Earl Tulley, 63, spotted the sign in the community where he was born as the coronavirus rips through the largest reservation in the United States. In rural communities, he said, locals and relatives tend to look out for one another and check in on their neighbors. Now, with the coronavirus pandemic, residents still share resources, like food, and reach out to each other but from a distance. 

“In case of emergency, I can shine my mirror against the sun to my neighbors across the valley,” said Tulley, an environmentalist and executive office veteran liaison for the Navajo Housing Authority. “They know to come over.”

The Navajo Nation covers over 27,000 square miles, sprawling across Arizona, Utah and New Mexico. Home to about 175,000 people, the Indian country has reported 2,654 Covid-19 cases and 85 deaths as of Thursday. It has the third-highest infection rate in the United States behind New York and New Jersey, and a per capita infection rate 10 times higher than Arizona. 

The Navajo Nation has reported reported 2,654 Covid-19 cases and 85 deaths as of Thursday. It has the third-highest infection rate in the United States behind New York and New Jersey. Photo of a sunrise courtesy of Earl Tulley

Before the pandemic, however, the Navajo, or Diné, people faced another kind of crisis: limited health care facilities, a prevalence of conditions like heart diseases and diabetes, few grocery stores and scarcity of running water. Now, these factors further complicate the Covid-19, or Dikos Ntsaaígíí-19, emergency in the community. 

“Do you wash your hands or do you quench your thirst?” Tulley said. “That is something that a number of families are faced with right now.”

An estimated 30 percent of the community’s population does not have access to clean, reliable drinking water, and has to haul it from watering points due to severe infrastructure deficiencies, according to the Navajo Nation Department of Water Resources. 

“Water comes at a premium,” Tulley said. “If you count the payment of the wear and tear on the vehicle and the payment of utilizing water, it’s calculated somewhere in the neighborhood of about $40 a gallon, because you’re your own utility provider.”

Under strict curfews, lockdowns and checkpoints to curb the spread of the coronavirus, a trip to haul water can be a struggle. The city of Gallup, in New Mexico, is a regional watering hole, and the trek to the community has been a practice of local tribes for generations. On the first day of the month, Tulley said, people tend to visit the city to socialize and haul water. This May 1, however, Gallup was placed under lockdown. 

New Mexico Gov. Michelle Lujan Grisham on Friday invoked the state’s Riot Control Act to close off all roads leading to Gallup, in McKinley County, “to mitigate the uninhibited spread of COVID-19 in that city.” McKinley County accounts for nearly 30 percent of coronavirus cases in the state. The lockdown, requested by the city’s mayor, is scheduled to end today.

“I believe that those individuals that live closer to the watering hole basically depended too much upon it,” said Tulley. “I don’t think that they could phathom or even comprehend that Gallup would ever do this. But, with the pandemic that is happening now, some of the people are saying, ‘You know what, it’s about time.’”

On top of lack of running water, there is also the issue of quality. Water in communities like east To’hajiilee, in New Mexico, have high sulfur content, Tulley said. “There’s nothing wrong with it as far as health wise, but the stench and the smell of sulfur water is really, really bad,” he said. “It does wear and tear on your plumbing, and if you have a porcelain sink or a ceramic sink, then you can see the yellow marks.” 

Difficulties to drive to haul water apply to the struggle to buy supplies during the pandemic, too. Roughly the size of West Virginia, the Navajo Nation has only 13 grocery stores, so residents drive hundreds of miles to border towns for groceries. 

“Not very many people have transportations, and so those individual families who are not blessed to have a vehicle, then they would have to hitchhike,” said Tulley. “It’s not going to the corner market.” 

Environmentalist Earl Tulley delivers a box of food to Dennis Charley in Tachee, Arizona. Photo courtesy of Earl Tulley

Recently, Tulley participated in a community effort to distribute 80,000 pounds of food on the reservation. The food distributed came from humanitarian aid collected in Salt Lake City, Utah, and went to several communities in the territory, from Farmington to Crown Point. 

Rural families like Tulley’s have adapted to living within their means, herding sheep and depending on live stock. “If you’re able to go out into Mother Nature’s garden,” he said, “then you pretty much have a greater understanding as to how to live off the land.” 

Like grocery stores, health facilities are limited on the reservation. There are 12 healthcare centers in the Navajo Nation and nearby areas, according to the Indian Health Service. In March, the tribe reported that it had 170 hospital beds, 13 intensive care unit beds, 52 isolation rooms and 28 ventilators. 

“If you are working and you have insurance, the possibility of having your own specialists, your own doctor, that would be a blessing,” Tulley said. “But in many of our Navajo communities, people are dependent, and the only resource that they have, as far as Western medicine or medical care, is going to be through the public health service or the Indian Health Service.”

Navajo Nation President Jonathan Nez said that federal aid began to trickle into the Indian country in April and that the Indian Health Service facilities received vital equipment. Last month, the community distributed rapid test kits, protective equipment and 50 ventilators.

