Big Bend, Part 1
If travel is a political act, as they say ("Is that a fact?" "No, it's not. It's just what I heard." "Who told you this?" "They." "They talk a lot, don't they?" "They certainly do."), then I want to get out and see more of the world. I'll be taking my son to see Queens and Manhattan later this year, which should be a satisfying culture shock for him as a white suburban native Texan whose only travel experience is a river rafting trip in Colorado last summer with a bunch of other white suburban native Texans. Money permitting, I'd like to do more traveling, especially with him. Last week, though, while he was spending Spring Break with his mother, I hit the road with my favorite adult person and set out to experience a part of the world neither of us had ever seen in person before: Big Bend National Park.
I understand that in-state travel is probably not what is indicated when someone declares, "Travel is a political act." Texas is large, though, and one part of it is not necessarily anything like another, and I have long understood that my little piece of Texas tends to be very different in many ways from the larger state in which it is nestled.
Even with in-state travel, though, in which we crossed no borders whatsoever, we did have the political experience of getting stopped at two "internal immigration checks" and getting pulled over and warned by a state trooper for driving 73 mph in a 70 mph zone. We were first stopped on our way to Big Bend, at the US Border Patrol Station in Sanderson. All westbound traffic was diverted into the station, with signage that read, "Have Documents Ready." We were asked, "Was everyone in the car born in the US?" and "Is there anyone else in the car?" presumably hiding beneath the cooler and bags in the back seat or secreted uncomfortably in the trunk.
We wondered, "Can they do this? We're on an east/west highway that doesn't ever cross the Mexican border." US Customs and Border Patrol cites a couple of laws and court cases that affirm their right to search vehicles within 100 miles of the border. They didn't really search our vehicle, but I imagine they would have if we had struck them as suspicious. I also imagine refusing to answer the "born in the US" question would have been suspicious. While it occurred to me at the time that it was my right and my duty to stand up against police state tactics not just for myself but for those in more tenuous situations than myself, I wasn't confident what exactly my rights actually were. So I passively followed instructions, and we were quickly sent on our way. That moment of fear, though, when an armed man asked, "Was everyone born in the US?" and the answer was, "No," though everyone in the car was entirely legal and in fact citizens, made it seem like this was inherently wrong. We should not have to be afraid of law enforcement when we're doing nothing wrong.
A few days later, on the way home, we were again diverted into the US Border Patrol Station near Alpine. This time, we were asked, "Is everyone in the car a US citizen?" which was a somewhat less nerve-wracking question because we could confidently declare, "Yes!" It came shortly after the state trooper pulled us over for a speed warning. Maybe that trooper was bored on a long, straight, empty stretch of road and just wanted something to do. My first thought was, "Can he even clock my speed while he's driving in the opposite direction?" The answer, apparently, is "yes." There's something called "moving radar." OK. Assuming he could clock me, would he stop me, all other things being equal, for exceeding the speed limit by 4%? It seemed like an excuse for a random check. He ran my license, looked at my insurance, wrote me a warning and made me sign it, and sent me on my way.
It occurred to me that this may all be "the theater of security," in which acting like you're doing something is thought to provide a certain measure of deterrent and to provide some percentage of the population the reassurance that they are indeed well protected. I suppose if something had set off the border agents' suspicion, we would have been searched and our documents examined, but stopping us, asking us, and taking our word for it seems both intrusive and ineffective.
In conclusion, living near the Mexican border seems to me like it would be a giant pain in the ass on the regular, especially for anyone with brown skin. The end!
I'll show you pictures and tell you how much fun we had later this week, if you're interested.
