What this blog is all about

With my last blog, I just jumped right in. I offered no explanation for why my blog exists and what I want to do with it over this semester. So that’s what I’m here to do. The name, Living on the Line, refers to growing up in a border town.

Growing up, I did realize that living where I did provided me with many unique experiences. I guess just how different life in a border town can be didn’t really hit me until I moved away. So I’d like to use this semester to dig into some of those differences. In my last blog I talked my experiences with illegal immigrants. But, constantly seeing illegal immigrants is only one of the many, many parts of living on the border.

There are so many things I could write about:

Attending the public schools in Bisbee was quite an experience. Being white made me the minority. I faced racial discrimination, and had to constantly defend myself- verbally and sometimes physically because I was a “white girl.”

Throughout my high school life I saw more drugs than what I now realize is normal for a high school student. The drug culture is huge in most border towns and even as a young girl it was hard to avoid.

The opportunities to experience another culture are everywhere. From going over to Mexico to get lunch on a weekend afternoon, to participating in a middle school exchange program with students in Mexico, to learning the language, living on the border lets you see Mexico in a way others can’t. And let’s not forget about the food. The authentic Mexican food cooked by my friend’s mothers just can’t be topped.

As 16 year old kids we could drive across the border and go to clubs at all hours of the night. The dangers we faced there were very real and when I look back on those experiences, I’m surprised nobody ever got hurt.

Those topics are just a few I would like to cover this semester. If there are any others that you readers would like to hear about, just let me know.

I get to decide their fate

Without any true qualifications and for really no good reason at all, I get to decide the fate of illegal immigrants trying to make their way into the United States.
My home in Bisbee is on the edge of town, three miles from the Mexican border. Our kitchen has a large bay window facing the unoccupied mountains that separate the US from Mexico. So when I emerge from bed in the morning, get my bowl of shredded wheat and plop down at our kitchen table, this is the picturesque view I enjoy. But far too often this docile scene is disrupted by a tired, hungry, and determined line of people walking steadily towards town.
So time and time again I am faced with the same decision; do I call the Border Patrol or do I let these people, who have spent their life savings, and risked their lives to get here, complete their journey? There are two very compelling arguments for both sides of this question and for a long time, without a strong opinion to pull me to one side or the other, I remained inactive. But right there I had made a decision. By not doing anything, I was helping all of these illegal immigrants successfully enter the United States.
The rants of our government and media saying, “We must protect our borders!” and their claims that terrorists could make their way into the US by crossing the Mexican border would creep into my mind. Arguments about the loss of jobs to illegal immigrants willing to work for far below minimum wage and the heavy burden that illegal immigrants put on our healthcare system would wander through my thoughts. But then I would look at them. It was not uncommon to see women and children walking through my “front yard.” I would imagine myself in their position: trying to make a better life for myself and my family, just trying to survive, and I was torn.
But then the problem got worse. Lines of up to twenty illegal immigrants were passing by every couple of days. Their paths were getting closer and closer to my house. And then finally, a man knocked on our door. In broken English he asked to use the phone. At first we refused, but when he came back a second time, he said his family needed help. We allowed him to use our phone, and shortly after a truck pulled up in front of our house and about fifteen people emerged from the bushes to pile in. He had lied. Most likely he was the coyote in charge of leading this group into the US. The following day eight more illegal immigrants were picked up in our driveway and with that, we called the Border Patrol. It seems they had tagged our house as a safe spot. Not calling was one thing, but actually aiding them was quite another.
Now, when we see those lines of solemn immigrants walking across the hills in front of my house, we feel compelled to call the Border Patrol. And with each one of those phone calls, I know that I have ruined someone’s dreams for a better life. But, I also know that I have done right by our government and by our law. But who is to say which is better. After all, just because our government decides something does not make it right. Overall, it is a decision that I feel unqualified to make, but Living on the Line forces me to do just that.