By
Aly Colon of the Poynter Institute
St. Petersburg Times
Published: 4/9/06
Excerpt:
I knew the question was coming. I knew the answer I would give.
As we sat in the car, I watched the border agent bend down and peer at us through the driver's window. Four of us were on our way back from an evening across the border. ...
"Where were you born?" he asked.
My friends smiled. They named their birthplaces. Toledo, Ohio. Detroit, Michigan. Amsterdam, New York.
He bent down a little farther, trying to get a better look at me. I was sitting in the back seat on the other side of the car.
"Where were you born?" he repeated.
I paused. I knew what would happen next.
"Where were you born?" he said again, this time with a tone of exasperation rising in his voice.
"Santurce, Puerto Rico," I responded.
"May I see your green card, please?" the agent asked.
"Green card?" I responded. "I don't need a green card. I'm an American citizen."
"Look, you need a green card to get into the United States," the border agent said.
I could feel my face getting hot. Doesn't he know his own history? Doesn't he know the United States took Puerto Rico from Spain after the Spanish-American War? Doesn't he know we belong to the United States? That we were made U.S. citizens in 1917?
I reached into my wallet. I pulled out a card.
"Here's my American Express card," I shot back. "It's green." ...
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