Make me a mature Mexican rock star, I tell my makeup lady, hang some long cool black hair on my head and pin a big mustache on my face. I need to blend with families and friends of those being naturalized as U.S. citizens this morning in Fresno. There’s already a big crowd in the convention center and about half hold documents that will allow them to officially become part of the nation I’m trying to save. But I can’t protect real Americans if some of these folks cheated to get here.
My three Spanish-speaking agents, who don’t need disguises, are periodically asked if we’re in a band. I focus on hordes of people who keep entering and heading to tables for final documentation.
“Hey,” I say to a young lady. “Where’re you from?”
“Just making sure you’re not with ISIS.”
“Why would you think that?” asks a man I assume is her husband.
“I’m responsible for security. Where’re you from?”
“A sanctuary city I’ll soon cut off federal funding to. What’re you doing in Fresno?”
“I live here. Where do you live?”
“New York, usually. Part-time in the capital.”
God, they’re still swarming in, countless citizens to be and even more watching from seats in back of the hall. All of them remind me of people filmed darting across the border. Some women are wearing hijabs. You know where they’re from, lots of these men, too. And, be honest, most of the time you can’t tell the difference between a Mexican and an Arab. Both mean trouble.
My wall’s going to keep many people like these from sneaking in. Before I took over they could stay and stay and work the system and sometimes eventually become legal. It’s best just to keep them out. Soon, even if they get in, they’ll be facing many walls I build around convention centers where picture taking and hugs follow dangerous ceremonies.