Nez said the community has not received the emergency funds needed for testing and equipment. The Navajo Nation is set to receive $600 million in federal funding from the distribution of the Coronavirus Aid, Relief and Economic Security (CARES) Act. 

As the coronavirus tears through his tribe, Tulley has taken the time to share with his four grandchildren and teach them to garden. He tells them that, if they plant a seed in the ground, they must nurture and sing to it so it can grow. 

He reassures them that life will come back to normal at some point.

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Claire Swinford, the director of Trans Haven, speaks at a rally at the Arizona State Capitol in Phoenix. Photo courtesy of Claire Swinford.

Claire Swinford, 41, was living in Tucson, Ariz. when she went to her designated polling location at a nearby church to vote in local elections in 2010. Swinford, a transgender woman, was in the early stages of her gender transition, and her driver’s license still bore a male gender marker.

Although Arizona required a second piece of identification, it could range from a phone bill to a driver’s license. She pulled out her driver’s license, and even though the information matched her voter registration card, the poll worker stopped her and said the ID didn’t match her voter registration card.

“The poll worker said, ‘This is not you,’” said Swinford. “Of course I protested that and said it was.”

Eventually she spoke with the poll supervisor and finally the Pima County Elections Department, before the poll worker allowed her to vote.

“That was a very embarrassing experience for me,” she said. “In retrospect, it is very worrisome to me because it is an embarrassing, difficult experience a lot of people would walk away from.”

A recent study released by the Williams Institute warned of potential disenfranchisement that could occur for at least 25,000 transgender voters in states with strict photo identification requirements, including Georgia, Indiana, Kansas, Mississippi, South Carolina, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Texas, and Wisconsin.

According to the report, 41 percent of transgender people did not have an updated driver’s license, which, depending on the state, may require a transgender person to show proof of having undergone sex reassignment surgery.

“Our main concern for trans people is the gender marker,” said Marisa Richmond, the President of the Transgender Political Coalition based out of Nashville, Tenn. who battled the state’s recently enshrined voter ID law for years.

“Although people can change the gender on their driver’s licenses, there is a surgical requirement,” said Richmond. “We’re particularly worried about the impact of that on people in the rural part of the state.”

Many trans activists view such surgical standards as antiquated and imposing medical procedures on people who may not want them, let alone be able to afford them.

“Most transgender people do not want sex reassignment surgery,” said Pauline Park, the chair of the New York Association for Gender Rights Advocacy and president of the board of directors of Queens Pride House. “Most who do want it cannot get it.”

Additionally, guidelines for sex reassignment surgeries can differ from state to state and the medical requirements can be vague, varying also on whether the person is transitioning from male to female or female to male.

Even in those states without strict photo identification, transgender voters face bias and disenfranchisement—often because of discrepancies in name.

“It’s very narrowly construed,” said Dr. Jody Herman, the author of the Williams Institute report. “It’s an underestimate of what could happen. I had to limit my analysis to IDs that had a gender marker. We didn’t have name change to look at.”

Kit Yan, 28, a slam poet living in Brooklyn said he continually faced bias at the polling booth in Prospect Heights, even though New York does not require a photo ID in order to vote.

“The poll worker did not believe that the name was not mine and made a scene out of it,” said Yan.

“It felt pretty humiliating at the time,” said Yan. “It was disruptive to the voting process for everybody else there at the time.”

Voting is just one part of a complex network of bureaucratic and legal issues that transgender people face when trying to change their name or gender on required identification documents.

“It’s complicated in this country because we have a very decentralized system of governance operating on the local, state, and federal levels with multiple agencies,” said Park.

In order to change their name or gender marker on documents, transgender people must to go to different government agencies, such as the DMV, the Passport Bureau, the U.S. Post Office, and others in order to make the required changes.

“In the state of New York, there are judges who will say you have to come back with sex change proof for name change, but there is nothing in New York State or City law that prevents someone from changing their name,” said Park. “You can change your name to an absurd one like Napoleon Bonaparte.”

Often, local officials are the ones who exercise discretion in bureaucratic matters.

“ID is extraordinarily arbitrary,” said Park. “It’s about who you encounter at the DMV or the judge.”

In an effort to raise awareness among transgender voters and poll workers, the National Center for Transgender Equality launched an initiative called “Voting While Trans.”

“We started to understand that people did not understand the nature of the challenge,” said Mara Keisling, the Executive Director of the National Center for Transgender Equality. “We wanted to make sure people really understood what could happen.”

“Anytime you have a societal or civic function that requires identification it’s going to disproportionately affect trans people,” said Keisling.

Due to the highly personal nature of the interaction between a poll worker and voter, many advocates, including the NCTE, are attempting to educate poll workers.

Swinford, who now lives in Missouri where she is the Director of Trans Haven, a trans advocacy group based in St. Louis, tried to get her organization to be a part of a local training for poll workers. Even though they were denied for scheduling reasons, she also has encouraged transgender people to become volunteers at the polls themselves.

