Why Can’t the United States Protect its Citizens Like Mexico Protects its Citizens: A Border Encounter

Gig nights always come with a certain amount of nervous adrenaline, but nothing quite compares to the rush of hauling heavy music gear across an international border on foot. I had booked a show at a local music venue situated right on the vibrant strip of Avenida Revolución in Tijuana, Mexico. My plan was straightforward enough: drive down to the border, park on the American side, walk across the pedestrian bridge, and meet a friend who had offered to drive me and my gear the rest of the way to the venue. It was a clear evening when I pulled into a parking lot in San Ysidro directly across from the "walk into Mexico" bridge. I shut off the engine, stepped out into the cool air, and began unloading my setup. I was carrying a heavy, rigid keyboard case in one hand, an Ultimate Support Apex keyboard stand under the other arm, and a stuffed gym bag packed with cables, sustain pedals, and a change of clothes slung over my shoulder. Weighing down both shoulders and dragging a metallic rig, I was hunkered down, to say the least. To anyone watching, I looked less like a visiting musician and more like a tactical operative geared up to launch a shoulder-mounted missile. Predictably, and I say this with a healthy dose of sarcasm, I was flagged by border security the moment I entered the Mexican inspection area. Carrying three bulky, metallic, non-descript cases through a pedestrian checkpoint will do that for you. I was directed to a waiting area to await inspection. As I sat on a bench, taking a breath and rubbing my sore hands, I reached into my back pocket to double-check my documents. My heart instantly dropped into my stomach. I didn't have my passport. In my haste to load up the truck and get on the road earlier that afternoon, I had left my passport sitting comfortably inside the center console of my truck, which was now locked in a parking lot on the U.S. side of the border. Panic set in. I had a venue waiting, a friend parked outside on the curb, and an audience expecting a set, but I was sitting in a federal border terminal holding nothing more than my California driver’s license. I was convinced my night was over before it had even begun. "Next," the Mexican Border Agent called out, gesturing for me to step up to his desk. I took a deep breath, lugged my gear over to the counter, and decided that complete honesty was my best strategy. "Passport, please," the officer requested firmly. "To be completely honest with you, sir, I don't have my passport on me," I admitted. "I do have my California driver’s license, though." The agent looked at me silently, took my driver's license, and swiped its magnetic strip through the reader attached to his computer terminal. Within seconds, his eyes scanned the monitor. He looked up and proceeded to recite my full legal name, my home address, and even my current occupation. I stood there, both thoroughly impressed and utterly astounded by the sheer amount of data encoded onto that thin piece of plastic in my wallet. "Everything you just said is completely accurate," I confirmed, nodding. Satisfied with the identity match, the agent shifted his attention to the pile of hardware sitting at my feet. He asked for permission to inspect my keyboard case, gym bag, and the Apex stand. "Of course, go right ahead," I said without hesitation. I had nothing to hide—unless bad chord progressions were considered a contraband substance. He carefully unzipped the bags, examined the stand, and inspected the keyboard. As he worked, he returned to the core issue. "Why don't you have your passport?" "I actually own one," I explained, gesturing back toward the direction of the border bridge. "But in my rush to get down here on time, I forgot to put it in my pocket. It’s sitting safely inside the center console of my truck, parked right across the street in San Ysidro." The agent shook his head in affirmative understanding, though his face remained disciplined and serious. "What is your purpose for visiting Mexico today?" "I’m performing a live music set at a venue on Revolution Boulevard," I replied. I gave him the specific name of the venue and explained that a friend was waiting outside on the sidewalk right now to give me and my gear a ride straight to the stage. He typed a few swift keystrokes into his terminal, the rhythmic click of the keyboard echoing in the quiet office. "How long will you remain in Mexico?" he asked. "As soon as the show ends and the venue closes, I have to strike my gear and load up," I answered. "My friend is driving me right back here to the border station so I can walk back into the U.S., get into my truck, and drive home. I estimate I'll be heading back across between 2:00 AM and 3:00 AM." Again, he typed my responses into his system. He paused, leaned over the counter, and looked me dead in the eye with a stern expression. "I am not going to have to worry about you causing any problems in Mexico to the point of getting arrested, am I? Because if I do, I will not be happy." I met his gaze and answered with absolute certainty. "Nope. I’m strictly visiting Mexico to perform music, and the minute my set is done, I’m coming straight back to the United States." The officer stared at me for a long moment, letting the silence linger just enough to make sure his message had landed. Finally, his expression softened slightly. He nodded his head in the affirmative. He told me I was cleared to enter Mexico, on one final condition: I had to be officially fingerprinted before I could be released through the turnstiles. I willingly pressed my fingers onto the digital scanner, accepted my driver's license back, gathered up my keyboard, stand, and gym bag, and walked out into the Tijuana night. It was an unconventional start to a gig, but as I met my friend on the sidewalk and loaded the gear into the trunk, I couldn't help but smile. The show was still on. I made it to the venue on Revolución Boulevard, set up my rig, and played the set. My bandmates offered to hold onto my heavy gear and gym bag so I wouldn't have to lug it all back across on foot in the dead of night, letting me know I could retrieve it all the following day. Around 2:30 AM, my bandmates drove me back to the border crossing. After dropping me off near the motor vehicle lines, I had a sketchy 100-yard stretch to walk to reach the pedestrian border station entrance. Keeping my focus sharp, I jogged with deliberate purpose past several men sitting and standing suspiciously in the shadows along the pathway. I pushed through the doors of the station, pulled out my California driver’s license, and presented it to the U.S. Border Agent on duty. He took a brief look, handed it back, waved me through, and simply said, "Welcome home." I stepped back onto the eerily quiet land bridge, passing a few people heading south into Mexico and others walking north toward the United States. When I finally reached my truck parked in San Ysidro, I climbed inside and slept for about three hours before driving home at 6:00 AM. What I deeply appreciated about the whole experience was how seriously Mexico took its border security. Checking who enters your country is a fundamental right necessary for any state to survive. A border is like the front door of a home. You don't have a front door because you dislike the people living outside; you have a front door to protect the people living inside from potential criminal elements on the outside. I appreciated being documented and verified before entering Mexico. I believe everyone coming into the United States should be equally challenged, interviewed, investigated, and documented regarding their purpose and expected stay before being released into the country. Well done, Mexico. Now, let’s have the U.S.A. follow suit. Hello, and thanks for listening to my podcast For years, my mission has been to foster a community around engagement, unique takes on interesting stories, and conversation. If you value what I do, please consider supporting me. I've started a GoFundMe to cover my production and operational costs, including those pesky social media fees. If you can’t contribute to my GoFundMe, I get it, but you can help me by subscribing to my account or sharing this particular story with friends and family that you think would appreciate it. Your contribution, big or small, helps me keep going. Thank you. GO FUND ME