I once had an . . . interesting time coming back from Tijuana with a couple of buddies. E. was a naturalized American citizen. He’d entered the US when he was 2 as a refugee and election for citizenship when he turned 18 was a no-brainer since for all intents and purposes he was an American anyway. As a citizen, he’s got no green card, no papers showing residence status, nothing other than the kind of ID anyone would have normally; i.e.: a student ID and a driver’s license.
The border official stopped us and asked us a question or two. I was asked where I was born and where I lived. E. got the same questions, and he answered truthfully.
“Where were you born?”
“El Salvador.”
“Where do you live?”
“Now, San Diego, but I’m from L.A.”
“Would you step over to the counter there, please.”
My other friend and I were not allowed to stay with him and had to cross over to the other side of the border.
Thirty minutes later, E. finally rejoined us. He was pissed off and humiliated, and I didn’t blame him. I would have felt the same if I’d had to go through that. He was asked for a passport, which of course he didn’t have. US citizens don’t need passports to cross to Mexico or Canada. His license wasn’t a “valid ID” as far as they were concerned, he didn’t have any other citizenship papers since all that stuff becomes invalid when you become a citizen. In short there was nothing that they would accept as proof that he belonged in the US, even though he had every legal right as a citizen to cross. I’m not sure that the border agent’s suggestion of carrying a passport would have helped him very much since that might have aroused even more suspicion. It’s ironic that telling the truth got him much more attention than lying and saying something like, “L.A.” would have.