“By having volunteers as the poll workers there’s kind of an informal training process, we believe that will help,” she said.

Many transgender rights advocates like Swinford believe that it is lack of understanding rather than ill will that underlies these interactions.

“I really don’t think that poll worker was being malicious,” she said referring to her experience in Tucson. “I think there’s a lack of training on gender identity. There are ways directly and indirectly we can build that awareness.”

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The Border Project: The Thin Line from Rachel Wise on Vimeo.

The post The Border Project: The Thin Line appeared first on Pavement Pieces.

Immigration in Arizona from Elisa Lagos on Vimeo.

The post The Border Project: Defying danger, immigrants flow into U.S. appeared first on Pavement Pieces.

Glenn Spencer, 73, points to a section of fence that separates Arizona and Mexico. Spencer runs American Border Patrol, a group that patrols the border using small planes and thermal-imaging cameras. Photo by Jonathan Walczak

HEREFORD, Ariz. – Standing on his front porch, about 1,000 feet from the Arizona-Mexico border, Glenn Spencer looks south as storm clouds gather and a cool breeze stirs across the darkening desert.

Spencer, 73, runs a civilian border patrol group that claims 12,000 supporters. But today, he stands alone, his eyes scanning the horizon as a light rain begins to fall.

Then his seven German shepherds start to bark.

“What’s wrong?,” he yells, turning to them. “Didn’t I tell you we were having visitors today?”

Spencer, in a dark blue polo shirt and a cream-colored baseball cap, walks to a piano in his living room and sits down. His face hardens in concentration, and his fingers move swiftly over the piano’s keys.

One by one, the dogs lay down, comforted by the music.

“There we go,” he says as he rises, smiling. “It works every time.”

Border patrol volunteers diverse, leaders say

Since March, when the most famous civilian border organization, the “Minutemen,” disbanded, smaller groups like Spencer’s American Border Patrol have jostled for donor dollars, volunteers and the chance to influence the future of the civilian border patrol movement.

Though they are often portrayed as one-dimensional racists and dangerous vigilantes, the movement’s volunteers come from all walks of life – retired grandmothers, active duty soldiers, people with a wide variety of political beliefs and even Latinos.

Like Spencer, they have complex personalities. Some volunteer for groups like American Border Patrol, which flies missions over the border in small planes and uses heat-sensing cameras to detect illegal immigrants.

Others, however, resort to more aggressive tactics.

Some members of one new group, U.S. Border Guard, which patrols an area 60 to 80 miles north of the border, carry machine guns and grenade launchers.

The group’s leader, Jason “J.T.” Ready, who the Southern Poverty Law Center has labeled a neo-Nazi, says volunteers on patrol in early October even chased drug smugglers for 30 hours at one point.

For his critics, Ready, 34, has a defiant message.

“If they don’t want people out there who are controversial, then come secure the border and those people won’t be out there,” he says. “I’ll send them home to a barbecue or something.”

Rancher death, Arizona law fuel revival

Several events this spring, all in rapid succession, helped fuel a revival of the civilian border patrol movement.

On March 23, the Minuteman Civil Defense Corps, as the group was officially known, announced it was disbanding.

Four days later, Robert Krentz, a rancher in Cochise County, Ariz., the same county as Spencer, was shot and killed, allegedly by an immigrant or drug smuggler.

“There’s no political way to spin people with fully automatic weapons and grenades from another country bringing in drugs and shooting at you,” Ready says. “There’s just absolutely no excuse for that.”

In April, a month after Krentz died, Arizona Gov. Jan Brewer signed SB 1070, a controversial law that once again thrust illegal immigration into the national spotlight.

Krentz’s murder and the controversy in Arizona served as rallying cries for a new batch of border volunteers. And with the dissolution of the Minutemen, they have increasingly joined smaller groups or started their own organizations.

Groups confront accusations of racism

In order to grow and in pursuit of mainstream influence, leaders like Spencer and Pat Byrne, executive director of the Patriots Coalition, say they’ve had to overcome the perception that their groups are motivated primarily by racism and xenophobia.

Spencer, who notes that he once ran a company with Native Americans and counts many Jews as friends, and Byrne, who says his group includes Latinos, seem especially sensitive to charges of bigotry.

“Our group chaplain was a guy named Gomez,” Byrne says. “Got a Villanueva. Got some real great guys in Houston who are Hispanic.”

Moderate leaders like Byrne and Spencer are quick to distance themselves from people like Ready, who has been labeled a neo-Nazi, though he disputes the term.

“To me, that’s like calling a black person a nigger,” Ready says. “I don’t think you’d do that. But it seems to be socially acceptable to call someone a neo-Nazi.”

Personal beliefs aside, Ready says he welcomes all volunteers into his group.

