy and growing political pressure pushed some to look abroad. Online, they found step-by-step guides to reach the U.S.—a risky journey through multiple countries that ends at the border and can cost $10,000 to $40,000.

Crossing the border is just the first hurdle for these Chinese migrants, who often trade middle-class lives for low-wage jobs, the constant threat of deportation, and the isolation of a new country. Despite these challenges fueled by the current administration, their willingness to undertake such risks underscores the desperation driving many immigrants to cross into the U.S.

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A Search for Freedom

Jiang grew up in a small county town in Jiangsu province, near Shanghai. Ten years ago, fresh out of vocational college, he became an English tutor.

For years, he and his wife commuted between Jiangsu and Shanghai — he taught English, she taught math. They worked only on weekends and spent the rest of the week at home with their children. During holidays, they often traveled abroad, with Japan as a favorite destination.

In May 2018, after years of saving, they bought their first car: a new Chevrolet. Later that year, they purchased a 1,400-square-foot, three-bedroom apartment in their hometown—a place they could finally call home.

To their friends, Jiang’s life looked stable and respectable, even enviable.

But he longed for one thing China forbade: freedom of expression.

Since high school, Jiang had been bypassing China’s internet firewall to access foreign news. He noticed that in the U.S., people can speak freely to criticize authority and participate in politics.

Around 2015, when WeChat became widely used in China, Jiang said he launched a public account and started publishing essays, pointing out what he saw as government failures.

His most popular article criticizing the government drew more than 60,000 views, but none of his friends showed support.

“People couldn’t understand why I’d challenge the government,” he said. “They thought I was asking for trouble.”

Still, Jiang believed it was his duty to speak up.

“Everyone wants their country to get better,” he said, tearing up.

Eventually, local authorities took notice.

At first, the police took a relatively restrained approach. They asked Jiang to delete his articles and warned him not to publish similar content again. But as the warnings piled up, so did the pressure. The tone grew harsher, then came the threats.

Jiang said the police didn’t just target him. They warned that if he was labeled a political dissident, his children might be barred from school or later denied jobs in the government.

Constantly worried about his family's safety and future, Jiang was eventually diagnosed with major depression.

“I had a decent job in China,” he said, “but I couldn’t trade it for the right to speak freely. I have a family. I have kids. If I get locked up for a few years, what happens to them?”

The final blow came during the pandemic.

China’s zero-COVID policies had already made life difficult, but what alarmed Jiang most was the government’s tight control of information. Even during major public tragedies and protests, he noticed little to no coverage on domestic platforms. To learn what was happening in his own country, he bypassed the firewall and turned to Twitter and YouTube.

Tired of living in the dark — he knew it was time to leave.

For him, the decision was driven by a desire to escape political suppression. Others, like Chao Chen, 44, were pushed by the economic fallout of the pandemic.

For more than two decades, he had run a small security equipment company in China, managing a team of ten. He earned over one million yuan a year (roughly $140,000), placing him well above the national average.

Then the pandemic upended everything.

China’s strict zero-COVID lockdowns triggered widespread job losses. In just the first two months of 2020, five million positions vanished, and Tens of thousands of private businesses collapsed. According to the corporate registry platform Tianyancha, over 460,000 small and medium-sized enterprises were dissolved in early 2022 alone.

Chinese consumers have turned more cautious, citing concerns over wage growth and job security as companies cut staff to preserve profits and competitiveness. The country’s consumer confidence index fell to its lowest level since the COVID-19 outbreak and remains depressed.

GDP change in China
consumer confidency change in China

Chen’s business began to falter. He found himself thinking back to his youth — his early interest in English, his dreams of working in international trade, and maybe one day going abroad.

To him, America represented higher wages, greater personal freedom, better healthcare, and more opportunities for his son.

Chen planned to go first, alone, and try to build a foundation in the U.S. If it worked, he would bring his wife and son later.

He never imagined that, twenty years later, he would pursue a long-abandoned dream, even if it meant leaving behind those he loved most.

Stories of the Collapsed Chinese Middle Class Dream

When the Hospital Closed Its Doors

Zhang, 32, owned an e-commerce livestreaming business in Hebei, northern China, while his wife stayed at home to care for their child.

He hadn’t started out wealthy. Zhang began his career as a low-level employee at an e-commerce service company, earning just 5,000 yuan a month (around $690). Over the course of eight years, he gradually grew his income to 20,000 yuan and then to an annual salary of 300,000–500,000 yuan ($41,000 – $69,000).

In 2021, after years of saving, Zhang and his wife bought a new 120-square-meter apartment. They were full of hope for the future. But then the pandemic hit — and everything changed. ...

Zhang and his wife
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Journey to the US

For some, entry to the U.S. was relatively easy, requiring nothing more than a tourist visa.

But since the 2015 fiscal year, the number of non-immigrant visas issued to Chinese nationals has dropped sharply.

As access shrank, new — and sometimes dangerous — pathways emerged.

