Citizens Meet: Town Hall Calls

The Murrieta town hall meeting last Wednesday addressing the surprise, federally-mandated, illegal immigrant processing at the Murrieta Border Patrol facility drew a capacity crowd and every shade of media catching light to cast on the fine reporters.

My decision to attend the evening meeting at Murrieta Mesa High School was salted, threefold, with having been a Murrieta resident for many years before I moved to Menifee in 2012. Secondly, I was worried about the immigrants waving goodbye to the convoy of busses disappearing over the forbidden horizon. I could picture inconsolable mothers and hungry children standing alone, Somewhere, USA, with only the clothes on their back and a wellspring of hope filling their exiled hearts. I didn't quite know what to do, though the thought was irksome.

Finally, my perception of the situation is assuredly skewed with American patriotism. Therefore, I was seeking authoritative solace for my individual powerlessness over a national problem. What was this writer compelled to do but attend the town hall meeting and first listen, garnering the facts? Listening is difficult for me when don't hear the things I want to hear. My acute auditory senses are highly selective depending on the message and by whom it's being conveyed. I tossed aside my scant intellect while prying open my vaulted mind. Diet Coke and cookies helped.

Thus, I declared my spot in the serpentine line of people just outside of the MMHS auditorium, inconspicuously edging my way alongside small groups of people talking and laughing while I eavesdropped (I confess). One mother was accompanied by her very tall, teenaged son who stood behind rubbing her tense shoulders. She was speaking to the young newlyweds in front of her.

"At least it's shady and cooler this time of day," the mother said. The young couple nodded in agreement. "Where did you guys go on your honeymoon?" she asked.

"Kona, Hawaii," answered the bride, drawing closer to her husband.

"Mom, wouldn't it be cool if they had a Kona Ice truck here?" interrupted the teenager panning the parking lot filled with media vans, highly visible police officers and darting reporters carrying wind-sock-covered microphones.

"That's not a bad idea, Jeremy," said his mom.

"Can we get some after the meeting?" he asked with a big smile entrenched in wire.

"Keep rubbing," she instructed. He happily complied.

A little farther up the growing line of gathering citizens, a woman donning a straw hat and two, hand-printed poster boards stood adjacent to the crowd underneath a sapling tree. One of the posters read: WWJD? (what would Jesus do?) The other cited scripture from the book of Matthew 19:19: Love your neighbor as yourselves. I admired her as she confidently walked up, down and aside the line of with her signage.

Then it happened. She dropped her prescription spectacles and kept walking. Three people stepped forward calling her attention, while a gentleman picked up her glasses and handed them to her. Then she was on her way peacefully. In fact, the whole, karmic vibe was unusually peaceful from the very start. Amblin' along the sidewalk…

"We'll only be out here another fifteen minutes or so before they let us in," said the middle-aged man to his platinum blonde wife (I presume they were married because they made a good couple, plus she fidgeted with his casual attire as wives do). They were with another good-looking, very tanned, middle-aged couple.

"I know, but we have to leave right after. I've got a roast in the crock pot. I'm making shredded roast beef sandwiches for Friday. Delores is bringing a mixed fruit bowl. I told her you can't eat cantaloupe because it makes you belch," said the wife.

"I like cantaloupe. Maybe if I take one of those pills…what are those pills called? I know you have them somewhere in the house," said the middle-aged man.

"How's Dolores doing since her husband passed away?" The tanned woman asked her friends. Right on cue, the two middle-aged men politely turned away from the women and began conversing about the World Soccer games and other sportuguese.

"It's been about six months now. I remember because she called me right after New Year's Day. We'll just keep checking on her," said the wife.

Suddenly, a crescendo of loud applause, hootin' and hollerin', whistling and cheering emanated from the rear of the line to the front like a spectator wave at a sports stadium. The revelry was prompted by strapping man dressed in work clothes, topped off with a yellow hard-hat, proudly displaying a makeshift flag pole unfurling Old Glory. He paraded up and down the adjacent lot. Other well-received compatriots followed suit.

Nearby, I could see Mayor Long speaking to a reporter, sans one of the myriad cameras: Phone cameras, notebook cameras, video cameras, television cameras, pocket cameras and super-duper, telephoto lens cameras. Weaving through the contained, restless crowd, the police officers greeted and conversed with the citizens, their peripheral vision on high alert. Their portable radios emitted continuous, muffled, indiscernible dialog.

"You've got to be roasting wearing all of that gear," said the petite, elderly woman to a passing officer. She was dressed in white shorts, a red, white and blue-striped tee shirt and a visor with a red heart on the bill inscribed with, USA. Even her red-sequined flip-flops donned a glittering American flag at the center of the straps. "Would you like a bottle of water. I always bring extra on a hot day," she asked the officer, shuffling through her insulated hand bag. The officer smiled and drew near to the woman.

"Thank you, but we have water in our command post over there in the trailer," he said. Gangly and anxious but for his hands folded behind his back, a toothless man leaned toward the officer as if to share a secret.

"So how many cops are here today? Are you 'specting trouble? I know your dogs are gonna help keep troublemakers away. I'm a Vietnam vet. This ain't right. This just ain't right," said the man with his white hair gathered in a ponytail. The officer held out his hand and the man took it, shaking it with beaming pride.

Said the officer, "Thank you for your service. We don't expect trouble here tonight. We're just watching and waiting, too."

I took curious note of the calm, uniformed authority resting his left forearm across a small box attached to the front of his fully-equipped, black leather belt. His right thumb and forefinger c-clamped through the other side, which begged the question:

"What's all of that stuff on your belt?" I asked. Truly, I felt like a little kid. Maybe the protruding flashlight on one side and the secured gun holster on the other accounts for the way police officers are sort of poised like gunslingers ready to draw. Indeed.

"Just tools, ma'am," the officer answered, smiling and turning an about-face, continuing his foot watch. To Be Continued

Lynda StarWriter is a freelance writer and public speaker. Photos taken by the author. lyndastarwriter@aol.com.