Category: Uncategorized

By. Chase Gibson ’26

Walls and fencing enclose 675 miles of the roughly 1,954-mile border between the United States and Mexico. The barriers have a complicated history dating back to the early 20th century when the US Bureau of Animal Industry built fencing to control the flow of livestock from crossing. It wasn’t until 1918, when the mayor of Nogales, Mexico, built more fencing to control the flow of people. Nearly 80 years later, the United States government built modern fences near San Diego, California, out of metal sheets from the Vietnam War. More recently, $46.5 billion from the “Big Beautiful Bill” Act (2025) funded the upgrade and construction of more barriers with the goal of covering 1,350 miles, doubling the current enclosure. 

This wall bisects the continent, dividing communities, sacred lands, and families. It is the physical manifestation of political turmoil over the influx of undocumented immigrants from the south—trouble exacerbated by the rhetoric of the Trump administration. While the president continues to push the narrative of undocumented immigrants as violent criminals, invaders, drug mules, parasites on public provisions, employment usurpers, and threats to the American way of life, artists have taken to displaying murals along the existing border wall. These murals depict the struggle of those who come to the US and those who die trying. They are political statements, messages to families, and reflections on the storied history of migration in the New World. 

Donors from the United States funded a 200-foot mural depicting an eagle and a condor flying together over the vast landscape of America. 11 artists collaborated on the project, including 2 Kumeyaay artists from Baja California, to make an homage to an ancient Native American prophecy. The “Eagle and Condor” prophecy represents the diverging paths of humanity: the eagle as industrial and mind-driven and the condor as intuitive and heart-centered. The two split from one another, the eagle to the north and the condor to the south. The eagle conquered the condor, but their eventual reunion is meant to usher in an era of harmony between heart and mind.

Beyond its prophetic meaning, the mural has more immediate implications for the state of international relations as countries around the world struggle to cope with rapid globalization and the movement of peoples fleeing persecution, war, famine, dangers of all kinds, or even simply in search of work. An estimated 5,260 non-Mexican nationals reside on the southern side of the border wall, unable to cross or forced to return. They find themselves in a state of political uncertainty, devoid of formal citizenship, unsupported by the Mexican government, isolated from their homeland, and faced with limited opportunities. Reports indicate that over 8,000 people have died attempting to cross the US-Mexico border between 1998 and 2020. Some estimates raise the death toll to over 10,000. As a result of the pervasive feeling of helplessness and hopelessness, many stuck at Mexican border cities have fallen victim to an opioid epidemic, as fentanyl overdose-related deaths in northwestern Mexico have surged by 600 percent in the past three years. 

In the political debate Stateside, many have touted the Trump administration’s immigration enforcement efforts—appealing to an artificial conception of American national identity or culture, arguing on the basis of homeland security, and accusing the undocumented of “stealing jobs.” Others have been more sympathetic to the plight of these migrants—insisting that these people meet a demand in the labor market, richly contribute to our culture, and pay their fair share in taxes. However, the murals that decorate the border wall make an appeal that speaks to something more universal, a commonality to even the most malicious among us: our humanity. 

The artists of the “Eagle and Condor” mural challenge our conscience as a society and as a collective citizenry. They ask a question that ought to be on the minds of every American: in our campaign for industrial expansion, how did we lose touch with our ideals that transcend petty political differences? In other words, how did the eagle depart from the condor? When did we lose our heart? More importantly, how do we get it back?

We must contemplate such questions in light of the killings of two American citizens and the dehumanization of the most vulnerable members of our society. We should be reminded of the words of former President Barack Obama: “What makes somebody an American is not just blood or birth, but allegiance to our founding principles and the faith that anyone anywhere can write the next great chapter of our country.” We are, after all, a nation conceived in liberty, dedicated to the proposition that all men (and women) are created equal. 

If our ideals stop at our borders or immigration status, are liberty and justice truly for all?

By: Chase Gibson ’26

In a 6.5-acre stretch of cityscape in Chicago, Illinois, there’s a neighborhood colloquially known as “Boystown.” Chicago has a repressive and violent history with the LGBTQIA+ community—routine police raids on gay bars, harassment against same-sex couples, and public exposure in local newspapers. And yet, if you were to walk the streets of Boystown, you could catch yourself forgetting this history as you use rainbow-clad crosswalks, gaze at murals celebrating gay icons, and shop at boutiques bursting with pride. At least in this part of town, the queer community is visible, proud, and directly in your face.

The neighborhood represents a deliberate effort to reshape how sexuality and gender identity appear in public space. For those who call Boystown home, simple acknowledgment of non-heteronormative identities is not sufficient. The area functions as a refuge for people who, for generations, were forced into silence or hidden away in what is commonly described as “the closet.” In response to that history, residents and community organizers have worked intentionally to ensure that the neighborhood visibly and unapologetically affirms queer identity. Through public art, symbols of pride, and community events, Boystown asserts itself as a space where queer presence is not subtle or implied but openly and unmistakably claimed.

The visual language of Boystown also belongs to a longer artistic tradition in which queer artists used imagery to challenge social boundaries. One notable example is Francis Bacon’s painting Two Figures, which depicts two nude men entangled on a bed. Created in the early 1950s, when homosexuality was widely stigmatized and often criminalized, the work carried a quiet but unmistakable defiance. Bacon himself experienced rejection for his sexuality and gender expression, having been cast out of his family home as a young man. In that context, the painting becomes more than a private scene; it is an assertion that intimacy and identity exist beyond the narrow expectations imposed by society. By presenting queer intimacy openly on canvas, Bacon helped push representation out of secrecy and into visibility. In many ways, the visual landscape of Boystown continues this same tradition, translating the once-radical act of depicting queer life into murals, symbols, and public spaces that openly affirm it.

In 2018, Chicago’s Department of Cultural Affairs unveiled a self-portrait mural of queer interdisciplinary artist Kiam Marcelo Junio. The purpose of the mural is to open dialogue about intersecting identities as well as represent non-binary people. However, at the most fundamental level, the mural is a representation of the multiplicity of the human experience. 

Public art such as this mural does more than decorate the neighborhood. It transforms the physical landscape into a kind of cultural archive, preserving the stories of people whose identities have often been erased or ignored. Boystown transforms into an open-air gallery where people constantly reimagine sexuality, gender, and belonging. Each mural, sculpture, and symbol contributes to a collective narrative that insists queer lives are not marginal but central to the fabric of the city. In this sense, Boystown is not simply a place of celebration. It is also a declaration of presence, a reminder that visibility itself can be a powerful form of resistance against the long history of silence imposed on LGBTQIA+ communities.