My disappearance to the desert

With all the talk about gangs of criminals at the southern U.S. border, I wanted to see for myself what was going on. Trumpublicans claim to be securing the border, but what they’ve actually done is beef-up border patrol and cancel all appointments for legal asylum seekers. As a middle-aged woman, I already know we can’t believe a word these chuckleheads say, but the older I get the more I realize why women my age choose to stay home and knit.
Luckily, becoming invisible has its advantages— like moving more freely through this youth-obsessed culture. I recently met my future self, wearing a fashionable muumuu like Parker Posey’s character in White Lotus (season three), going into Walgreen’s to pick up some more sunscreen and vodka. Nobody asks or cares where we’re going or why at this age and frankly, it’s kind of freeing to be so underestimated. I think this is where bobble-heads run into trouble; they’re afraid to embrace their natural anonymity. Instead, they go chasing after an illusion of eternal youth through plastic surgery and end up looking like a muppet. Most unfortunate.
One day, in the middle of laugh/cry/screaming at their scary surprised faces on social media, I came across Humane Borders: a non-profit with the mission to create a just and humane environment in the borderlands. I immediately signed up to volunteer, excited to meet these do-gooders who simply go into the desert to check on water stations. Water stations are 55-gallon barrels of potable water secured in remote areas of southern Arizona, each with a blue flag flying thirty feet in the air. Water for all.
Since the militarized closure of urban immigration portals like Tijuana and El Paso in the 1990s, more humans fleeing impoverished and corrupt countries, seeking the opportunity to live a safe and productive life, have been funneled into crossing the Sonoran Desert on foot. This journey is dangerous and deadly, especially because it is impossible to carry enough water to make it through. Humane Borders maintains and replaces water barrels in places so dry and desolate they can literally mean the difference between life and death.
For my first water run, I set my alarm to meet up at Humane Borders on Saturday morning before sunrise. Loading up our gear, snacks, and water bottles, everyone looked bright-eyed and crisp as we headed out in large 4wheel drive trucks with water tanks on the back. Our first stop was on a pecan farm with the sun rising through the perfectly aligned rows of trees. A family of deer ran diagonally through the farm, followed a minute later by a coyote, casually trotting along. We poured some of the water into a cup for testing and tasting, checked the water level and barrel for damage or leaks, looked around the area for signs of use and then got back in the truck.
The day warmed up quickly, each stop hotter than the last, as we peeled off our extra layers of clothing and rolled down the truck windows for a breeze. By mid-morning we were pulling out apples and granola bars. I drained the last drops from my water bottle before reaching into my bag for extra water. As I looked out my window at the indifference of the desert and the heat mirages that looked like pools of water in the distance, but weren’t, I felt invisible in a whole new way. And lonely, even though I was in a truck with three other people.
We came over the top of a steep hill and suddenly there were R.O.U.S.s (Rodents Of Unusual Size) in all sizes running across the road. Javelinas!
After countless gates with rancher-style wire closures and deep bounces through hardened mud ruts in the dirt backroads, we were back on the highway with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning turned on. Everyone was quiet, in their own thoughts. I looked out my window at the vast expanse of empty land where thousands of people have each lost their life, just for trying to make it better. I felt sad, tired, lucky, and a little burnt.
Trump hasn’t secured the U.S. border, but he has increased the odds of death from dehydration and exposure.