Jiang and his family, who had multiple entries to Japan on record, were eligible to enter Mexico visa-free. From there, they traveled to the border city of Tijuana, then crossed into the U.S.

Others were not so lucky. Without visa exemptions, many Chinese migrants were forced to take longer, more dangerous, and far more expensive journeys.

Some tried to schedule asylum appointments through the U.S. Customs and Border Protection mobile app, CBP One. But the app had no Chinese-language interface and its opaque scheduling system left many confused and frustrated. For some, waiting wasn't an option. They chose instead to scale the border wall at night and apply for asylum afterward.

Once they reached the U.S., migrants were immediately detained by immigration authorities — some held for a single day, others for weeks or even months.

Their asylum cases can take years to process, and during that time, they are not permitted to leave the country.

Asylum Application Process
Asylum application process chart
Stories of the Collapsed Chinese Middle Class Dream

The Crossing

Carrying their daughter across mountains and broken borders, Jian Zhang’s family entered the U.S. in silence.

In Tijuana, Zhang and his family were taken to a house on a hilltop, arranged by a smuggler.

Zhang remembered the place had three bedrooms, one bathroom, a living room with a sofa and a pull-out bed. Surveillance cameras were mounted in the corners. Every move they made was watched.

Alongside his wife and daughter, three other Chinese migrants also stayed there.

On their third night, at 4 a.m., they set out. ...

Zhang and his wife crossing the river
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From the Ground Up

Two months after arriving in the U.S., the country he believes offers him freedom of speech, Jiang earned his driver’s license and landed his first job — a package delivery driver.

Paid $1.80 to $2.00 per package, his earnings depended on how many deliveries he could make each day.

Though Jiang knew that he had to “start from the ground up” in the U.S., reality was still harsher than he had imagined, he said.

While he had worked just three days a week with little physical effort back in China, now, he is on the road six days a week, working ten hours or more each day with barely any time to rest.

Jiang sets out for work before dawn
Jiang sets out for work before dawn.

Before the sun rose, Jiang was already en route to his first stop: the warehouse.

In the warehouse, dozens of tall metal carts packed with grey plastic-wrapped parcels were already lined up in rows.

Jiang said he usually delivered between 150 and 180 packages a day.

Packages await sorting and delivery inside a warehouse in Los Angeles Packages await sorting and delivery inside a warehouse in Los Angeles
Packages await sorting and delivery inside a warehouse in Los Angeles.

He located the cart marked with his route number and strained to push it toward his car’s trunk. Each package was scanned into his phone’s dispatch system and assigned a route code.

Over time, the routine became second nature: scan, tag, sort, load.

Box after box filled the back of the car. Soon, the passenger seat and rear seats were piled high with parcels. Only the driver’s seat remained clear.

After nearly six months on the job, he had run every route three or four times.

He knew which intersections always backed up, which buildings had broken buzzers, and which doorways hid aggressive dogs.

By 7:30 a.m., Jiang entered the address for his first delivery into the GPS and began his route.

At the stop, he rummaged through the back of the car to find the correct package, scanned it, double-checked the address, and stepped out. He glanced around for the correct unit number, jogged to the front porch, gently placed the parcel by the door, snapped a photo for proof of delivery, and then jogged back to the car. With one hand on the seatbelt, he punched in the next address as the engine revved again.

The entire process took less than three minutes, but he had to repeat it over a hundred times a day.

Jiang in the car with packages Packages in the trunk of Jiang's car
Every day, Jiang crams 150 to 200 packages into his trunk, back seat, and front passenger seat.

During deliveries, Jiang often wore a furrowed brow and tight lips, like a sprinter at the starting line, every second counting toward the final result.

By noon, his shirt was drenched in sweat. He’d jump back into the car and crank the A/C, but could afford to cool down for only a minute or two before his next stop.

In the beginning, he packed a lunch from home. But as the pace of the job picked up, even that small comfort slipped away. Now, he eats while driving, grabbing some bread rolls or a few crackers with one hand between stops.

Misunderstandings sometimes made Jiang’s work harder — once, a resident shouted and blocked his way as he tried to enter a secured building. Yet small acts of kindness eased the isolation: security guards began nodding in recognition, and residents occasionally helped him find the right door, offering fleeting warmth in an unfamiliar world.

A typical day of Jiang — loading, driving, and delivering across Los Angeles

Most nights, he didn’t return until after dark, sometimes not until nine or ten. His wife waited up for him. The two kids were already asleep on a mattress in the corner of the shared apartment. Jiang sat in the kitchen, eating the day’s only hot meal.

Back in China, Jiang had a degree, a stable job, and professional respect.

Here, all of that was erased.

Stories of the Collapsed Chinese Middle Class Dream

From Manager to Noodle Shop Worker

Before crossing the border, Leo was a mid-level manager at a state-owned enterprise in Shenzhen. He earned 50,000 yuan a month (around $7,000), had his own office, generous benefits, and a clear promotion path. To most people, he had a job for life.

However, Leo felt he was slowly suffocating.

