Sanctuary Cities Batteries Not Included

By Tammy Pondsmith, Senior Correspondent, Article 107 News (we report the facts before they happen so you can skip the apology tour later)

Author’s Note: I tried kinder and gentler version of this a few weeks ago, the tonal equivalent of serving decaf at a demolition derby. My editor suggested I replace every sharp edge with a soothing affirmation and maybe a watercolor of a sunrise. I thanked him for his service to beige, fired him in my heart, and wrote the truth below at full volume. Sanctuary city politics runs on wishful thinking with a parking ticket taped to it, and I am not here to file the corners off reality so it fits in a gift bag. If you want lullabies, the internet sells plenty. If you want jokes with teeth, welcome to the chew toy. This piece is mean only to hypocrisy, rude only to slogans that spend other people’s money, and affectionate only to readers who can handle a mirror without asking for a dimmer switch. The first draft wore oven mitts, something I’ll never do again. This one lights the pilot.

I’m not here to hold your hand while your city cosplays Ellis Island with a mic’d-up mural and a grant application. Sanctuary cities are the civic equivalent of buying a peloton, hanging your dry cleaning on it, and insisting you’re a triathlete because the receipts say “fitness.” The branding is mercy; the deliverable is a shantytown under an overpass that got landmark status for its “historic tarp aesthetic.”

Let’s start with the premise. You declare yourself a sanctuary—big word, sweet lighting. You instruct police and agencies to look the other way, then swear you’re “strengthening trust.” Translation: you’re outsourcing federal failure to beat cops, school nurses, and a librarian who already learned four languages and how to Narcan a teenager. Meanwhile, you post a selfie next to a food bank like you invented bread. This isn’t policy; it’s hospitality cosplay: perform compassion, pass the bill, and pray nobody reads the occupancy limit.

The math doesn’t care about your hashtag. People need beds, doctors, translators, and classrooms with desks that aren’t folding chairs from a church basement. They need caseworkers who aren’t three interns in matching T-shirts chasing a bus schedule that works about as often as your city council’s internet connection. But instead of building capacity, you print more yard signs and call the bankruptcy “a values statement.” It is—a statement that your values come with a QR code to someone else’s wallet.

Fans of the sanctuary brand swear it “keeps communities safe.” Sure, in the same way a screen door keeps out piranhas if you don’t live near water. You can proclaim “we won’t cooperate” all you like; consequences still exist, they just move next door. That’s the whole trick: outsource risk, import praise. It’s moral alchemy—turn gold-plated press conferences into lead-lined shelters that don’t exist.

And spare me the trembling monologues about “who we are.” We’re a country that wants next-day delivery and same-day amnesia. We want the labor on Tuesday and zero friction on Wednesday. Sanctuary politics enables the fantasy: pretend borders and budgets are colonial artifacts, then clutch pearls when the shelter fills at 10:07 a.m. and the “wraparound services” are a PDF and a shrug. You are not running a sanctuary; you are running a scavenger hunt.

“Tammy, what’s your solution?” Glad you asked, imaginary person with a tote bag. Step one: stop lying. Call it what it is—de facto non-enforcement paired with performative charity. Step two: enforce the law, humanely and predictably, because a system that says “maybe” is a magnet with a memory problem. Step three: if you want more people, build more city—housing permits, school wings, clinics, transit lines—and pay for it with something heavier than a ribbon and a speech. If that sounds boring, good. Grownup governance is a spreadsheet, not a slam poem.

Here’s the acid test. If your “sanctuary” relies on volunteers, vibes, and litigation, you don’t have policy—you have posture. If you can’t afford cops, teachers, EMTs, and caseworkers in double digits, you don’t have capacity—you have a press release. If you brag about “welcoming” while quietly renting buses at 2 a.m., you’re not kind—you’re laundering optics.

I’m not anti-migrant; I’m anti-masquerade. Don’t sell strangers a miracle and locals a myth. Pick: enforce the rules and scale the services, or admit you’re running a feelings factory with a humanitarian byproduct. Either way, take down the “Sanctuary” sign until you can afford the door.

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Tammy Pondsmith once won a citywide ethics award she wasn’t nominated for after the committee accidentally audited itself and asked her to emcee the confession.

*Article 107 News: The Facts, Before They Happen
Article 107 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice covers “false official statements.” As the name implies, Art107 News is Havok Journal’s satire wing, and you shouldn’t take anything published under this byline seriously. You should., however, mercilessly mock anyone who does.