Borders

Such peculiar things borders are. Lines of delineation dividing parcels of land and their inhabitants. They can be geological features, such as rivers, or man-made impediments like walls or fences, or unseen and sometimes seemingly arbitrary lines that somebody, for some reason, marked across a map at some point in the past.

They can separate countries, states, counties, townships, voting districts, and then some. As such, there are occasions when the differences on each side of a border are vast. Different languages, cultures, ideologies, etc. Down to no discernible difference at all. Especially for the literal neighbors residing in close proximity on either side of the separation.

But no matter how logical or illogical they are, there are inherent “over there” vs “over here” assumptions and notions that creep into our psyche that can be just as logical or illogical as the borders themselves. Even when driving into different states, I know people are going to have preconceived notions about me based solely on my license plate.

To include my lifestyle, political leanings, and even what kind of driver I am. The last one specifically, I’ve always found to be frustratingly funny. I’ve lived in both Washington and Oregon more than once, and there are inhabitants from each state who are convinced that drivers on the other side of the Columbia River are the absolute worst.

Recently, I accompanied another writer and close friend on a work trip that would lead me from my home on the Oregon coast up through Washington state and into parts of southern British Columbia. So I mentally prepared for the mild outsider-ness I would feel once I got deep into Washington, followed by the more pronounced outsider-ness I would feel once I got into Canada. Nothing worrisome, mind you.

Both those places are part of my beloved Cascadian backyard, but I’m always aware of the fact that eyes tend to track a little longer on folks from “over there.” No matter how close that might be. Not to mention how the current political climate might influence the way some folks feel about my visitation. I’m happy to report that I encountered no ill will—quite the contrary.

My last few nights were spent on the Tsawwassen Peninsula, south of the Fraser River and just north of a border with the United States. Note that’s “a” border, not “the” border. Because, as I embarrassingly discovered while there, the southern tip of that particular Canadian peninsula is part of the US. A quiet, forested pene-exclave pocket of land called Point Roberts, which is technically part of Washington state. However, to get there, you have to go through Canada - if you’re driving, anyway. Blame the 49th parallel. It will make more sense if you look at it on a map.

Upon discovering that I was only three miles away from it and in possession of an open afternoon, I decided to pay the place a visit. Mostly out of curiosity, but also so I can say that I’ve set foot in that unorthodox piece of US territory. The border crossing was a far more casual one, as you might expect. The town itself is quite small, with a population hovering just over 1,000. I decided to have a beer at a bar on the water and maybe chat up some locals. Driving through town, I saw a number of American flags stationed next to their Canadian counterparts in yards and atop businesses. Not unlike any number of other border towns I’ve been through.

When I walked in, I was met by locals alright. Two employees dying for some company, who lit up and sprang into action when I walked through the door. I was the only non-payrolled person on the premises at that moment and would provide at least half an hour’s worth of distraction. It didn’t take long before all three of us were engaged in conversation. They were both affable and eager to chat and answer questions I had about the town. Which could be summed up with just one - “How’s it going?” The answer, “Not well.” Point Roberts typically relies heavily on Canadian tourism to stimulate the economy. And that’s not exactly robust right now. And thus far, the same can be said about interest or aid from the town’s state and country.

It wasn’t long before an older couple from Montana came into the bar, followed by a similarly aged set of local ladies. The conversation continued among all of us. Topics varied subtly, but were all influenced by the underlying fact that Point Roberts, with the way the world is at the moment, belongs to nobody. Having never been physically attached to its state, it now feels even more untethered and unseen through its struggles. And with hurt and confused neighbors to the north circling the wagons and licking their own wounds, Point Roberts sits in uncomfortable limbo.

The sun rises and sets, and those same differing flags flail proudly in the wind right next to each other, all the same. But because they reside at the end of a land mass on the south side of a line that nobody can see, the people of the widely beloved Point Roberts seem to be standing mostly alone. Such peculiar things borders are.