Mexican

I am a Mexican, in case you didn’t know. A real Mexican, though. Like, with a green card. Like, not an American citizen. Like, I can’t vote or go to jury duty.

However, I have been in this country for 53 years. Why I haven’t I gotten my citizenship?  Probably so that I keep myself amused going to renew my green card and my Mexican passport.

Today, I am at the Mexican Consulate in San Francisco, getting a Mexican passport. I hope.

After my Little Honey Bunch decided to take the family to Europe this summer, I realized I had to get my traveling  papers in order.

I procrastinated (Yeah, me.  Can you believe it?) and didn’t get around to looking into citizenship until like, yesterday.  So apparently it takes an average of six months to go through the process and probably not guaranteed, especially after they see the ‘incidents’ on my application.

So, Plan B. Get a Mexican passport. I looked them up on the interwebs, (and can you believe it was all in Spanish?) called, managed to make an appointment (all their English speaking people had gone home) and managed to get here on BART without incident.  Unlike my adventure a few years ago when I renewed my Green Card (click here for story).

I get to the place and of course there’s a line out the door. “Is this the line for the 1:00 o’clock appointments?” “Si.”  Damn it.   It’s 12:30, I go to the back of the line and wait. A funny Mexican homeless guy is working the line for money.   People ask me questions. My shit stirring self says sweetly, “I’m sorry.  I don’t speak Spanish.”

The line starts moving, one guy checking everyone’s papers, sending people away to Kinko’s down the street, who don’t have copies of their originals. Don’t these people read the requirements before they come?  And further, why does everyone bring their entire family when it is clearly stated to come alone?  SMDH!

I get to the front of the line and pull out my documents and I almost get sent to Kinko’s because my birth certificate was on two pieces of paper. He kindly fixed it for me though.  I guess he felt sorry for the poor excuse of a Mexican who couldn’t speak Spanish.

He gives me a number and I sit and  wait to be called.  My number is D270. The counter says they’re on D212. I’m going to be here a while. And I’m hungry.

Anyway, this office is much different than the green card place.  Everything is in Spanish.   After watching rug rats for a while, I decide to entertain myself by blogging my day.

I can’t do the math but I’ve been waiting inside (with number) since 1:45. It’s now 2:40 and they are serving number D260. I think I’m getting close!

I think I’ll finish this for now and Pinterest until my number is called. If anything exciting happens after this, I’ll post again.

Ta, ta!

 

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