It took a physical birth, a paper to state Oliver was born, a trip to the city center to get another paper to say that Oliver was born, $200, a three week wait for an interview, and a bus ride to get here. Just to get yet another paper that said that Oliver had been born in the same place at the same time that the other two documents and my body declared.
The U.S. Embassy takes up a whole street block towards the center of Mexico City. It is nothing inviting with its typical gray and white tones in the middle of such a colorful country. Of course we are late for our 8:30 am appointment…because it is Mexico City. Some days it´s an hour to drive 10 miles, some days 4 hours. It´s Mexico City, they can´t expect punctuality from us…right?
We shuffle onto the sidewalk and catch sight of a line the size of my graduating class. A hundred sardines lined up with transparent plastic bags and baize folders in their arms. All of them, like us, have something to prove. The line flows well out onto the street, ending nicely before the ruffed up guy selling Clorets gum and crunchy roasted grasshoppers. Just past him is the conveniently located umbrella guard station. We knew nothing besides papers and Oliver´s next diaper would be allowed in the building, but without a costly hotel we didn´t sleep in to hold our stuff, we get to leave the rest with ¨la tía.¨ Camilo´s monster trucks, our extra pairs of underwear, and our phones that hold too much info are all passed to la tía for her to sit on while we fall in among the rest in the gray building.
We are summoned to another umbrella and instructed to reveal the documents showing that the baby I held in my arms had truly been born. Since we were successful in passing this first test, and because I held a baby in my arms, we were pushed along to the entrance. We passed through the rotating bar doors, assured the workers we had no cell-phones, belts, or monster-trucks on our persons, and continued forward. A meltdown was muted by my look of horror and we were allowed to pass to the interview room. Now we await for a chance to tell someone that my baby had already been born and that I am indeed his American mother.
It´s like a giant room at a bank, with tellers inside their cubicles, allowing us to hear each conversation if we really wish to. And although we aren´t too nosy, what else can you do when you sit for three hours in a room? We watch couples go through the interview with their children; not all babies. We see full on Mexican couples, couples with a white and a dark mixture and their coffee with cream colored children. We see American fathers sporting the long beard and Mexican mothers masticando el inglés (spewing their little English). We see two gay couples whose only connection to Mexico was the payment of reproductive parts. Some children are handed their little striped flag letting them know the United States recognizes they were born. Other children are sent away as the adults, carrying their sorrowful parents out.
As we watch, my confidence fades. I begin to ask myself if I am American enough. Legally, I need to show that my baby was born,that he is mine, that I am an American citizen, and that I physically lived in the U.S. for five years after my 14th birthday. I have it all. I am American enough that I´m not sure what percentages of European bloods run through my body. I learned the preamble by Schoolhouse Rock and celebrated Cinco de Mayo as though it was Mexican Independence Day. And I can show my documents to prove my physical presence. High school and college transcripts and W2s. But that life in the U.S. often feels like a fuzzy dream. That was back when I went to the Supermarket, played in a concert band, ate canned beans, and mailed things to my family and friends. Now I walk past pigs heads to get my fruit, throw coins in the box next to the accordion player, soak my beans, and stock things until I can see my loved ones. Does that make me less American? Sadly, my own family would probably say so. But what about the officials?
We are finally called up to the cubicle after reading the Gruffalo twenty times, pulling out the diaper from the plastic bag, and listening to our baby scream until we could only hear buzzing. The nerves died out when eye contact was made with the official. He knew. Without asking, he could see the preamble programmed into my brain and pledge of allegiance on my lips. He could hear me playing the star spangled banner at a football game and he could feel my body treated by the medicaid doctors and dentists. He actually had us sign the American birth certificate before he asked for any paperwork. I fit the part, it was enough. He thumbed over the first page of my high school transcripts as a formality and passed over another striped American flag.
My boys are both privileged. They have what their friends may desire and never receive. They have what little kids die on trains for. For what refugees wait in camps for. For what coyotes help others to achieve. They have a free pass to the United States. And it was just handed to them. They didn´t do anything. I didn´t do anything to give it to them except to be born in a specific place and live my life. My coffee with cream covered Oliver has options and opportunities I wish I could give to every kid in my neighborhood. He gets it this day just because I am his mom, a privilege in itself.
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