“I don’t care if you’re a Black Panther or a neo-Nazi,” he says. “It’s about patrolling the border. And if that means having so-called neo-Nazis on the border, I’ll utilize anybody.”

Volunteers share common goal, but diverge on methods

While the groups share a common goal, leaders like Spencer and Byrne complain they are often clumped together, even though they have very different, nuanced methods.

Spencer – who founded American Border Patrol in 2002, and whose ranch is dotted with all kinds of gadgets – has a $100,000 thermal imaging camera in his yard that can spot humans from five miles away. To demonstrate the power of the technology, he hops on his computer, brings up a live image and zooms in on several white blobs walking a mile away on the Mexican side of the border.

“Cows,” he says.

But Byrne’s group, the Patriots Coalition, has taken a different route than Spencer’s technology-centered approach, or Ready’s heavily armed patrols, by focusing on finding a political solution.

Volunteers hold rallies, lobby politicians, picket locations where day laborers congregate and, in some instances, photograph people coming in and out of Mexican consulates.

“It makes them crazy,” Byrne says.

On Veteran’s Day, Byrne, who served in the Marines in the 1950s and ’60s, puts on his Marine Corps League costume, “a real cool costume with all kinds of medals and crap,” he says, and confronts politicians at parades.

“Because they can’t mess with a six-foot five-inch, 250-pound Marine on Veteran’s Day, right?,” he says, laughing.

Glenn Spencer, president of American Border Patrol, points to video taken by his $100,000 thermal-imaging camera of what he says are drug smugglers climbing over the border fence. Photo by Jonathan Walczak

Immigrants, volunteers face more danger

The proliferation of smaller, locally-organized groups has endangered immigrants, says Jennifer Allen, executive director of the human rights group Border Action Network.

“There are no checks and balances, a way to control and contain them, and the potential for egregious acts of violence is much greater,” she says.

Between 1999 and 2005, when the civilian border patrol movement really took off, Allen says her organization documented about 1,000 cases of immigrants who were detained by what she calls “vigilante groups.”

“In some of those instances, people have been shot at, they’ve been kicked, they’ve had their hair pulled out, they’ve been verbally and physically abused,” she says. “The implication, the consequence of groups setting out and patrolling along the border is that, indeed, Latinos are huntable prey, are less than human.”

Border volunteers, too, face increased danger, as Mexican drug cartels wage an ongoing war.

The Border Patrol says it has warned the groups of the dangers they face.

Eric Cantu, a spokesman for the Tucson Sector of the Border Patrol, says the groups are “completely independent” of the agency, and it “has nothing to do with them,” although Spencer, Byrne and Ready all dispute that.

Thousands protest illegal immigration with small flags

Spencer, having calmed his dogs and attended to a brief emergency – “The camera may have been hit by lightning,” he says – walks to a large golden Hummer parked in front of his ranch.

As he traverses the short drive to the aptly named “Border Road,” which parallels the border, he apologizes for the dirt-caked interior of the vehicle.

Border volunteers are more energized than at any point in the past five years, Spencer, Byrne and Ready say. But they are also aware that the civilian border patrol movement is at a crossroads.

So far, the movement has succeeded in its main goal, they say – drawing national attention to illegal immigration – but it remains to be seen if volunteers will be as successful now that they have splintered into smaller groups.

After briefly chatting with a passing Border Patrol agent, Spencer hits the brakes and jumps out. Navigating over small puddles of caramel-colored mud, he points to hundreds of small, weather-worn American flags tied to a section of the fence.

“There were 13,000 of these,” he says. “People sent them from all over for me to put up.”

The messages attached to these flags hint at the boiling discontent that motivates thousands to volunteer their time and donate money to civilian border patrol groups.

“We Americans have had enough,” one says. “Stay on your side of the border.”

Glenn Spencer, president of American Border Patrol, plays the piano in his living room to calm his seven German shepherds. Photo by Jonathan Walczak

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Bill Odle, 70, stands on his property, less than 400 feet from the Arizona-Mexico border. Photo by Rachel Morgan

Conchise County, Ariz — Bill Odle lives 385 feet from the border wall that separates Arizona and Mexico — so close he can see it from his straw-bale house.

And he’s seen firsthand the environmental degradation the 670-mile fence has inflicted on the surrounding area.

The $3.7 billion fence was intended to serve as a solid barrier between Arizona and Mexico to prevent illegal immigrants and drugs from passing over the border. What it has done instead is fragment an already stretched environment and prevent animals from accessing large portions of their habitats, which is pushing some toward extinction. It has even caused flooding in border areas.

“It’s just so enraging to have this put up, and it’s only harmful,” Odle said.

Odle’s 50-acre plot is located along the border in Cochise County, Ariz. He moved to the area in 2000, so he’s seen the area before, during and after construction of the wall, which went up in his area about two and a half years ago.

“When this first went up, I’d drive along and deer would be ahead of you; and they’d go a ways and try and go south, and they couldn’t cross,” he said. “I followed them a mile or so, and they eventually just went north.”

