in the desert. Their scorched bodies discovered by Border Patrol Agents in the Sonoran Desert, anywhere between the Mexican border and Phoenix. Sometimes they would die within a mile or two from Phoenix, other times they would die before even reaching Tucson.

I was a newspaper reporter, covering the police beat for The Arizona Republic, which meant that I was one of the reporters who would write about the frequent deaths. Almost 150 immigrants died of dehydration during the last year I worked there.

Most times, I would just write a brief. Other times, if the dying started earlier than usual or if it were a family that was found dead or a child or two, I would write a short article.

And those times when I did write an article that contained my byline, I would never fail to receive the phone calls.

"Serves them right for entering this country illegal."

"You have an accent. Did you come from Mexico and steal someone's job?" (As if I learned how to read and write English by studying the fine print on my empty water bottle during my desert trek to my job interview).

"Why do you keep writing about these deaths when they're not even American?"

And they would always call first thing in the morning before I got to work. They would always just leave a message. Never a name. Never a number.

Those faceless, spineless racist motherfuckers would sometimes laugh as if celebrating the deaths.

And I always wondered if they were one of the thousands, like myself, who had moved to Phoenix during the economic boom of the late 1990s. If they were one of the thousands who had purchased a home in what was considered the most affordable metropolitan housing market in the United States.

If they were one of the thousands who were unable to make the connection that if it weren't for the Mexicans who built their home, tarred their roof and dug out their pool, there would have never been an economic boom in the first place.

Chances are, our paths would never have crossed.