The Border Debate We Should All Be Questioning

The debate over the border has become so tangled lately that I find myself pausing hard to make sense of it. Honestly, maybe we all should. The idea of maintaining a secure border was never a uniquely Republican talking point. At least, not until 2016 when Donald Trump elevated it to the center of his presidential campaign.

Yet if you listen to many Democrats today, you'd think the party has always been firmly opposed to strong border enforcement. It's such a dramatic reversal that I sometimes wonder whether they remember their own positions before Trump entered the scene.

And that raises a few questions.

Where do Democrats actually stand on border security now? What's driving this shift toward resisting policies aimed not only at securing the border but also at addressing the millions of illegal immigrants already here?

It wasn't that long ago that former President Barack Obama was labeled the "Deporter-in-Chief." Bill Clinton oversaw the construction of the first 400-miles of border wall. Even Hillary Clinton repeatedly emphasized the importance of a secure border and supported immigration reforms that included enforcement.

Go back further, and the picture becomes even more interesting. During Ronald Reagan's presidency, Democrats criticized his administration for being too lax on immigration, accusing Republicans of prioritizing cheap labor over the well-being of American workers and communities.

Let me be clear about my own position, because I think it helps to illustrate part of my point, and perhaps explains some of my confusion. I have always believed in secure borders. That matters because it shows my stance wasn't shaped by party or political trends on my own side.

I took the side of the Democrats on this issue because their position more closely aligned with my own personal beliefs about how the border should be handled as a policy matter.

Trump taking on the border issue as strongly as he did was rather unexpected for me. When he elevated border security and made it a defining Republican issue, my party found itself aligned with me on a position I had long held—even when it meant disagreeing with them in the past. It didn't change my opinion. It simply put a checkmark in a box that wasn't check marked before that.

The same thing happened on other policy fronts as well. Take globalization. I believe it undermined stable, good-paying jobs, and I supported a more protectionist approach even when my own party did not. So, on this front as well, when Trump embraced protectionism, it didn't shift my views. It simply brought Republican policy closer to the stance I had already taken for years.

So, it raises an interesting question. Do our views genuinely shift with whatever "issue of the day" our party decides to elevate, or do most of us hold our beliefs independently of party trends? I tend to think most people fall into the latter category. We form our opinions on our own, and then we choose the party that happens to check the most boxes—not the other way around.

That's why, to me, the real question isn't whether Democrats have changed their position on the border. The question is what caused that change. I mean, even during the Reagan years, most Americans—across party lines—supported the idea of a secure border. It wasn't a deeply polarizing issue on Main Street. There was broad agreement.

At least on this issue, despite what anyone thinks overall about President Donald Trump, of all the issues, this one in particular should be that "common-ground" one that should be the least contested. 

Which leads to a more uncomfortable realization. Are those on the left now opposing the policy itself, or are they simply opposing the president associated with it? And why should that shape anyone's personal beliefs? It shouldn't—any more than the Republican party's shifting positions ever dictated mine. My stance is my stance, regardless of where my party happens to land at any given moment.

Think of it this way: if a preacher suddenly abandoned his own teachings and began preaching the opposite of what he once stood for, most people wouldn't change their beliefs to match him. They'd recognize that the preacher—not the principles—had gone off course. In the same sense, a political party shifting its message shouldn't automatically cause anyone to abandon their long-held views. Yet that seems to be exactly what has happened with the Democrat party's recent embrace of looser border policies. The change in rhetoric has led many to follow along, not because their core beliefs shifted, but because their party did.

Which brings me to the real danger here. What happens when people allow their reactions to be driven more by emotion than by common sense?

Some will say, "I don't oppose border security—I just disagree with the methods being used now." But how did we reach a point where such measures would even need to be on the table? What situation created the need for our extreme response in the first place?

It was the shift in policy that brought us here.

For years the United States maintained relatively firm—though imperfect—border policies. The situation was never ideal, but it wasn't spiraling out of control either. When Donald Trump, during his first term, made border security a central issue, he largely intensified efforts that were already well in place before him.