While Odle is not a rancher, he is very much an outdoors man — his eco-friendly straw-bale house and solar energy use can attest to that. A former Marine and Vietnam veteran, he wears a denim shirt, khaki shorts and a stained white hat. He drives a massive white truck with a National Rifle Association sticker affixed to the back window. Odle also cares deeply about the local wildlife.

“We’d see rabbits — rabbits can’t get through. Or roadrunners,” he said. “Well, who cares about rabbits and roadrunners? Well, I do. And it really pisses me off that this thing affects those critters the way it does. It’s really tragic.”

Bill Odle, who lives next to the border wall, says he's seen first-hand its negative environmental impact. Photo by Rachel Morgan

About a mile from Odle’s property, the wall abruptly ends over the San Padro River. There, the only barriers are sparse, steel beams low to the ground. If they can fly under the radar of the Border Patrol, who regularly patrols this area, it seems almost effortless for humans to cross here.

Animals don’t have it so easy.

They don’t have critical thinking and reasoning skills like people do, Odle said. “The animals aren’t like, ‘The word’s out; we can cross here.’ It doesn’t work like that.”

Odle isn’t the only one who sees the wall as a serious environmental hazard.

Environmentalists warn of habitat fragmentation, habitat destruction and hydrological issues.

“We’re talking about a solid barrier that’s chopping ecosystems in two,” said Dan Millis of the Sierra Club’s Rincon Group. “Migration corridors are being blocked, and that can have a huge impact, not only to (animals’) access to food and water, but to their genetic variability and basically the strength of the whole species.”

Randy Serraglio of the Center for Biological Diversity points out that habitat destruction is more extensive than most people realize.

“There’s a lot of other land that’s disturbed along with the border wall than this tiny little strip of land that everyone thinks is so innocuous,” he said. “(The Border Patrol) still has to drive will-nilly all over the desert to apprehend these people. … The operation support activities do more damage than the wall itself.”

In 2005, The REAL ID Act allowed for the waiver of 36 environmental laws  so the wall could be built, laws that conserved migration patterns, maintained clean air and water, and protected endangered species.

Now, species such as the mountain lion and the endangered ocelots and jaguarundi are feeling the effects of the fence, Millis said. Other environmentalists name the jaguar, the long-nosed bat, the masked bobwhite quail and the Sonoran pronghorn as species that have suffered.

Serraglio warns some species will go extinct if the problem is not remedied.

“Any further construction of the wall, and we can pretty much say goodbye to jaguars in the United States,” he said.

Flooding is another issue. Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, in the Sonoran Desert area, and the cities of Nogales, Ariz., and Nogales, Mexico, experienced flooding that some environmentalists attribute to the wall.

“You had six feet of water on the Mexican side of the wall, and only a foot or two on the U.S. side, so it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the wall is playing a part in the hydrological disaster,” Millis said.

The flooding in Nogales caused the death of two people in 2008. Today, in Nogales, Mexico, the ironic words, ‘Walls are scars on the earth,’ are scrawled across the metal wall in white spray paint.

It’s easy to see how the wall can cause flooding. Near Odle’s land, debris of grass, vegetation, clothing, shoes and discarded water bottles form somewhat of a dam on the Mexican side of the fence.

Debris can easily accumulate against the border wall, as it does near Bill Odle's home. Photo by Rachel Morgan

“The fact (is) that it affects the wildlife, the environment,” Odle said. “You can see the flooding that occurs down here — that’s another aspect of it. But it doesn’t stop people.”

The Department of Homeland Security sees it differently.

“I think there’s a misconception that the border fence is supposed to be a solution to any and all border problems,” said Colleen Agle, public information officer for the Tucson Sector of DHS. “It’s not the solution by itself. We see that as part of a solution that consists of our infrastructure, agents and technology.”

Opponents have referred to the fence as a multibillion-dollar “speed bump” that doesn’t really keep illegal immigrants from crossing; they said it only slows them down.

“That’s not my terminology, but that might be fair to say,” Agle said. “It allows our agents time to respond to an area so we can make the proper law enforcement response to whatever type of border incursion it is.”

Agle maintains that the border fence does, in fact, deter potential illegal immigrants.

“When our agents go in to make an apprehension, a lot of people realize they are going to be apprehended, and (they) run back across (the border),” she said. “If they’re going to have a challenge to get into the United States, our agents can respond. Also, if they’re going to have a challenge getting back into Mexico, there’s basically a certainty of arrest. If an individual knows there’s going to be a certainty of arrest, there’s a deterrent.”

DHS wouldn’t comment on the environmental effects of the wall.

Despite the Border Patrol’s arguments, local residents and environmentalists are not convinced the wall really does anything to deter illegal immigration and drug traffic.

“The nature of this wall is a knee-jerk political reaction to this anti-immigration hysteria that has swept the country since Sept. 11 and has intensified more recently,” Millis said. “What it is not is a solution to any of the problems it claims to address.”

