The following is an example of a blog post written for The Center for Public Humanities. The original post can be found here: https://humanitiesinplace.wordpress.com/2018/11/19/where-the-border-wall-meets-the-sea/
During the last presidential election, one of President Trump’s favorite mantras was: “Build the wall,” a promise to construct a physical barrier between the U.S./Mexico border. But as I learned in my first year seminar on human migration, a border wall already exists along the most populated sections of the border. Inspired by my class, and armed with insatiable curiosity, I decided to visit the place where the already existing border wall ends. So I went to Mexico.
The drive from San Diego to the border was no longer than 30 minutes. When I arrived, I parked in a crowded parking lot and followed the crowds toward the port of entry. The path into the border at San Ysidro Crossing was nothing more than a wide sidewalk. At the mouth, long triangular slivers of chain link fence pierced the sky and leaned toward each other menacingly. The fence itself was a at least 20 feet tall and gleamed with newness. At the end of this cattle chute were two large turnstiles with a gigantic sign over top: MEXICO. Truth be told, I was excited and nervous. I had no idea what waited for me on the other side. I wandered along with my fellow cows through a line or two, and after an hour wait, I emerged on the other side of the border.
For just a couple dollars, I caught an uber and directed it toward “El muro en la playa” or the wall on the beach. As we drove, we followed the wall for a few miles on our right side. It was a rusty, sheet metal barrier on the Mexican side. On the American, a paved, double chain link fence with barb wire wrapped around the top in an eternal spiral. I thought that it was apparent which side valued its security more. We descended into a valley and I examined the stacks of houses towering above us on our left. To our right, the border wall dove into the valley and climbed the mountain like a tightened velcro strip. In a few accessible spots, the wall was tagged with graffiti. One tag read, “Todos somos migrantes.” We are all migrants.
It’s true. Human migration is a natural part of life. On a micro-scale, children grow and move out of their family homes, perhaps to another town or state. We pass between countries and take up residence in safer areas. War, famine, starvation, and conflict push us out of our comfort zones. So we migrate. Whether it be Syrians fleeing the destruction of their nation or my great-great Grandparents leaving Ireland because there was not enough food to go around, humans migrate.
As my quick and convenient migration came to a close, I hopped out of my uber at the beach and took a moment to absorb the sights. To my left, families vacationed on the beach, laughing and splashing as mariachi groups wandered the sand, serenading those who could afford it. It reminded me of the vacations my own family would take to Ocean City, where we would play and listen to music. The beach seemed to be an infinite horizon up and down the East Coast. Here, the beach was cut short by a vertical wall. The section of the wall closest to me had art deliberately painted onto the rusty surface. Further down, the wall shifted to simple black beams as it promptly ended 200 feet into the water. I could picture myself swimming around it.
A small line of people had formed at an especially wide break between the beams. One at a time, they would walk up and stick an arm through the wall, all the way to the shoulder. They’d wave at the U.S. Border Patrol jeep parked a few hundreds yard away. For a moment, these tourists had technically “crossed” the border. Each inch of their arm a quantifiable test of the Border patrol’s legalism. I felt tempted to join, but a moment’s contemplation held me back; I could legally get back across in under an hour. A group of men stood and smoked, leaning onto the bars and looking at the distant San Diego. Closer to the water, a group of children splashed and looked through the bars as the tide washed up the U.S. side and drained out on the Mexican side. Seagulls sang and passed freely overtop of it. Clams had made their bed along the frame of the wall and disappeared into the surf.
Nature clearly had no feelings about this rusting wall. The passage of nature was undeterred by the American construction. But what fascinated me most was how the humans around the wall chose to interact. Whether it was leaning on it as a means of respite, contemplation, or to throw sand from one side of another, the wall acted as a magnet to those around it. You simply could not not touch it. It was just a wall. Wrought out of iron or steel and plunged into the sand. But it symbolized and symbolizes so much more. This wall was built to keep people out, but the spaces in between its metal bars allow viewers to look and dream anyway. You can slow movement, but you can never stop a vision.
This rotting metal monstrosity does not represent the founding myth of the American experiment. America was founded by migrants fleeing from religious oppression. Migration has been at the heart of the American dream since the very beginning. Enshrined on the American Statue of Liberty is a poem that reads, “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Sure, countries should defend their borders. But the rhetoric of a wall which we strengthen or build to keep certain people out, rejects our declaration of acceptance of huddled masses. As Kirk Semple reported in his New York Times piece, an overly-politicized caravan of migrants arrived this week at the same port of entry in Tijuana that I so freely passed through. Comprised of mostly families, these migrants flee systemic violence and poverty in Honduras. With so few options, their mental calculus has left them with this one option. Now, they are applying for asylum. Some will most likely receive it. They will all wait longer than my half hour drive back to San Diego.
As I think back on my experience in this place, I realize that a pursuit of the common good requires us to look past the walls that we build around our own lives. We must see past our friend circles, communities, and invisible lines which divide us. These false divisions that we create only serve exclusivity and they certainly do not foster the good of all. Sometimes, these divisions are border lines. The common good of humanity cannot possibly be defined by lines drawn in the sand. It is up to us to wash them away.
As I stared through the wall at a twinkling San Diego, miles away, I realized that I will never know what it means to press into that cold, oxidized metal and know that is the obstacle keeping me from safety or separating me from my loved ones. My return home required a walk through a well-lit hallway and a glance at my passport from a border agent. The process took 30 seconds. For some of our neighbors, this process of admittance can take a lifetime or it may not happen at all.
I can only imagine the feeling.