The real turning point came when President Joe Biden entered office and began dismantling not only Trump-era policies, but many of the enforcement mechanisms that Democrats themselves had put in place long before Trump arrived on the scene. That reversal opened the floodgates, and the consequences are what we're now struggling to manage.

In short, we created a crisis, and that demands a stronger response. It requires sharper focus, more decisive action, and solutions bold enough to rebuild the system from the ground up.

We should all feel a measure of confusion here, because if the Biden administration had simply maintained the existing border policies rather than dismantling them, we wouldn't be talking today about ICE sweeps or large-scale enforcement operations. The situation wouldn't have escalated to this point. In fact, border-security could have been one of the few issues capable of uniting both sides during Donald Trump's second term. Because again, a secure border was something Americans broadly agreed on—regardless of party.

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© 2026 Jim Bauer

The Myth of the "Safe Space"—When Protection Becomes Control

Safe space.

The phrase grates on me every time it's uttered. We all pretend we know what it means. Some of us want to pretend it's a good thing. But let's be honest. A "safe space" is rarely safe at all. It's marketed as sanctuary, wrapped in soft language and good intentions, usually with one self-appointed guardian standing at the door like some benevolent superhero promising protection to all who enter.

But underneath that promise sits something far less noble—control. Total control. Control of the tone, the rules, the boundaries, the acceptable thoughts and the acceptable feelings. And every time I hear someone proudly declare their space "safe," I can't help but wonder what's actually going on in their head. What do they think they are offering? What do they believe they are shielding people from? What does safe even mean to the person who gets to define it?

Because the one who proclaims the safe space is also the one who decides what must be kept out.

Think about it for a moment. Isn't there something quietly condescending—maybe even outright insulting—about being told I need to be kept safe from anything at all? As if I'm too delicate to face the world as it is. As if I require shielding, cushioning, filtering. The very idea suggests I'm incapable, fragile, and in need of someone else's judgement to decide what I can or cannot handle.

Because beneath the gentle language of "protection" lurks a far more patronizing message: You are weak. You cannot be trusted with the full reality of things. I will decide what you're allowed to encounter so you don't break.

That's not safety. That's infantilization dressed up as care.

The reason I bring this up is because—after not hearing the term for quite some time—it resurfaced in the middle of a full-blown rant by a certain YouTuber. I won't name him, but he's someone who normally talks about completely different topics. Yet there he was, saying the quiet parts out loud while explaining why he deleted a particular comment. Why he actually deletes many comments. His commentary not only spoke of his safe space, but it also defined what it actually is.

Again, the quiet part was spoken out loud, which is why it struck me.

Now, I understand the "my house, my rules" argument. It's his channel. He can shape it however he wants and curate whatever comments he chooses. And for the record, none of this had anything to do with anything I ever posted. But the mindset behind his explanation—that's what caught my attention.

I swear, had I not seen the video made on a stony, forested trail somewhere in Nova Scotia, Canada, I might have thought it came right from the Kumsusan Palace of the Sun in North Korea. Because again, that's the mentality of one who creates a safe space. It's not to protect all who enter. It's to protect the proclaimer of the safe space itself. It's to protect something deep within himself he deeply fears—the possibility of a truth other than his own.

What he revealed wasn't strength. It was fragility. The glimpse into the "real" man behind the camera was far from flattering. The so-called "protector" came off as far more delicate than the people he claimed to be shielding. And that's the uncomfortable truth about most safe spaces. The person enforcing the safety is often the one who needs the insulation the most.

What I'm offering here is a warning. When someone insists, "You need to feel safe," you have to stop and ask: what is he afraid of? Is it the truth? Is it the presence of opposing viewpoints that might force him to examine his own beliefs? Is he afraid of being wrong? Afraid of thinking before reacting? Afraid that one small shard of common sense might unravel the entire worldview he's built?

You have to listen closely to the language. That's where the tells are. "I will delete hurtful, harmful, or hateful comments." Define that. He doesn't, of course. Those words mean whatever he decides they mean, filtered through his own worldview and personal sensitivities. 

And let's not forget. Not too long ago, people were genuinely outraged over pancake syrup. So "harmful" has a pretty broad definition.

