Sarina Smith Goes to an American Border Patrol Meeting

    by Leslie Clark


A friend invited me, saying, “You live so close to the border, Sarina.
You need to see what’s really going on.”  She swore me to silence,
wouldn’t divulge the meeting’s location–-I had to follow from her house.
We drove to a neighborhood the local paper describes as
“an upscale housing area,” large houses on generous lots.
In front of the meeting house were pickup trucks bearing bumper
proclamations– “You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead
fingers,” “America for Americans,” “God Bless the U.S.A.”–-all in 
the shouting colors of red, white and blue. Striped, star-spangled. I sat
for a moment, shivering, then clambered from my car and walked
with my friend to the entrance, where burly men paced and smoked.

Inside, a woman with varnished hair and three-inch heels greeted us,
invited us to look around, partake of refreshments.  I wandered to 
a room filled with expensive machines--decorated with maps,	
flaunting GPS locators, upgraded computers. The house’s owner 
leaned back in his leather chair and demonstrated his website.
Told us what his equipment could do–how citizens’ border reports 
could be  broadcast instantly online to interested parties. On to the kitchen–-
food-laden tables, a sheet cake in the form of a flag, pamphlets from
the John Birch Society, detailing a plot by Mexicans to reclaim Arizona.

We clustered in the luxurious living room to watch a video
–ranchers with rifles and growling dogs herding a group 
of shivering men, women, children. One lean man, plaid-shirted,
calling the Border Patrol to say, “I’ve got some more campers for you.”
 Someone from the authorities had told this man, our host explained, 
that people crossing his land were “lost campers.”  The rancher 
guffawed into his cell phone. After the call, he told the camera, 
“My motion detector went off this morning and we came on out.  The Border Patrol 
has sensors out here too–but they don’t change the batteries in theirs.”  
The audience in the living room collectively sneered. Finally, 
on screen, a green-striped truck arrived. An Hispanic agent 
walked up to the ranchers, observed the people huddling 
on the ground.  The agent’s words were overpowered 
by someone in the living room yelling, “Now see, that one’s
his Aunt Maria, those are his cousins–-maybe even his brothers.”
On screen the agent’s lips continued to move silently, while 
derisive laughter swept through the film’s audience.”  The film faded.

Our host announced, “This happens every day–-every hour, folks.  
They can’t stop it.  We have to.  They don’t even want to stop it.  
Somebody in government is making big bucks from this.  
Millions of our tax dollars pour in–nothing changes.”  
There was an answering growl from everyone around me.  
One leathery man said, “It makes me damn mad–them foreigners
cutting through my fence, leaving trash on my land.  
Who do they think they are?”
“We know who we are,” our host answered.  
“We’re the citizens who can band together, raise money
 and make a difference.  Who can help us this weekend?” 

As he enlisted his volunteers, my friend turned 
to me, asked, “What do you think?” I sifted my words carefully.  
“There’s a problem for sure,” I said, “but I don’t think this is the solution.  
Why not work with the government rather than do our own thing?”  
She stared through me a moment, said indignantly, “Some of us would 
work with them.  They don’t want to work with us.”  She abruptly turned 
to the man on her right, seeking more satisfying conversation.
I slipped out the door, past knots of eager volunteers 
making spy plans for the weekend, 
slid into my car and escaped,
pondering the threat from outside the border,
the more sinister threat from within.