Uncle Sam, am I in?

The other day, two coworkers and I were discussing some meaningless topic when unexpectedly our conversation evolved to talk about immigration. One of the guys is from Yugoslavia and the other from Turkey.

“I can’t believe this guy, he was born in the U.S. … he could be President if he wanted to,” said the Yugoslavian to me about the Turkish guy.

“Where were you born?,” I asked in amazement.

“Ohio.”

“Ahh.”

It struck me with surprise to hear that he was born in the United States because he holds a thick accent in English.

I didn’t ask details but I suppose that his parents came to the U.S. to deliver him and then took him back to Turkey to raise him there.

Everyone at work thinks I’m a U.S. citizen and as I sat down on my break that same day, I thought about how unfair it was for him to have all the privilege America has to offer meantime I’m stuck in a situation where my life cannot advance. I speak better English, I know more American History, I’m in school, I’m a good person, why me, I asked?

I felt envy … I accepted that I just wasn’t lucky enough to be born here.

I don’t want to sound like the U.S. is the only place anyone can survive in but my problem comes from the fact that I was inadvertently raised in the American culture and still I am not fully accepted.

My two coworkers and I work at the mall in a small retail shop selling sports merchandise. Malls are usually places where foreigners on temporary visas come to look for work, and so I have many friends that are from diverse regions of the world.

I remember a Brazilian friend, whom I worked with, that always asked me why I had such a worthless job. He always explained how he didn’t understand why I hadn’t found another job that paid better and gave me more opportunities and experience. Although I get paid semi-decent for the work I do, I still could never answer him with sincerity.

“You have a Social, you can do anything,” he repeated with disparity.

“I’m going to school right now, and, this job is flexible with my schedule … I don’t know, I guess I have to look for a better job.”

I play it dumb, as though I’m too lazy to find another job, the typical American conformist. And that’s all I can ever say.

I’ve been an employee of this company for two years now and I have met many foreigners that have overstayed their visas. Paradoxically, I’ve even been offered money to stage a marriage between me and a Brazilian coworker who had an expired passport so she could become legal.

I turned 21 last month and yet another burden of shame is placed on my shoulders.

I’ve turned down countless offers to enjoy the downtown nightlife because I don’t posses an identification to prove my age. I would have to get my Mexican passport to have an acceptable form of ID but this brings the fear of having a friend see me handing a passport to a bouncer instead of a California ID, exposing myself to questioning.

I try to look at the bright side of things but it just becomes so difficult to remain optimistic when so many situations around me force an effort to hide my true identity.

My sanity continues ticking with an attempt to contemplate my reality. I try placing my situation into perspectives. I live in a place where I don’t worry about my basic survival necessities, like so many people in the world do; I’m in good health, with extra money in my pocket and family that keep me motivated.

I dream of the day when I can present an identification bearing my name.

The very word ‘identification’ propels my mind to speculate. No longer is being ‘you,’ a human being, enough to be an entity, rather, a non living physical plastic card becomes the one who identifies you. With it you’re something, without it, you’re nothing.

Is it just me, or is this not right?