Then there's "I don't like to argue with people." Again—define argue. Because the way he framed it matched exactly what I suspected. What he really meant was: I don't want comments that challenge my worldview, require me to explain myself, or force me into an open discussion. 

And then the big one. "I don't allow misinformation." At first glance, that sounds noble. But listen closely. If anything can be labeled misinformation, then he gets to decide what is or isn't true. No debate. No nuance. No conversation. Just a single gatekeeper declaring reality.

So again, I have to ask. What exactly am I being "protected" from? And why is it his job to decide what information I am allowed to hear and what must be hidden away? That's the unsettling part. That's where the control comes in. It's the same mechanism that propaganda relies on—one person determining the truth and silencing every competing thought. That isn't healthy. That isn't safe. In fact, it's one of the most dangerous environments we could ever find ourselves trapped in.

This isn't meant as a personal attack on the YouTuber or even his channel. But his comments made me pause, because what he described is precisely why we shouldn't have "safe spaces." It's exactly why we need open discussions—especially the uncomfortable ones, the challenging ones, the ones that force us to think.

It's far more dangerous to leave people with their heads buried in the sand than to let them hear everything and decide for themselves what's true or false, good or bad, hurtful or hateful, or whatever label someone wants to slap on an idea.

In other words, it's much safer for me to see Aunt Jemimah on the shelves at the store and decide for myself whether or not I want to support any meaning behind it or buy Log Cabin instead. I want the ability to decide for myself. And I want the freedom to discuss my thoughts and hear the thoughts of others about it.

No one needs to protect me from pancake syrup. I don't need for my grocery aisles to be made into a "safe space." Or anywhere else for that matter.

Sure, it's just a YouTube channel. But the mindset behind the video—the belief that people must be shielded from ideas—is where the real danger lies. When one person shapes the world for everyone else, when he filters reality and dictates what thoughts are acceptable, we don't become safer. We become vulnerable. The gears of control start turning. Independent thought shuts down. Minds weaken. Spirits shrink. And piece by piece, our individuality gets stripped away.

Again, my issue is not with this YouTuber himself. He's just the anecdote—the latest example, the most recent voice echoing this troubling notion of a "safe space." He's not the problem. The idea is. The mindset is. The belief that safety comes from shielding people rather than strengthening them.

And here's the irony: the only reason he can express his views so freely is because he lives in a world that allows open expression in the first place. Freedom makes his "safe space" possible—not the other way around.

So, we circle back to where we began. The illusion of safety. A "safe space" promises protection, but more often it becomes a cage—one built not to shelter people from harm, but to shelter its creator from discomfort. The moment one person claims the authority to decide what others may hear, say, or think, the space stops being safe and starts becoming controlled. True safety doesn't come from walls or filters or guardians at the gate. It comes from the freedom to confront ideas, challenge assumptions, and grow stronger through the friction of honest conversation. If anything needs protecting, it's that freedom—not the fragile feelings of those who fear it.

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© 2026 Jim Bauer

Liberal Arguments Collapse Under their Own Weight: Just Take Renee Good and ICE

On the issue of Renee Good, ICE, the border, and on so many other issues, there's a point where liberal mental gymnastics becomes impossible to ignore.

When someone finds themselves defending criminals or excusing blatantly criminal behavior—not because they believe in it, but because it helps them attack something else they dislike—while simultaneously preaching about "law and order," that's the moment the alarm bells should go off for them. That's when something should click. Because it's a contradiction so loud even a deaf person could at least feel it.

But that's the core problem, isn't it? These arguments don't make sense because they're not built on anything solid. They're built on slogans. On feelings. They only fit on bumper stickers. On whatever sounds good in the moment. And it doesn't stop at one issue—it's woven into their entire worldview (that is, if you can accept, they actually have a view on anything, truly). They literally live in a constant state of contradiction.

Take a few examples.

Women must be defined clearly and biologically if we're talking about equal pay or opportunity—but the definition suddenly shifts when the conversation turns to say, sports, and someone needs to be "protected." Rather than conjoin the two arguments, they simply separate the two and make a new one, using an entirely new basis and premise to try and bring it home.

