The human cost of S.B. 4
Unintended consequences of removing “sanctuary”
Kevin Cummings
A few months ago I found myself in Big Bend National Park, a land as rugged and foreign to the Blackland Prairie of North Texas that I have called "home" for a number of years as that of our sister nation to the south. Standing atop Sotol Vista Overlook, where the direction of the winds across the palisades of the Chisos seems to be the only change to visit this land in the last century or so. The valley, low and rugged, spreads out below; the lights of Terlingua to the east and of Boquillas to the west against the horizon signal some of the only tenants of the valley; and to the south, the Rio Grande snakes wild and green in stark contrast to the desolate beauty of the desert on either side.
While elsewhere in our country, this borderland has been the focus of sharp debate and division, - the infamous "Wall," immigration reform, NAFTA, to name a few - there, the land pays no attention to where invisible lines have been drawn on maps or to which language is spoken there. If anything, in this region, the river seems to unify; the people here know that it is this fragile band of water that has brought them here and which sustains them.
Hundreds of miles away, lawmakers and lobbyists in the Capitol do not share this quality. Last week, after nearly 16 hours of debate, state senators approved Senate Bill 4 (S.B. 4), which will go to the House floor in the coming days before becoming law or being remanded to the annals of failed legislation. Among other things, this bill would strip "sanctuary" designations from local electorates and municipalities who created them, as well as give law enforcement officers in the state the right to question nearly anyone about the status of their residency without arrest made or crime committed.
Proponents of the measure argue that the bill is necessary to stem the flow of migrants crossing the Southern border, to protect Texas residents from the supposed flood of crime that comes with, and to uphold the writ of law. However, the consequences of such a passage and the fear that would spurn it on could be far more dangerous than the ones that the politicians who proposed it allege to protect us from - separating neighbors from their connection to one another and to their community.
Long before Rep. Byron Cook (R-Corsicana), chairman of the House State Affairs Committee told the Texas Tribune that the intention of the bill is to "[get] dangerous criminals off the street," the divisiveness of fear had long begun to work its way into our society and psyche like a crack in the foundation left unattended. Fear has long been a tool of those in power used to keep that power; whether that be rich plantation owners using skin color to keep hold of the lionshare of votes; or political elites using religion to curtail rights and invade foreign countries in the name of "patriotism;" or be it local lawmakers using nation of origin, pandering to the most base of emotions to enforce a way of thinking and living that harkens back to a sort of nationalism that threatens, in a very real sense, to tear the fabric of our local communities apart.
This fraying at the seams of civility has already had chilling consequences. According to the FBI's 2015 (the most recent year available to-date) hate-crime data, violence in each area tracked has increased from the year prior. In addition, hate crimes in the state of Texas have increased more than 16 percent from 2014 to 2015, with anti-Hispanic/Latino crimes making up one of the largest single affected categories. At the same time, according to statistics from the Libertarian-leaning Cato Institute, as well as analysis of census data by the New York Times, research shows that immigrants in general were less likely to be incarcerated than their native counterparts.
Despite this, Cook's statement implies that the criminals are already here, and they are that "other" to be feared - those darker than us, those who speak differently than us, those who called a different patch of dirt "home" for a while - they are the ones we must watch out for; they are the ones that we must be protected against, the Right's thinking goes.
The rhetoric surrounding the discourse of these issues has done little to assuage fears that these numbers may be non sequitur. When it matches the violence in pitch and intent, the effects of this division and fear cannot be confined to the purely physical realm. The trembling and tears of a child fearing they may be torn from their family or the shattering done to the sense of self when the words of community leaders and politicians label you as "the other" and are codified into law ensuring that you are treated as such, the damage done can not only be read in the reports of law enforcement or in the lines of worry worn into the faces of our neighbors, but it can also seen as America's standing as a beacon of hope and welcome fades like the dreams that so many immigrants carried here with them.
When the fuel that feeds the "melting pot" goes, what's left stagnates and curdles. While a number of lawmakers seem to care not for the human cost, seeing success in the fact that the number of border crossings this year have dropped, (though, according to a 2017 NPR report, immigration from Mexico has only increased by about 1 percent between 2010 and 2016) it is the things that cross with these migrants that may raise their concern - including around $12 billion in tax revenue, according to Politifact.com. The true cost is likely higher, as it is not a uniquely American trait to eat and live and take care of one's family - all of which requires money.
"But that money is mostly sent back to Mexico," the rallying cry on the Right would respond, in a Trumpian world view that extends the "Us vs. Them" dichotomy in the most vain of ways, distilling nations into a divide of financial winners and losers. But when the world is broken down in such a way, much like in the case of nuclear warfare, the winners will have to deal with the fallout. In this case, the problem might not be radiation, but remittance. Remittance payments are the checks sent back to relatives and loved ones left behind in their native country. In 2016, according to the Washington D.C.-based think-tank the Inter-American Dialogue, remittance payments totaled about $69 billion - accounting for nearly 2 percent of the Mexican GDP. While 2 percent may seem like a small number, the ramifications of bringing an abrupt end to this could be catastrophic. If immigration were contained and the flow of these payments stymied, the Mexican economy would likely come to the brink of a crash. When jobs are lost, inflation rises, and the means of providing for one's family become more meager, people are drawn to where the opportunities are. And the desire to live fulfilled and not merely survive is not contained to one side of a border.
Not to mention, if we look at the anomie theory of sociology, when the means of getting by are beyond the reach of an individual, that individual will go outside of boundaries of society to achieve that goal - which often means crime. It is possible that the outcome of this bill's passage could create more "criminals" on our streets, contributing to the problem the politicians profess to protect us from. However, a rise in crime may also go unnoticed, since immigrants may fear the repercussions of reporting them to law enforcement officials who now have broad allowances for inquiring into the residency status of a victim.
Our communities belong to us. Residents in cities like Austin, Dallas and Houston chose to be welcoming communities, to provide sanctuary to those in need, for those looking for a better life. Residents elected police chiefs and leaders who propose policies and swear to protect all peoples, not just those who share the same skin color or zip code. A conscious decision was made to choose care over convictions, to choose sanctuary over suspicion, to share the dream of a better life. Why then would politicians in the party of "local control" seek to exert their control over all locales?
Down in the valley, between the Chisos and Christmas ranges, water and wind have worked a deep fissure into the rock called Boquillas Canyon. The history of the land can be seen in the lines of sand and sediment along the sheer cliffs, reaching back to a time before any settler had yet given it a name. The Rio Grande flows between the two sides, as it always has. And from down here, you can hear the soft singing of a man who paddles a canoe across the two banks to sell trinkets and souvenirs to visitors of this valley as his voice creates a symphony, bouncing back and forth between the Texas and Mexico border. I cannot make out the words, nor see the man they emanate from. And, if it weren't for the flag, unfurled and shimmering in the desert heat on the horizon, it would be nearly impossible to tell one country from the other one.