For four years, Rinvil, a Haitian immigrant, had pressed steel into car parts at McGregor Metal. While the work was grueling, it offered a stable income, health insurance, a 401(k). And Rinvil, who turns 46 this week, thrived there, relieved to be away from his home country, which had descended into lawlessness and gang violence.
“He would do anything in the world for you,” said Lance Beale, the production supervisor.
But Rinvil’s sense of security began to unravel after President Donald Trump took office and moved to dismantle protections for Haitian immigrants.
He expected the administration to revoke his work permit. And with deportation a real possibility, Rinvil packed up his hard-won life and moved this month to Canada.
“You leave your home to survive, you do everything right,” he said in an interview four days before his departure. But “they don’t like you, they don’t want you.”
Rinvil was among more than 10,000 Haitians who in recent years settled in this working-class city of 60,000. They were welcomed by a Republican governor and business leaders who needed workers to power companies that had been enticed to invest millions here. Over the past four years, Springfield had rebounded, thanks in large part to the arrival of Haitian immigrants.
The newcomers staffed auto plants, packed ready-to-eat salads at Dole and sorted packages at Amazon. They filled church pews, enrolled their children in schools and began to buy homes.
But as the political winds shifted, so did their prospects — and, perhaps, Springfield’s as well.
Growing tensions
The city became a flashpoint in the national immigration debate last year, when Trump, from the debate stage, amplified a baseless claim by his running mate, JD Vance, that Haitians there were stealing and eating pets.
The accusation inflamed growing tensions over rising rents and schools’ supporting students learning English. At Springfield City Commission meetings, some residents used racist language to describe the newcomers, accusing them of ruining the city and draining resources.
After the election, the Trump administration terminated some humanitarian programs that had allowed Haitians and other immigrants to live and work legally in the United States. Employers in the Springfield area have had to let go of hundreds.
In February 2026, thousands more are expected to lose their jobs when the administration ends Temporary Protected Status, a separate program that shields people from deportation to countries in crisis.
Many Haitian families in Springfield face two bleak options: leave the United States entirely or remain without lawful status, dependent on underground work and vulnerable to arrest and deportation.
There is no official tally of how many Haitians have left, but pastors, employers and others say dozens of Haitians have gone.
Some, like Rinvil, are heading to Canada. Others are planning to return to South America, where they had previously found refuge.
Without legal status, ‘you lose your freedom’
Cratchit Aimé, 43, and his family put down roots in Springfield four years ago, after leaving Brazil and its economic downturn.
Aimé, who works the overnight shift at a lighting factory, plays guitar in a church band. His 9-year-old son is thriving in elementary school. Last year, his wife gave birth to their first child born in the United States.
Despite the hostility from Trump last year, they had decided to stay.
But with the clock running out on his legal status, Aimé intends to redirect his savings, originally meant for a down payment on a home, to pay for their return to Brazil.
Without legal status, “you lose your freedom, and you can’t have happiness,” he said, speaking in Portuguese.
Even now, he limits his outings to work, church and errands.
‘It’s not going to be good’
Gov. Mike DeWine, a Republican, offered his own sobering assessment last month.
“The one word I would use to describe Springfield today is stable,” he said, after meeting representatives from local businesses, medical centers and religious organizations.
But “suddenly losing a large number” of workers, he noted, would have a “significant impact” on Springfield and the region, as businesses struggle to keep operating. And immigrant families who were once self-sufficient would require support.
His conclusion was blunt: “It’s not going to be good.”
A life uprooted
In Haiti, Rinvil; his wife, Darliene; and their daughter, Ritshelle, enjoyed a middle-class life. He managed accounts at a cellphone company; she worked as a nurse. They owned a house and a car. “We had everything,” Rinvil recalled.
In 2017, after a traumatic event they declined to discuss, Darliene Rinvil flew to the United States on a tourist visa intending to seek asylum, while he stayed behind to care for their daughter, then 8.
But Darliene Rinvil was alarmed by Trump’s inflammatory rhetoric about Haitians — they “all have AIDS,” he said at the time — and moved to Canada.
Three years later, as political unrest and violence spiraled in Haiti, Rinvil decided he, too, had to leave. He arrived in the United States on a tourist visa in August 2020 and headed to Springfield, drawn by its abundant job opportunities and affordable living. His daughter stayed with her maternal grandmother.
In 2021, the Biden administration extended Temporary Protected Status to Haitians in the United States, allowing Rinvil to stay and work legally.
The work at McGregor Metal was a stark contrast to Rinvil’s white-collar job in Haiti, but he embraced it. He started his shift at 5 a.m., worked until 3:30 p.m. and then delivered food for DoorDash and Uber Eats. He slept three or four hours and then did it again, always with a smile, said Kara Williams, McGregor’s human resources director.
“We list perfect attendance every month, and he was on it every month,” she said.
Another thing he did every month: sent $750 to his daughter. And every day, he spoke with his wife in Montreal, where she worked as a caregiver.
Rinvil worried about safety in Haiti. Gangs, he said, took over his parents’ home and businesses outside Port-au-Prince, the capital. He monitored his daughter’s commute to school; children had been kidnapped.
The family longed to be reunited. His wife applied for asylum in Canada, and he did the same in the United States.
A big what-if
Once in office, Trump vowed to deliver on his promise of mass deportations.
But in Springfield, tensions seemed to have finally eased.
At a recent City Commission meeting, more people spoke in support of immigrants than against them.
There have been no raids yet, but with hundreds of Haitians losing their jobs, the hardships are evident. On a recent Tuesday, the food pantry at St. Vincent de Paul received nearly twice as many Haitian families as usual.
“These are immigrant families who never needed help before,” said Casey Rollins, the charity’s executive director.
Roseamata, a mother of three who declined to give her last name, said her husband had lost his humanitarian protection and his job a few weeks earlier. The family had enough savings to pay rent for one more month, she said while loading frozen chicken, bread and cereal into her cart.
In a room nearby, staff members helped parents apply for passports for their children with citizenship, which could make it easier for them to follow their parents if they are deported, Rollins said.
Across Springfield, there are disquieting signals that there are not enough workers to fuel economic growth.
Employers bracing for further losses
Amazon, after being forced to dismiss hundreds of Haitians at its warehouse outside Springfield, has in recent weeks sent text messages to former employees who are eligible to work. One said: “Miss us? We’ve got tons of roles with great pay — and no interview.”
Jamie McGregor, chief executive of McGregor Metal, said employers were bracing for further losses that “will have a profoundly negative effect on our ability to function.”
His company employs 30 Haitians, and those who lose their work permits will have to be terminated.
And then there is a big what-if. Will Springfield plunge again into ugly divisiveness, if residents begin seeing Haitians lining up at food banks, living in cramped housing and filling up emergency rooms because they have lost their health insurance?
A quiet exit
Rinvil said the Trump administration’s policies and statements left him feeling anguished and helpless.
There was a ray of hope: His wife had won asylum in Canada, paving the way for him and their daughter to join her.
Rinvil gave notice and on July 11 bid farewell with his Haitian feast. He and McGregor posed for a picture — the boss with one of the company’s first Haitian workers. A memento of a different time.
Rinvil sold his car and his TV and sent $50,000 in savings to his wife.
On the morning of Aug. 2, a friend drove Rinvil to the Columbus airport. After delays and layovers, he landed in Toronto some 12 hours later.
An immigration officer asked him a few questions and then welcomed him to his new home.
Within days, Rinvil had a Social Insurance number, akin to a Social Security number, and was looking for work in Montreal.
This article originally appeared in The New York Times.