Rio Grande Guardians
SAN PEDRO AND LA PALOMA, TEXAS
WHEN I FIRST CALLED BILL ROVIRA, THE LEAD REPORTER FOR the Internet-based periodical Rio Grande Guardian, he had agreed immediately to meet us and to set up appointments on the Mexican side with several of his best contacts. First, we would meet with a local businessman who served as the chamber of commerce president for Progreso. The plan was to talk with him about border economics.
Though we had lost time in the storm and the detour by the college, I argued for sticking with our original plan to take the roads that hug the border, in this case, Texas Route 281, the Military Highway. Hope agreed—as long as I let Bill know. After some wrong turns and backtracking, we finally found the two-lane and in a minute or so it seemed we were in Mexico—the houses, cars, and people all looked the part—except that the border wall was to our south, cutting through the backyards of the houses on our left as we headed west. It was made of upright metal posts perhaps five inches in diameter and fifteen feet in height. The spaces between them were presumably too small for a human head to fit through. Not altogether unattractive, the fence in that area allowed the southern light to shine through, and we could see to the other side when looking straight on. Viewed from an angle, however, the posts ran together, the light closed off, and the wall appeared to solidify, an optical illusion. The fence seemed to undulate as light through the posts came and went. We would learn that the fence along the border had many different designs.
A gap in the border wall at Los Indios near Progreso, Texas.
As we drove along, I could see fields between the wall and the meandering and now swollen river. Periodically there were dirt or gravel roads that turned left off 281 and headed south leading to those agricultural fields. There were no signs or barricades at the openings—just a road leading to the other side, all clearly north of the river. Trying to make sense of the scene, I asked Hope, “Isn’t that Mexico on the other side of the wall?”
“I assume so, why else would there be a wall?”
“But that’s north of the river. I have to go see!” I started looking for the next turnoff. Seeing one ahead, I gave a quick signal and cut into the gravel road that led straight through the wall. “I’ll just get a picture of this opening and then we’ll go.”
There was no sign of any kind, but still I felt sheepish about driving through, so I stopped a hundred feet or so from the gap and walked with my camera up the dirt road to the soggy ground near the fence and framed the shot. The angle wasn’t quite right. I looked around to make sure no one was looking and then stepped through the gap, trying to capture a particular curvature in the wall with just the right light.
Just as I pressed the shutter release, I caught sight of the fast-approaching green and white truck out of the corner of my right eye. The truck was traveling from the west on a dirt road paralleling the south side of the wall. I stepped back through the wall toward the car and made sure to act as if I was doing nothing wrong. Remember, I told myself, nothing told you to keep out. You’re still in the United States. Smile and be friendly.
The female agent in the truck smiled back at me, said hello, and asked what I was up to. I replied, “Just taking some pictures of the border wall and the opening here. I’m just seeing it for the first time.” She didn’t seem worried, and I turned to go. Then suddenly another white and green truck came rushing toward the gap from the east. The driver parked next to the other, now blocking the opening as if I might make a run for Mexico. The second officer was male and did not smile. The female officer spoke with him out of my hearing, presumably telling him what I had said. I waved and headed back toward the car. They watched as I opened the rear car door. They just wanted me to leave, and that’s what I was doing.
Then I thought for a second, got out two of my business cards, picked up the camera again, and walked back toward the two trucks, shutting the door. “What are you doing?” Hope asked just as the door closed.
I opened the driver’s door. “I need to ask some questions. I’ll be right back.”
I approached the foreboding male agent’s truck and addressed him. He looked pissed off. I said, “I just wanted to know whether I was doing anything wrong.”
The agents remained in their vehicles. I walked up closer to their trucks to hear the answer. He did all of the talking. “You are not permitted to go through the fence,” he barked. I guess that was supposed to be self-explanatory, but there was nothing saying not to go through, I pointed out. Then he asked my name. I handed each of them a business card and said, “I’m studying immigration and border policy. I wanted to see firsthand and take pictures of what our government is up to here so that I can show my students and write about the experience.”
He looked scornful and said: “You came all the way down here from North Carolina just to see this?”
“I believe it’s my duty as a citizen to know about the border,” I answered, trying to act professional.
“I’m going tell my commanding officer about you. You’ll be hearing from him about this.”
I didn’t take the bait. “That’s fine. I’d like to talk with him.” I thanked him, turned, and walked toward the car again, feeling the hardness of his stare on my back. I took my time putting away my camera, and we drove away. “I’m glad I went back,” I said to Hope.
As we drove west, a verse from Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land”—the one about a no trespassing sign—came to me, as it had started to regularly on the trip. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to sing it; it just wouldn’t go away. I’d once heard a recording on the radio of Woody Guthrie’s unmistakable voice singing it and had remembered these words, ones that they usually leave out of songbooks: “There was a big high wall there that tried to stop me. / The sign was painted, said ‘Private Property.’ / But on the backside, it didn’t say nothing. / This land was made for you and me.” Though there had not been any signs, I thought, the message got delivered anyway, that the land between the wall and border, still squarely in America as far as the river boundary goes, was definitely not made for you and me.