At a nearby grocery store run by Paschur Castelly, who left Haiti 20 years ago, most of the shelves are empty, except for those stocking religious candles and framed pictures of Catholic saints popular with this devout community.
“I can’t purchase new merchandise because I don’t have people coming in,” he said.
“So, our communities, we have doctors, we have engineers… we came here to get a better life, to help our family in Haiti, you know? Our country doesn’t offer us security.”
After 20 minutes in the store, the first customer arrived. The man, who asked to remain anonymous, said he had been a warehouse worker for three years.
But like others who have lost TPS, it is likely to mean he has also lost the right to work.
As he chatted with Castelly, he pulled up his right trouser leg and revealed a large ankle monitor.
ICE has said these are part of its Alternatives to Detention programme. “I was given a choice, wear the ankle monitor and report in every two weeks, or sign my deportation order,” he said.
As we left the store, Castelly closed the door which he now keeps locked. When a neighbour spotted us and feared an ICE raid, she shouted over to ask if Castelly was okay.
It was a sign of just how much this town remains a symbol – of two versions of America – years after Trump thrust it into the national spotlight, and weeks before voters head to the polls to shape the remainder of his presidency.
With additional reporting by Gringo Wotshela
If you’re affected by any of the issues in this article you can find details of organisations who can help via the BBC Action Line.
Details of help available in many countries can be found at Befrienders Worldwide, external, external.
