why are you taking pictures of peoples' houses?

2,000 people set up camp in the middle of the desert. Decided to dig up metal intended to be made into pipes and stolen by Mexicans for a quick buck. I grew up there. ... Sometimes a story surfaces that serves as a perfect snapshot of Kearny. Today I heard one of them from my sister.

Shawna was assigned a project that required her to create some sort of video presentation for an education class. She decided to center hers around the relocation of the people and towns of Ray and Sonora, the old bones of Kearny, that were home to copper miners before their jobs forced them to dig up everything beneath their feet and then some. To do interviews and get some footage for said project, she went to Kearny.

Step one led her to the resident town historian (and only dentist who managed to not commit suicide). Partially due to the fact that he was so familiar with her teeth and partially because he owned a wealth of archival photographs, the interview went swimmingly. But then came the task of collecting video. (It was, after all, a video presentation.) Step two involved driving around town, hanging out the window of the car with camera in hand. And so our mother slowly drove the car up and down the streets of Kearny, Shawna no doubt loathing every minute of it.

"Don't film these. These houses are ugly," stated my mother in observation of the peeling paint and multiple cars parked in people's front yards. "Okay. Here are some good ones."

Shawna steadied the camera outside the car and let the lens soak up rambler after ranch-style rambler. As they rolled past one house, out the corner of her eye, Shawna saw somebody come outside.

"Can I help you?" a man bellowed, obviously irritated.

In an attempt to keep the footage sound-free and useable, she said nothing.

"Can I HELP YOU?" he repeated.

"NO," she replied. "You're ruining my movie you idiot..." she muttered, the car still rolling down the road. "GOD, what a paranoid psycho."

The gals finished up and headed home. No sooner did they walk in the front door than my dad accusingly asked, "Why are you taking pictures of peoples' houses?"

"What? How do you know that?" said Shawna.

"Mark called. He was really upset."

An explanation followed which shed light on the fact that Mark did not even see the car or the camera. The house alerted to the filming process belonged to his daughter. The illegal immigrant boyfriend being harbored in the house, who did see the camera, also belonged to his daughter. While most people prepare an emergency response plan for fire, earthquake, or other disaster, this family apparently prepared for outsiders being alerted to the presence of their live-in wetback.

"You need to call them and explain what's going on," my father chided.

Welcome to Kearny! Where if you see someone driving down the street with a camera in hand, proper channels require you identify their car by sight, call the associated phone number, and automatically assume they are part of some sort of conspiracy to have your daughter's illegal whom she is living in sin with deported. Because really, that is the most logical line of thought...