My grandfather built the gate at the end of our lane with his own hands. It was a heavy thing, pipe and cattle panel, and it swung true for as long as he lived. He used to say a gate is the most important part of a fence, because a gate is where you decide.
I have been thinking about that gate as the country argues, again, about the border. I want to begin where most of my readers already are. A nation has a right to know who is coming in. A state as large as ours, with a border as long as ours, has a right to expect the line to be kept. I do not think that is a hard position, and I do not think it makes anyone a bad person to hold it.
Most people stop there and add a second sentence. They say they have no problem with anyone who comes the right way. I used to say it too. It is a comfortable thing to say, and it lets a man feel generous and firm at the same time.
But I have come to think the second sentence is where the trouble starts. Every right way is a gate, and every gate is a place where somebody can make his case to you. A worker wants to come help bring in a harvest. A family wants to join a son who already lives here. A young woman is running from something terrible. Each of them has a story, and each story asks you to decide. I do not want to decide. I want the fence.
So I have made my peace with a simpler idea. If we would rather people did not come the wrong way, the surest thing is to make sure there is no right way either. A line that cannot be crossed honestly will not need to be argued about. Nobody will have to hear the stories. Nobody will have to weigh them.
I know how that sounds to some. They will say these are hardworking people who want what my grandfather wanted. I do not doubt that for a moment. I have met some of them, and they are as decent as anyone I know. That is precisely why I do not want a gate. A gate would make me look at them. I mean to vote for my party’s man for the Senate this fall so the fence stays a fence. From what I can tell, the other fellow wants a secure border with some honest gates in it, and that is exactly the arrangement I have been trying to get away from.
My grandfather is gone now, and the gate is still there. Last spring I had it welded shut. The cattle do not seem to mind, and it saves me getting out of the truck.
A fence is simpler than a gate. It never asks you to learn anyone’s name.
D. M.