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Am I a United States citizen?

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It’s true I was born in Colorado Springs, or so they tell me, but on the other hand Trump issued the following executive order today:

Sec. 2. Policy. (a) It is the policy of the United States that no department or agency of the United States government shall issue documents recognizing United States citizenship, or accept documents issued by State, local, or other governments or authorities purporting to recognize United States citizenship, to persons: (1) when that person’s mother was unlawfully present in the United States and the person’s father was not a United States citizen or lawful permanent resident at the time of said person’s birth, or (2) when that person’s mother’s presence in the United States was lawful but temporary, and the person’s father was not a United States citizen or lawful permanent resident at the time of said person’s birth.

My parents were both in the United States on temporary visas when I was born, so that would seem to put me in Sec. 2 (a) (2).

They nearly moved to Mexico, Spain, and Switzerland over the next five years, until somebody at NIH decided they wanted my father to keep working for the government as a medical researcher, so he finally got permanent residence, just as their temporary residence status was about to expire for good.

I guess I’ll just have to depend on John Roberts and Amy Coney Barrett — the Supreme Court’s current swing votes, thanks to RBG, Mitch McConnell, and the Wisdom of the Framers — to sort all this out.

In the meantime a story: In the fall of 2003, I was walking down 7th Avenue in New York City, because I was supposed to meet some publishing industry people for dinner at what I was told was a Roman Jewish restaurant, which sounded interesting. It started to rain, and then it started to pour, and I didn’t have an umbrella because I’ve never owned one, and I got soaking wet and cold, and I began feeling rather sorry for myself. Two lines from the Paul Simon song “The Boxer” then suddenly came into my head:

Seeking only workman’s wages I come looking for a job but I get no offers;

Just a come on from the whores on 7th Avenue

I finally got to the restaurant, which was a mysterious-looking hole in the wall kind of place. I was taken to my table, which was still empty. I sat down, shivering and melancholy in a New York on a dark autumn evening kind of way, and I looked over to the man sitting alone at a table for two next to mine, and it was Paul Simon.

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