What if I had stayed the night down at New Mexico’s southern border? Suppose I’d pitched my tent among the bunchgrass and tumbleweeds off the side of NM-81, at the edge of someone’s ranch just north of the Antelope Wells port of entry.
I’d probably have had a frosty, wind-tossed night alone under the Milky Way.
Unless, by chance, I was there on one of the nights when a large group of migrants crossed.
They’d come by bus on Carretera Federal 2, the Mexican highway that runs parallel to the border a couple miles to the south. Dozens of families, parents shushing their children, teens who’d traveled a thousand miles or more alone through Mexico. They’d be wearing sweatshirts and jackets, hats, but nothing heavy enough to guard against the dangerously cold desert air.
At first I wouldn’t realize they were out there, walking toward me through the sand. Then I’d hear not just the wind against my tent—not just coyotes rustling in the brush—but human voices in the distance. Some Spanish, some Q’eqchi’ or other Mayan languages. Whispers; a shout or two to call for help.
Antelope Wells, hardly a place, unincorporated land, forty-five miles south of the last populated place on the highway. Antelope Wells, population: 2—the two Customs and Border officers on duty.
If I camped out there in the freezing night, on the edge of federal land or state highway or private ranch, my presence would increase the population by 50%. Antelope Wells, population: 3.
With each migrant slipping through the barbed wire fence from Mexico into New Mexico, the population would grow and grow. In a matter of minutes it would increase a hundredfold. Antelope Wells, population: please line up so we can count as we take you into custody.