When I was 8 or 9 years old, I was out fishing with my grandfather in the rural parts of California outside of Sacramento. Which is basically Iowa, in a lot of ways. He got pulled over for something or another (I don't know that I ever knew, but if I did time has certainly removed that knowledge), and the cop, looking at Papa's driver's license (which started with Pedro) and demanded to see his immigration papers.

Now, Papa was born a US citizen. So were his parents, and as family legend goes, that chunk of the family only lives in the US because they moved the border south.

Also, a veteran of two wars.

This cop didn't take well to papa not having papers (on account of, you know, not carrying his passport or birth certificate everywhere he went) and it was a half hour and a couple of radio calls before it got dealt with.

Last night, I had a couple of nightmares about faceless dudes in uniforms and red hats throwing me out of my country

--
-Pasha
"Don't change the subject"
"Too slow, already did."