Odle agrees.

“It doesn’t stop people,” he said. “So why was it put up? Well, it was put up because some lard butt up in Dubuque, Iowa, was sitting on his overstuffed chair, eating his supersaturated fats, watching his wide-screen TV and says, ‘Oh yeah, that’ll stop them.’ It would stop his fat ass, but it doesn’t stop some 20-year-old who wants to come up here, wants to work and is hungry.”

Even Odle’s dog Jake has wandered onto the Mexican side at various times. Once, he was gone for three months until a woman in Mexico called him and let him know. So Odle had to get his dog’s registration papers, then go get him and bring him back.

Millis points out the hefty price tag of the wall in relation to its overall effectiveness.

“Now (DHS is) saying what it really is is a speed bump,” Millis said. “It slows people down for five minutes or so, and then we have more time to respond. And that’s just ridiculous. How many billions of dollars do we have to spend on a five-minute speed bump?”

The wall, which isn’t finished and spans only 670 miles across the nearly 2,000-mile border between the U.S. and Mexico, already has a price tag of $3.7 billion.

As far as a solution to the rash of environmental issues that have arisen, some say baseline data research and funds allocated to mitigate existing damage could be the answer.

An ongoing protocol developed by researchers from the University of Arizona and U.S. Geological Survey will monitor the environmental effects of the wall. The protocol will study its environmental effects, including effects on wildlife and vegetation, hydrology, erosion, species migration and movement, and the isolation of species on both sides of the border.

“The problem is, we don’t have the baseline data on a lot of these species and how they use the border region,” Serraglio said. “So it’s really hard to tell scientifically what exactly the border wall is doing to them.”

Ideally, protocol would remedy this issue, deciding what areas along the border fence should receive funds to counteract the environmental effects of the wall. It is currently under review by DHS, said Laura-Lopez Hoffman, one of the UA researchers working on the project.

Money allotted to mitigate the environmental degradation is another point of contention. Currently the DHS and the Department of the Interior are embroiled in a bitter struggle over $90 million appropriated to repair environmental damage inflicted by the wall.

“It’s a little complex, with Homeland Security refusing to hand the money over to Department of the Interior, because they are worried about an obscure provision of the 1930 Economy Act,” Millis said. “There was supposed to be about $50 million per year dedicated to this effort, but it has been held up for two years now, and the wall continues to be an unmitigated environmental disaster.”

The post The Border Project: Border wall harms environment, some say appeared first on Pavement Pieces.

Democratic State Rep. Matt Heinz, one of two representatives for Arizona's 26th District, points out the complicated district borders that pieces together the geopolitical landscape of southern Arizona.The Mexican border stretches from the far left side of the map, continuing out of the frame. (Photo by Meredith Bennett Smith)

Sitting in the yellow illumination of her trailer’s porch light, Luz Imelda Ramirez ticks off the opportunities now available to her three daughters, all because of a small piece of paper certifying their birth on American soil. Ramirez, originally from a poor community in Sonora, Mexico, is an illegal immigrant. But her children were born here in Tucson, and therefore are United States citizens. It is a distinction Ramirez does not take lightly.

“Thank god my children are citizens, because they will be able to go to university,” she said. “My oldest has good grades and got a scholarship. That’s why I came here, for my children to have a different life than I had.”

Luz Imelda Ramirez 1 from Pavement Pieces on Vimeo.

Spread between Tucson’s Davis-Monthan Air Force Base and the beginning of Route 86, Ajo Way is a scrubby stretch of fast food restaurants, graying storefronts and trailer parks. As late afternoon faded into evening , several families gathered in Ramirez’s adopted community, sitting on white plastic chairs, eating tortilla chips and rehearsing just what to say if ever questioned by the Tucson police.

To the dozen or so men and women — all currently residing in Arizona illegally — running a red light is not a minor violation — it can lead to the discovery of their unlawful status, the beginning of deportation proceedings and the destruction of families already living in a state of apprehension and instability.

Arizona Senate Bill 1070, one of the most sweeping and stringent anti-illegal immigration statutes in decades, was just the beginning.

SB 1070’s author, State Sen. Russell Pearce, is now drafting a new law, unperturbed by the immediate federal injunction blocking the bill’s most controversial provisions. His proposed legislation would prohibit hospitals from issuing birth certificates to children born in the U.S. to undocumented parents, a right guaranteed them by the 14th Amendment.

The issue has re-popularized the term “anchor baby,” used by some to describe children born to undocumented parents. Originally coined in reference to young Vietnamese who traveled by boat to the U.S. in the early 1980s and ’90s, the term itself has spawned angry debate. Introduced into today’s lexicon of immigration rhetoric by such high-profile conservative personalities as Ron Paul, Lindsey Graham and Bill O’Reilly, it has infuriated many immigrant advocates who say the term is pejorative and dehumanizing.

