I am driving east out of Tucson in a white pickup with the film crew, headed to Douglas, Arizona and Agua Prieta, Mexico, to volunteer for Resylience, a proof-of-concept program connecting communities divided by the border.
My role is hands-on: I set up the space, wrote the conversation flow and questions, warmed up panelists, translated when needed, and traveled with the crew to interview participants at other locations.
The panel takes place at the physical US/Mexico border fence, a place-based art project. Seven participants and two moderators are split across the fence so we can make eye contact through the slats. Amplified microphones allow everyone to hear, but the separation is tangible. On the Mexico side, a bright sun mural illuminates the table; on the US side, rust and barbed wire dominate, and sunlight never truly reaches us.
Early in the conversation, the police sergeant is guarded, aware that one panelist knew him as a child and that the mayor is at the table. I stay with him, asking questions about motivation and care. Finally, he says, “What I do is important because we are all humans, and it’s important to care about humanity.” There is a release in the room; I mutter, “Amazing,” then clarify, “I don’t say amazing because I was trying to get that answer out of you — I’m just grateful to hear such a resonant response.”
Later, during a break, I talk with him privately. He opens up about painful experiences on the job that others might not know. When the conversation resumes, he shares them with the group, and the dialogue deepens for everyone.
Being a moderator for Resylience reminded me that service isn’t always about solutions. It’s about presence, preparation, and creating space for humanity to emerge. Volunteering here, listening, and supporting conversation across a literal border felt like the most tangible, American act of service I could offer.
My role is hands-on: I set up the space, wrote the conversation flow and questions, warmed up panelists, translated when needed, and traveled with the crew to interview participants at other locations.
The panel takes place at the physical US/Mexico border fence, a place-based art project. Seven participants and two moderators are split across the fence so we can make eye contact through the slats. Amplified microphones allow everyone to hear, but the separation is tangible. On the Mexico side, a bright sun mural illuminates the table; on the US side, rust and barbed wire dominate, and sunlight never truly reaches us.
Early in the conversation, the police sergeant is guarded, aware that one panelist knew him as a child and that the mayor is at the table. I stay with him, asking questions about motivation and care. Finally, he says, “What I do is important because we are all humans, and it’s important to care about humanity.” There is a release in the room; I mutter, “Amazing,” then clarify, “I don’t say amazing because I was trying to get that answer out of you — I’m just grateful to hear such a resonant response.”
Later, during a break, I talk with him privately. He opens up about painful experiences on the job that others might not know. When the conversation resumes, he shares them with the group, and the dialogue deepens for everyone.
Being a moderator for Resylience reminded me that service isn’t always about solutions. It’s about presence, preparation, and creating space for humanity to emerge. Volunteering here, listening, and supporting conversation across a literal border felt like the most tangible, American act of service I could offer.
