Don’t believe the memes. Here’s the truth about Haitians living in America

After nearly a decade of white-knuckling it through these unprecedented political times, I’ve found that my capacity to be surprised by the latest happenings on the campaign trail has greatly diminished.
But when Sen. JD Vance, Sen. Ted Cruz, Elon Musk and many more of their followers decided to amplify a racist conspiracy theory about Haitian immigrants eating pet cats in Springfield, Ohio — and when former President Donald Trump himself elevated the baseless claim to a national television audience — I discovered that my senses have not yet been fully dulled.
On the contrary, each time that Trump and others have advanced these lies and distortions to denigrate an entire group of people that they likely have little or no firsthand knowledge about, I’ve found myself bristling with indignation.
Why did I have such a strong reaction? Because I have actually met the people being maligned here — and not just in passing. I’ve spent time in their homes. I’ve served in their communities. I’ve talked with them, prayed with them, and yes, eaten with them.
Let me explain.
Like many young members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I served a two-year mission in my early adult years. But when my mission call arrived in that big white envelope — way back when these assignments were not yet delivered via email — I wasn’t assigned to some exotic, far-flung locale.
I was sent to Florida. Tampa, to be exact.
To the mind of a 19-year-old without much experience in the world, there was no place less interesting or horizon-expanding to spend 24 months of your life than southwest Florida.
Boy, was I wrong.
Upon arriving in Florida, I was assigned to my first area: Naples, a beachfront town at the southern tip of the mission’s boundaries. While geographically Naples may have been just a three-hour drive from our Tampa headquarters, culturally and demographically speaking, it might as well have been a million miles from the world I knew.
Even as a kid who grew up in a variety of affluent, predominantly white suburbs of major cities across the West, I still met plenty of people from different racial and ethnic backgrounds than my own, mostly because of my parents’ insistence on pushing me out of my comfort zone. I spent most of my youth playing basketball — in my view, the greatest melting pot of American sports — and quickly came to the realization that I would be the distinct minority in most of the gyms I entered.
But while briefly or irregularly interacting with people who are different from you is certainly valuable, it is an altogether different experience when you immerse yourself more fully: to live, work and worship alongside them. You’ll learn more about another person from sitting in their living room or sharing a meal around their kitchen table than you ever will on a basketball court.
And that’s what my nine months in Naples did for me.
Naples has a reputation as a destination for rich folks looking to escape colder climes — one that it certainly embraces. After all, you don’t declare yourself the “Golf Capital of the World” without aspiring to attract a certain clientele.
But while the coastline is dotted with mansions and opulent resorts, somebody has to work to keep those moneyed establishments running: the line cooks and the housekeepers, the tour guides and the landscapers.
These hard-working, blue-collar people can’t afford to live on beachfront property. Instead, many live in a densely populated, two-square-mile residential bloc about six miles inland, called Golden Gate — and that’s where I was specifically assigned to serve.
Golden Gate couldn’t be more different from the tony enclaves on the coast. When I arrived in 2006, the previous U.S. Census reported that Golden Gate had a per capita income of $15,923 — less than half of the greater Naples area overall ($33,384), and five times less than the wealthiest of its nearby sister communities, Pelican Bay ($89,063).
The Golden Gate community was also heavily comprised of immigrant families led by parents who came to the United States searching for a better life for their kids. Overall, just over a third of its residents were foreign born, according to the 2000 census — more than double Florida’s statewide average.
So it should come as no surprise that as I made my way through the streets of Golden Gate, knocking on doors and trying to convince people to let me into their homes to talk about Jesus Christ, I encountered more than my fair share of Cubans, Dominicans, Peruvians, Salvadorans — and yes, Haitians.
And as much as I loved all the families I met as a missionary, no matter where they came from, the Haitian people were some of my favorites. You could not find a more joyful, welcoming and generous group of people. They were always the first to invite you in to chat for as long as they were able — usually while also insisting that you eat whatever delicious food they prepared, even if they didn’t have much for themselves in the first place.
And while the tiny bit of poorly spoken Haitian Creole that I absorbed in order to get by in southwest Florida has long since abandoned me, I will never forget the kind smiles of the people I passed on the street as they responded to my customary greeting of “Sak pase?” (translation: “What’s happening?”) with a hearty “N’ap boule!” (“We’re good!”)
Of course, the immigrant experience in America isn’t all laughter and sunshine, even in the Sunshine State. I quickly found that when people let you into their homes to talk about God, they often end up talking about their problems — and there were plenty of problems to discuss.
Most of these families fled poverty and violence in their hurricane-ravaged island home to seek refuge in the United States, with virtually all doing so legally. Upon arriving on these shores with little to nothing in their pockets, they began their pursuit of the American dream like so many immigrants before them: from the bottom rung of the economic ladder. Many were living in multigenerational family units where multiple family members were working two or three jobs just to make ends meet — and often still finding themselves falling short.
One such Haitian family made a life-changing impression on my heart and mind.
I will forever remember knocking on their door on a blazing hot summer day. It was 100 degrees outside, accompanied by what felt like 100% humidity. The family enthusiastically welcomed us into their home and gathered everyone present into their sparsely furnished living room to hear our message. As we began to get to know one another, our hosts profusely apologized for the sweltering indoor temperature. Their home didn’t have air conditioning and they couldn’t even afford to run the ceiling fan that hung directly over our heads. Despite every adult present working multiple low-wage jobs, they feared that they wouldn’t be able to pay an increased electric bill.
These are the people that Trump, Vance and their allies — including the online trolls who mimic their every move — are punching down at. Not just good people — great people. Hard-working people who are trying to make it in America just like everyone else. Generous people who will insist on giving you the food off their table, even if you don’t ask. Welcoming people who will invite two strangers in white shirts and ties into their home and proactively apologize for their own poverty, despite the fact that they have nothing to be sorry for.
To be fair, much of the Republican outrage surrounding immigration centers on those who have entered this country illegally — and as Vice President Kamala Harris noted in Tuesday’s debate, this is a pressing issue that is crying out for a bipartisan solution. Politicians pushing blatant lies and trafficking in racist stereotypes may provide fuel for an army of keyboard warriors looking for laughs at the expense of people they will never meet, but this won’t get us any closer to actually addressing the challenges at hand.
On the contrary, all it does is pile more problems on the plates of hard-working immigrant families who already have more than their fair share. I know these people. I love these people. And if these are the people that some Republicans want to hold up as the objects of their ire, I know who I’d rather stand with — and I believe that my fellow Americans will do the same.
Steve Pierce, a contributing writer for Deseret, is a Democratic strategist and communications consultant who advises campaigns, causes and brands on matters of message and strategy. He is a senior director at Bully Pulpit International, a communications firm based in Washington, D.C., that is working for the Harris campaign. Pierce is not professionally involved in the campaign.