Semantics aside, the Grand Canyon State, wielding its frustration with the federal government like a flare gun, seems intent on focusing national attention on immigration reform by any means necessary, including the passage of legislation that critics say outwardly defies the constitution of the United States.

“Here in Arizona, the legislature has a long tradition of completely disregarding not only our state constitution … but certainly disregarding the federal constitution,” said State Rep. Matt Heinz. “(Sen. Russell’s proposed legislation) would be just another in a long line of examples of that body completely disregarding the constitutional rights and privileges of our citizens.”

Tuscon State Rep. Matt Heinz from Pavement Pieces on Vimeo.

Heinz, one of two Democrats who represent Arizona’s 29th district, lives on a narrow, colorful lane  in the heart of his constituency in Pima County, which includes parts of Tucson and Littletown. Elected in 2008, Heinz is also a practicing physician at Tucson Medical Center.

As planes from the nearby Air Force base roared noisily over his courtyard, Heinz explained the conditions that have recently made his state such a fertile environment for radical immigration reform.

“Arizona is a very proud and independent state, with a bit of a libertarian streak” he said. “That is one of the reasons I love the state, and one of the reasons why we sometimes get in a little bit of trouble.”

In recent years, Arizona’s longstanding belief in the importance of state autonomy has coalesced with an acute frustration at the federal government’s perceived lack of effort to fight illegal immigration. SB 1070 represented a boiling over of these emotions, and the citizenship legislation is an indication the problem is far from resolved.

This frustration with the federal government reaches across party lines.

Representative Vic Williams, a Republican from the 26th district in southern Tucson, campaigned in 2008 on his proud support of the Sen. Pearce’s legislation.

“Our federal government has refused to do anything,” Williams said. “Arizona has changed the national discussion in this country. We have struck a nerve.”

Nerve or not, prohibiting the issuance of birth certificates in U.S. hospitals is in direct conflict with the language of the Constitution. Section One of the 14th Amendment states, “All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the state wherein they reside.”

Some proponents of Pearce’s proposed bill seek to challenge the current interpretation of the amendment. However, established case law protects the rights of all children born in America, said Nina Rabin, director of the Bacon Immigration Law and Policy Program at the University of Arizona. “I think it’s clear that (such a challenge) would be a losing battle,” Rabin said. “I mean, it’s not a realistic thing.”

Williams did not dispute the wording of the amendment. Instead, he argued that its intent was being abused.

“Now we have hospitals that advertise abroad that you can come here to the U.S. and have your child,” Williams said. “You can plan your vacation around it. … I don’t know if that was the original intent of the 14th Amendment.”

So would such legislation, seemingly in defiance of the federal government, pass in Arizona? Heinz certainly thinks so.

“I’ve heard the governor has already signed off on this,” Heinz said. “And ultimately, if something like this gets through our Senate and House, based on what happened this past Senate, I imagine, unfortunately, it will be signed by the governor.”

Williams refused to officially endorse the legislation. But he did point to strong grassroots support for Pearce’s proposed bill among his constituents. If put to a vote, the bill will have “overwhelming support” back home, he said.

Williams should not count on support from Ramirez, who objects to the proposed law on both legal and logistical grounds.

“Well, it’s very unconstitutional, because the children will be neither from the United States nor from Mexico,” Ramirez said. “It will be a problem for them when they grow up, when they’re going to school. What documents are they going to present? It’s just illogical. It’s not like they’re animals without papers.”

Oblivious to a debate that, if enacted retroactively, would dramatically alter his future, a little boy, no more than 3 years old, threw chunks of gravel at Ramirez’s latticework porch, his mouth stained blue by the melting peanut M&Ms he clutched in his hand. His young mother sat a few feet away, watching as volunteers from the immigrant advocacy group Derechos Hermanos led a role-playing exercise. Although initially the adults chuckled awkwardly as they sat in their “car,” the laughter stopped as the “police officer” began to badger both driver and passengers, demanding picture IDs and proof of legal status. The policeman finally ordered the driver and one of the passengers out of the vehicle and radioed “la migra,” the Border Patrol, to come pick them up. The tension among those observing was palpable.

“Really, the worry in the community is that (parents) are going to be taken away from their kids,” Ramirez said. “That they’ll be sent back to Mexico, and their children will be stuck here in the United States alone.”

Luz Imelda Ramirez 2 from Pavement Pieces on Vimeo.

Their fears are real.

Teresa Guerrero works for the Tucson Unified School District, in the government programs and community outreach office. Every year she sees countless children pulled out of school or forced to live with friends or relatives after their parents get deported. Sometimes mothers or fathers will live in Mexico during the week, only able to visit their children across the border on weekends, she said.

At her Phoenix law practice, Judy Flanagan works with undocumented parents fighting to stay in the U.S. with their children. But she said the reality is cases like these are “next to impossible to win.”

