Epic story about border crossing and racial profiling. 3-2-1-go:
I lived in the U.S. for a while; about a decade, between my two stays. Like I said before on this thread, I'm Hispanic, but I'm light-skinned compared to a lot of Hispanics, especially Hispanics in San Francisco, California's Mission District, where I lived. I have blue eyes, for fuck's sake.
It was 1994 when my step-dad, Carlos, and his friend, Brad, decided to take me and Brad's son, Alex, on a half-country road-trip from S.F. to Texas by way of the U.S.-Mexico border. The idea was that we'd cross the border a few times in significant spots and generally have a good time.
Carlos had been a nationalized U.S. Citizen for over a decade by then and is also of Italian descent, so fairly pale, but had a tan, and Alex and Brad were born and bred, both Caucasian, but with tans. I was the only one of the quartet that was not a citizen; I was a resident with a green card. I had also just had a monster case of the flu (or something) and had been in bed for two weeks, so I was extra pale when we set off.
We must have crossed the U.S.-Mexico border four times, at least, and I do not exaggerate when I say we got stopped every single time, to have our car searched every single time, and border patrol asked for papers every single time.
And every single time when it came time for me to show my papers, the border guard would take a single look at me, and wave me through.
No, seriously.
I've since had my share of instances where my nationality, my race, my appearance, and my values have caused me to be on the wrong side of the law, acceptance, or both. But I'll never forgt the irony and stupidity of those officers who were so ingrained in their inability to see past what amounted to a tan or lack there of. At ten years old, I was so baffled by the utter stupidity that I never forgot the story.