Abortion must be celebrated as a right, yet we must also accept that executing a convicted murderer is immoral. They can't define the two things as separate, very different things.

The pattern is unmistakable. These aren't positions. They're oppositions. The stances themselves need not be coherent or cohesive. They only need to resist something else. And it's the age-old response you get—that's not what we're talking about right now—when you try to check them on it.

Once the opposition is chosen, everything around it is bent, stretched, or redefined to fit—even when it defies logic, consistency, basic common sense, or paints them into a corner on another topic.

They're not arguments based on principle. They're arguments based on reflex. When that becomes the guiding force, nothing can make sense.

In order to accept Good was right and ICE was wrong, you have to bend and twist the narrative in remarkable ways to make it all come together, and inevitably...

Contradict yourself.

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© 2026 Jim Bauer

After Maduro: The Real Test Begins

Can Trump make Venezuela great again?

It's a provocative question, but not an unreasonable one now that Nicolás Maduro is out of power, in U.S. custody, and the United States has announced it will oversee the country's transition. The moment demands honesty: even when the U.S. intervenes with the best of intentions, the outcomes in these other nations haven't always been improvements. That's not an indictment of America or its motives—it's simply an acknowledgement of history.

I say this as someone who generally supports efforts to remove destructive leaders. When bad actors hold power, ordinary people pay the price. And if there's one thing I've learned from talking to people across the world online, it's that most of us—regardless of culture, religion, or geography—want the same basic things. We want stability. We want opportunity. We want a future for our children and our grandchildren greater than our own.

And we want to live in general safety and comfort.

The tragedy is that those universal desires often get twisted by those who rule. Power thrives on division. Leaders manufacture enemies, crises, and threats because fear is a reliable tool for control. It keeps people distracted, divided and dependent.

Now that Maduro is gone, I want us to get this one right. I'd prefer we got all of them right, but this is the moment in front of us. And the stakes aren't about America's reputation or some future trophy on a shelf. They're about the people of Venezuela—people who have endured decades of hardship, corruption, and collapse.

This was once one of the wealthiest nations in Latin America. Today, many Venezuelans live with shortages of basic goods, a shattered economy, and a daily grind that's a constant struggle for mere survival. They deserve more than that. They deserve a chance to rebuild, to breathe, and to hope again.

Frankly, all people deserve that.

With Maduro removed, that chance exists—but it's fragile. How the U.S. chooses to intervene will ultimately now shape whether Venezuela rises or sinks further. Our actions can accelerate recovery or derail it. It depends on the strategy, the execution, and—most importantly—how the Venezuelan people themselves perceive and participate in the process.

As for the reasons behind the U.S. action, opinions will vary widely. But across political lines, there's broad agreement on at least one point—or perhaps there should be. Maduro's leadership has not served the Venezuelan people well, nor has it contributed positively to regional stability. His documented involvement in narcoterrorism has had devastating consequences far beyond Venezuela's borders.

What the U.S. will need to confront first is the machinery of the drug cartels. That won't be a simple task. It's similar to when we try to extinguish power in other countries from well-funded and well-organized terror groups or tribes—take the Taliban in Afghanistan for example, or what we've dealt with in the past with deep factions of ISIS or Al-Qaeda.

These networks aren't just criminal enterprises—they're woven into the fabric of daily life. For all its oil wealth, Venezuela's functional economy for ordinary people has long been the drug trade. The profits from oil have propped up those operations, not the Venezuelan people. And when the only reliable path to survival is joining a gang or entering a criminal pipeline, the cycle becomes self-perpetuating.

Will dismantling these networks end the drug war? Of course not. Cartels are adaptable. They'll shift operations to places where U.S. influence is weaker, and they have the money, infrastructure, and ruthlessness to do it. That's the reality.

But there's a deeper question we rarely grapple with: what replaces that economy? How do you build a system where people don't have to rely on crime to feed their families? Too often, that's where our interventions fall short. We focus on removing the bad actors but not on creating sustainable alternatives that change where the money flows and who benefits from it.

Think of it the way we would if a major industry in the United States suddenly disappeared. Something has to take its place. And when that industry collapses, the people who depended on it are forced to adapt. They have to find a new path, learn new skills, and adjust to an entirely different economic reality.