Parents of so-called “anchor babies” cannot file their own citizenship petitions until after the child’s 21st birthday. If the parents stayed in the U.S. illegally for longer than a year following the birth of the child — and Flanagan claimed many do — they will have to wait an additional 10 years before beginning the application process.

Ultimately, Ramirez said illegal immigrant parents want the same things for their children as parents whose families have lived in this country for generations.

“Every mother wants their children to have a better life than they did,” she said.

In the war that is Arizona’s constant struggle with immigration reform, Sen. Pearce is preparing to open up a new front. But as Ramirez looked with satisfaction at the aftermath of the Derechos Hermanos meeting, it was clear the opposition forces were already gearing up for the fight.

“I used to be afraid to say I don’t have documents,” Ramirez said. “But now I’m no longer afraid. Because a piece of paper doesn’t make you any different than me and that’s what I’ve learned at these groups. Because I’m a human being, I have rights.”

For more information:

http://azstarnet.com/news/local/govt-and-politics/article_52e0cc70-dba0-11df-9feb-001cc4c03286.html

The post The Border Project: ‘Anchor baby’ law stirs controversy appeared first on Pavement Pieces.

Wrangling the Border from Sarah Tung on Vimeo.

DOUGLAS, Ariz. — It is now common to see border-patrol agents barrel along the dry, rocky roads in their distinct white trucks, leaving clouds of dusty dirt and bouncing pebbles in their wake. Despite at least one complaint about their driving speed, the rural residents they serve and protect have appreciated their increased presence.

“I think without border patrol, we wouldn’t even be here,” said Wendy Glenn, a rancher in southeast Arizona. “We were just inundated with people and trash.”

More than half a year after local rancher Robert Krentz was shot and killed on his property in Arizona, efforts to increase border security have improved, according to many ranchers in the state.

For the last century or more, ranchers have had a “live-and-let-live” relationship with migrants, said Tom Sheridan, an anthropology professor at the University of Arizona. But the large influx of migrants crossing the U.S.-Mexico border 10 or 12 years ago was overwhelming to both the ranchers and border agents.

Cindy Coping, president of the Southern Arizona Cattlemen’s Protective Association, witnessed this progression firsthand. Coping, 54, and her husband have owned Malpais Ranch for 15 years — long enough to see the influx of migrants from across the border.

When the Copings first bought their property, only a few people made it to their land 55 miles north of the border in the central desert, she said. Then, about 10 years ago, they started to travel in large groups and vehicles. In the last two years, the presence of drug cartels has created a new border dynamic.

“Now (immigrants) are coerced into dealing with the drug cartels,” Coping said. “They’re incredibly violent people. It’s impacted both us and the people coming across, too.”

Coping estimated she has had thousands of interactions with the illegal immigrants who cross the border through the nearby reservation. “We’ve saved dozens from certain death and dehydration, and some of them we just give them food and water, and send them on their way.”

According to Coping, border patrol is now doing a better job than before, but she is still worried about her personal safety. “There’s just too much violence and it surrounds us all the time,” she said.

In Cochise County, ranchers have also witnessed a stronger presence of border agents in their backyards.

“The border patrol has had a very poor presence in the past,” said Anna Magoffin. “Whereas now … (with) the resources they have, if we call, they come.”

But this change came months too late. In recent years, Arizona ranchers, including Krentz and his wife, had been “asking and pleading” for federal help at the U.S.-Mexico border for years, according to Mary Jo Rideout, a rancher from Red Rock.

Pat King, who owns a ranch near Sasabe, Ariz., recalled the underwhelming government response.

“I wrote a letter to the president (and) to our legislators,” she said. “The silence was deafening. It just keeps going on year after year, and we don’t see an end in sight.”

It wasn’t until Krentz’s death in late March, as well as the overwhelming national attention the SB 1070 created, that politicians began to pay attention to the large contingent of unified ranchers calling for border security.

“When (Krentz) got killed, we all just said, ‘That’s the end of it. We’re tired of that crap,’ ” Cochise County rancher Gary Thrasher said. “We took (this election year) as the ideal time to … say something.”

Even with Homeland Security’s stronger presence at the border, illegal immigration and drug smuggling are still considered major safety concerns.

“Ranchers living along the border … face very real threats,” Sheridan said. “They never know whether the next group of people they meet are just poor people (looking for jobs), or whether they’re drug smugglers. Their perception of threat is very real.”

King, who lives about 35 miles north of the border on Anvil Ranch, said it has recently become more dangerous. “We’re seeing more and more of the groups going through, and they’re armed.” South of interstates 10 and 80, it’s as if there is no law, she said.

Despite the threat of imminent danger, most ranchers, including King, staunchly refuse to leave.

“We have a remarkable country, and there is no other country in the world I want to live … and by golly, I’m going to fight for it,” she said.

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Guarding the Line from Sarah Tung on Vimeo.

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Border Project from Pavement Pieces on Vimeo.

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