Last week I spent my Wednesday night as I usually do — lurking on Facebook to stalk ex-boyfriends and delight in how my high school’s mean girls are horrifically aging — when I noticed that an old friend had defriended me.

My heart dropped. Ours had long been a genuine friendship, built on raucous laughs and countless memories from the halcyon teenage years.

I didn’t take it well.

I messaged her to ask what had happened, and her response was fast in coming. After months of watching me report on the immigration crisis in southern Texas — a focus of my journalism in 2014 — enough was enough. She couldn’t bear to read another line of the “offensive, disgusting” news from the border. In her words, “Republican filth.”

I spent the last few years writing on border issues as a reporter, not an opinion writer. I was just calling them like I saw them. And for any journalist in Texas reporting on the border in 2014, nuance was in short supply. Thousands of migrants were flooding over a porous border daily and taking advantage of a diminished national readiness. All you had to do was park your car on high ground and watch it happen. The only “agenda” you could have there as a reporter was to pretend that that a crisis wasn’t happening. Which some did.

Read the rest of this article in the National Review.