If Venezuela is going to rebuild, it needs more than security operations. It needs an economic foundation that gives people a reason to choose something other than the lifeline provided by the cartels—a future where legitimate work and legitimate opportunity is not only possible but preferable.  That's the part we have to get right, or everything else collapses back into the same old patterns.

If real opportunity is returned to the people of Venezuela—opportunity they can see, touch, and trust—then the cartels and other factions lose their grip. They can no longer offer what legitimate society fails to provide. When people have a future they can build, the power of those who prey on desperation begins to fade.

Fail to do this, and all we've done is to push the problem a little further down the road.

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© 2026 Jim Bauer

The Responsibility We Keep Forgetting When We Stop Thinking

Sometimes you stop and wonder. What's gone wrong with our system? On paper, it's representative government—the voice of the People. And yet, that's exactly where the trouble begins. Or it's at least where a lot of it is now.

There's an old saying. Bad data in, bad data out. If we feed a system the wrong inputs, we shouldn't be surprised when the outputs disappoint us.

We complain endlessly about ineffective mayors, governors, and local officials who seem to make everything worse. They mismanage, they mislead, they muddy the waters. But when the dust settles, who's really at fault? Is it the politicians who fall short—or is it us, the voters who put them there?

Because at the end of the day we're the ones making the choices. We're the ones who accept the promises, overlook the failures, or ignore them entirely. And when a leader faces serious criticism yet still wins reelection, it raises a hard question: how seriously are we taking our responsibility as voters?

Yes, elected officials hold power. But that power originates with us. And that means the real issue isn't just leadership. It's the quality of the electorate. As a society, we've grown less skeptical, less curious, and far too willing to accept whatever the mainstream narrative tells us, even when we suspect bias is baked into every angle.

Social media hasn't helped. Oh, sure. We think it does. We think it counters the dishonest media. The truth is, instead of encouraging open dialogue, it often creates and rewards echo chambers. People don't want to ask questions anymore. They want to be affirmed. They want to block out anything that challenges their worldview. That's not empowerment. That's self-imposed silence.

There's a quote—I can't recall who said it—that goes, "Every dollar we spend casts a vote for the kind of world we want to live in." It was meant about commerce and environmental choices, but it applies just as well to voting. If we end up with poor leadership, it's because we collectively chose it. Or, on the flip side, we allowed ourselves to make a bad choice.

Our vote matters. It shapes what comes next. It determines who holds power and what they do with it.

Blaming officials when things go wrong is easy. It lets us dodge responsibility. We can always say, "Well, I didn't vote for that person." And sometimes that's true. But the deeper question is, when we made whatever choice we ultimately made, how did we vote? Any of us. All of us. On either side of the aisle.

How did we make our choice?

Did we listen carefully? Did we research? Or did we rely on a party label, a news outlet, a social media circle, or a blogger who already agreed with us?

Ultimately, voters decide the direction of the country—right or wrong, good or bad. So, when things fall apart, at what point do we admit that some of the blame belongs to us? When do we acknowledge that maybe we're part of the problem?

People often argue for term limits. But in a way we already have them. We always have. They're called elections. If we had a more informed, more engaged, more discerning voting public, we wouldn't need set limits. Leaders who fail would simply be voted out.

But there is a catch there. It's in how we evaluate successes and failures as much as anything. Are we honest about what's a successful thing and what's gone wrong? Or do we determine that by the same cues offered from our political biases, news outlets, social media circles, and a closed mind way of thinking?

The founders never intended for unfit leaders to rise to power. They intended for the People to choose wisely—to be the penultimate safeguard of the Republic.

Which means, ultimately, that if the system is failing, it's because we are failing. We're the ones checking the boxes. We're the ones shaping the world we live in. And we're also the ones who have allowed ourselves to be so divided that critical thinking and compromise are like relics.

If we want to climb out of this mess, the solution isn't louder voices—it's sharper minds. We need to listen more carefully, think more independently, and stop outsourcing our judgement to whatever source shouts the loudest—or simply shouts the things we prefer to hear.

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© 2025 Jim Bauer