Illegal Immigration Witnessed

I had to see it for myself.  I have heard the stories of illegals crossing the border, but felt I couldn't have a real opinion until I witnessed for myself the determination of families who put their lives at risk for the betterment of future generations.

After a recent business trip in San Diego, which was cut short due to lack of attendance, I opted to rent a Vespa and drive down to the US-Mexico border to witness these horrific border crossings.    As I approached the long lines of the immigration offices on Interstate 5, I realized that this formal passage was not where I was going to witness illegal crossings.    I had to find the hidden routes known for generations as the paths to freedom, so I exited off the highway and headed southeast on surface streets until I reached a wide open field with a large fence about ¼ mile out.  "That's it" I thought, "the border fence where coyotes deliver their patrons into the promise land."     As I slowly motored toward the field I began seeing the effects of illegal immigration; immigration caused by an overwhelmingly large poverty class, rogue government officials, and unbearable living conditions.    The closer I got to the fence, the more my disappointment in a country's failure turned to complete anger.    Getting off of my ride, I approached a new black Lexus; the engine was still running, the car door wide open and footprints in the sand leading to the fence.    I could see in the distance some of those that didn't make it, clutching their resume-filled briefcases, as the heat from the sun melted their dreams of a new beginning.    On the fence, hundreds, maybe thousands of torn, red satin neckties, pierced by the barbed wire installed to keep these new World seekers from rushing the fence, swimming the river and reaching Mexico.     There were even bundles of old 401K Account Statements stacked in a manner to help elevate their once solvent owners to the promise land.    The smell of latte' macchiato spilled in the desert, cups blowing about, was just too much and I hid my face in my hands, crying for my fallen brethren.  As I walked back to my scooter, and over the countless Blackberries and Ipods thrown about, I couldn't help but remember the good ol days...