Over two years at the SOE, he had frequent contact with private contractors. Hoping to secure deals, many of them offered small gifts as a way to build relationships. What began as informal gestures and networking gradually turned into open corruption, with bribes and kickbacks exchanged without pretense. Inside the company, things weren’t much better. ...

Leo working at noodle shop
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Shadow of Deportation

Rebuilding a life in a foreign land is never easy. For undocumented immigrants, the constant threat of deportation makes it even harder.

After returning to the White House, Donald Trump announced what he called “the largest deportation operation in U.S. history,” pledging to remove millions of undocumented immigrants within his first year back in office.

Reports of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) raids began surfacing across the country, including some cases involving people with valid visas.

According to the Department of Homeland Security, more than 32,000 undocumented immigrants were arrested by ICE within the first 50 days of Trump’s return to office.

In his spare time, Leo often browsed the LA Chinese News app. Stories or rumors of ICE activity appeared almost daily. The anxiety wore on him.

Screenshot of LA Chinese News app
News of ICE detaining undocumented immigrants appears on Leo’s Chinese-language news app.

He even hesitated to buy a car, fearing that if he were suddenly deported, there would be no way to deal with the property he left behind.

Leo said the number of new Chinese migrants had clearly declined this year. Regular customers who used to frequent the noodle shop had dropped by a third. The restaurant’s revenue plummeted. Staff were cut by a quarter. His monthly income shrank from $6,000 to $4,000.

At the entrance to the Fatty Ding Plaza, a Cantonese restaurant called ABC Cafe, open for 38 years, saw the same trend. The owner, Mr. Huang, said the place had long served immigrants who had just arrived in the U.S., but that clientele had all but vanished.

Business dropped by 10%.

In Monterey Park, some lawyers and NGOs distribute guides for immigrants on how to protect their legal rights if confronted by ICE.

Screenshot of LA Chinese News app Trasnlation of the Screenshot of LA Chinese News app
A card distributed by lawyers and NGOs to help immigrants assert their rights during encounters with ICE.

Despite the unsettling rumors, Jiang said he was not overly concerned. His lawyer told him that the highest-risk individuals were those with final removal orders or past convictions and as someone still in the asylum system, Jiang was unlikely to be targeted. He added that he believes in the U.S. legal system, even amid Trump’s immigration crackdown and shifting policies.

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Uncertain Future

February marked Leo’s first Lunar New Year in America.

For millions of Chinese people, the Spring Festival is the most joyous time of the year. It is a time for family reunions, long dinners, and crowded living rooms.

But for Leo, it was just another day.

There were no relatives to visit, no feast to prepare. He ate a simple meal with a few coworkers in the restaurant where he worked.

Unsettling immigration policy and repetitive work at the noodle shop made Leo couldn’t see a clear future.

When asked whether he regretted leaving behind a stable job, a secure life, and financial comfort in China, Leo fell silent.

After a long pause, he sighed:

“At this stage? It doesn’t feel worth it. I gave up too much.”

And yet, Leo said he was content. He got along well with his coworkers and his boss. Here, he didn’t have to flatter superiors or navigate office politics and corruption. The simplicity lightened something inside him.

“This is just a transition,” he said. “Once I come out of the depression, I know I can do more. I believe in myself. And I believe in this country.”

Now and then, he allowed himself small pleasures. He loved electronic music festivals, something he had rarely experienced in China. Since moving to Los Angeles, he had already attended two. He described the energy, the openness, the crowd.

“One day,” he said, “my future self will thank me for what I’m doing now.”

Since arriving in the U.S., Leo’s version of the American dream wasn’t grand.

“I just want to live a little more comfortably,” he said. “To save a bit, maybe travel now and then. One day, if I’m lucky, buy a home and settle down.”

Meanwhile, Jiang and his family were also learning to adapt.

His delivery job had little in the way of prospects. Still, he decided to stick with it. He didn’t dwell on what might come next. For now, making ends meet was enough.

What mattered most wasn’t money or comfort, but setting an example for his children, showing them that life wasn’t just about taking, it was also about contributing.

To Jiang, giving was as important as receiving. He had one day off per week. Instead of resting, he volunteered at a food bank in Montebello, handing out free meals to families in need.

In his eyes, the American dream was already half-fulfilled once he landed in this new country.

“Becoming an American is my ultimate goal,” he said, without hesitation.

While making deliveries, Jiang pauses outside a home flying the American flag
While making deliveries, Jiang pauses outside a home flying the American flag.

Near midnight, after a long day, Jiang washed up and slipped into bed. This is the only moment of the day that truly belongs to him. In the darkness, the last thing he did was set his alarm for 5 a.m. the next morning.

Meanwhile, Leo turned off the lights at the noodle shop and caught the No. 70 bus back to the room he shared with others. Zhang was still hustling through the streets of Hollywood, delivering late-night orders. Chen returned to his company, lay down on a folding bed, and began mapping out the next day’s delivery routes.

The city was quiet.

In a few hours, as the sun rose again, they would all be back on the road.