How Lincka Wrote the Three-Year-Old Song That Became the Anthem of Anti-ICE Protests

The Oklahoma City musician Lincka wrote “Chinga La Migra,” her gorgeous ballad about immigration, in 2022. In the last week or so, as anti-ICE protests flourished around Los Angeles, the song has become their unofficial soundtrack on big Instagram pages—prominent activists, an HBO star—alongside images of protest signs and selfies. Part of the reason this glimmering slow-burner about the U.S. immigration labyrinth has taken off is the way Lincka sings—with a full heart and the range to encapsulate the complicated sorrow, defiance, grief, and hope that can accompany the experience of migrating to the United States. 

I hadn’t heard Lincka’s music before last week—despite her having been featured on NPR and performed at the Kennedy Center—but was immediately taken with her 2023 EP El Putasio, which showcases her inventive songwriting on mostly upbeat alt-pop. Writing “Chinga La Migra”—which, in essence, means “fuck the immigration cops”—involved “a little bit of ego death,” she says, “because I love to dance and perform with the drama of it all. But it's a ballad.”

I video-chatted with Lincka on Friday afternoon, wondering about how she felt about a three-year-old song voicing a movement, but also about her music in general. Her originality, she told me, comes from seeing her dad and abuelito play their nylon-stringed guitars in their own way, and how her mother taught her to “articulate my words,” to defend herself in English and Spanish, and express herself freely.  

“For a long time, I didn’t feel like I was enough in my own music,” Lincka told me. “I questioned the way I created, the way I presented my sound. It didn’t sound traditional, it wasn’t familiar—and I worried that older generations wouldn’t understand or accept it. But the more I leaned into my originality, the more liberated I felt. And the more I embraced what made me different, the more respect I received—not in spite of my uniqueness, but because of it.”

I’d never heard your music before “Chinga La Migra,” but I’m glad I did. What’s Oklahoma City like?

Being an original artist in Oklahoma means creating your own lane—there’s no road map, especially when your art doesn’t fit into easy boxes. As a Chicana artist, I often feel like I’m buried deep in Oklahoma red dirt—like someone influential with resources would have to dig deep to find me. I’m building something original, and that takes time. It’s not the easiest route, but the impact runs deeper because the music is original. I’m not chasing quick attention. I’m creating a sound that can’t be traced back to anyone but me. But I also believe that if I keep nurturing my voice, if I stay true to the stories only I can tell, I will be discovered. There’s power in growing from this place—a city that’s still small, still evolving—because it gives me the space to shape something that’s entirely my own.

I always have been categorized locally as a controversial artist. I remember being like, “Huh?”  Even my mom was like, “Okay, que estan, diciendo con eso, mija?” [What are they talking about?]  But honestly, even through that I always felt loved and safe. I just talk naturally about what I want to talk about, which ends up being activism or my identity. And I think because I bring a lot of love on stage, I always have a team of people that I work with to get the vision and the universe of my music. I really focus on the quality of production while I'm implementing these topics that some may perceive as controversial, but really it's just—I want to call it Chicana Futurism.

In regards to the lyricism in my song, I didn’t want non-Spanish speakers to immediately understand the message, because at first listen, it sounds sweet. And it is sweet, if you really hear the lyrics—but I’m still saying “Chinga La Migra.” There are plenty of songs that say that outright, loud and raw, because that’s how it feels. But I wanted to do it differently—to capture what that rage feels like after the grieving, in a quieter, more reflective way.

How does it feel to have this song that you wrote years ago become the soundtrack to this uprising for justice? Did you anticipate it?

It’s healing. To see my song, a slow-tempo ballad, be the soundtrack to images of LA protesters being tear-gassed is the kind of heartbreak this song is intended to express, but that I never thought I would actually see. And now, years later, to see people reclaiming that grief and turning it into power—it’s overwhelming. It reminds me that when you create from a place of truth, the message will always transcend time. Did I anticipate it? Yes, this was inevitable, I just didn't know when or how. Also, I was also going through a seven-year-long relationship-break up at the time, so maybe that has something to do with it.

I get that—the song is so raw, maybe part of that is coming through. 

It was so heavy on my heart. I always think about how we’re still here. We lose a lot of people along the way, but we’re still here—and the ones that are here, we have to speak up. We have to acknowledge that in our own ways, we need everybody in this movement. And in my head, I’m like, if I can continue with this very conscientious music, very self-aware, very unique to a specific demographic of people that are becoming the forefront of this movement, that excites me. When I sing the bridge of the song, “It was not only made to keep us apart, a border is a nation with a broken heart,” that is a literal reference to the feeling that one feels in their body when going through a heartbreak, and what we all feel. A border is a symbol of collective heartbreak.

And so, of course, I have my own experiences. So I wanted to create a storyline that would resonate with a lot of people. My brother Dario helped me write the bridge, which I think is the best line of the song. Dario is like my ghost writer, low key. He’s a lawyer de inmigración, okay? He's a big source of my inspiration, too. We're very proud of him, as a family. He says he lives through me in a lot of ways through my music, and I live through him, too—he just keeps me in his world. He has so many clients he represents in ICE detention facilities, and he’s 100 percent tapped in every day. So that’s always on my mind—I know exactly what is going on in the world of undocumented inmates. I think that’s why I wrote the song in 2021, you know? Because this happens all the time. 

The next era of Dario is launching his own firm, and I’m so excited. We're wanting to split [where we live] into half a music studio and the other half the immigration law firm. With the spirit of “Chinga La Migra,” we’re thinking, when clients come in and they are seeking asylum or representation or things like that, we’ll also give them an option, once their case is completed, to have me write an anonymous song about their story. Talk about Chicanx futurism, right?!

OK, that’s amazing. Please do this. 

I know, right? You’re getting a sneak peek! I've been pulling a lot of resources here the best way I can. I have a lot of producers and different bands that I work with, so the client can request the genre, message, etc. Of course we will use different names for the safety of the client. I’d like to be known for pro-immigrant songs. Like, I want people to be like, “Oh, Lincka is releasing another album, and it’s all immigrant stories. Let’s gooo!” 

So much of my identity is rooted in being from the borderland. There’s an arbitrary nature to my existence—split by lines I didn’t choose—and I’ve carried both resentment and deep reverence because of it. It’s a constant tension between what was imposed on me and what I’ve reclaimed as my own. I wanted to mention something that I’ve always loved, and always go back to, in moments like these when I’m manifesting the kind of artist I want to be. I always go back to Nina Simone’s quote where she says that “an artist’s duty, as far as I’m concerned, is to reflect the times.” In moments like these, I’m like, “Oh, I think I’m making her proud.”