Today I stood as an observer at the Border Patrol checkpoint on Arivaca Rd. I arrived at 7:30am, just before the bright yellow school buses rolled through. Cars, one after another, passed through the checkpoint stopped briefly to answer the BP's question about citizenship. About 9:30 I spotted a man walking far out in the field; was he a local man taking a short cut? No, this field doesn't belong to a ranch; it is broad and tree covered. The man carried a bag slung over his shoulder, he was short and walked slowly, deliberately. He walked toward us, the "observers". There were three of us. As he drew closer, we realized he was a migrant. If he stayed back a bit, in the trees he could walk right past the checkpoint and out to the road, He could continue, but he walked slowly, thoughtfully forward. He came to a stop about 20 feet from us. It was too far away for us to approach him without calling attention to him, but close enough to see his face; his tired demeanor, his worn clothing. Then a Border Patrol officer saw him. The officer climbed over the fence and slowly walked in his direction. He towered over the short, dark haired man. They spoke quietly for a few moments, then turned and walked toward the Border Patrol checkpoint. He was processed and put in the agent's car and driven away. His dream ended there on Arivaca Rd. His hopes and wishes were left in that field. His silence and sober look spoke volumes to us, who could only stand and watch.
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