A couple weeks ago, I got stopped by the police while descending into the metro. They asked for my ID or passport. I flipped. My heart raced and I began furtively looking around and bombarding them with questions. “Why did you stop me? Why do you want my ID? Why didn’t you stop anyone else? Who are you? Where’s your badge?” (It was quite clearly pinned to their shirts.) I started doubting the legality of my passport and wondering if the visa dates were wrong. Up until that point, I am quite sure I didn’t look suspicious. Eventually, after much stalling, I pulled out the photocopy of my passport, which they thoroughly inspected, discussed amongst each other, then debated the dates on my visa and informed me it wasn’t legal to just carry a photocopy but that I must carry the original document. Eventually they let me go on my way. Feeling defeated, I fled.
I asked the staff at my school Middlebury Madrid if the policemen were right—do I legally have to carry my real passport with me? This goes against all the advice I’d been given, including that given by Middlebury. Perhaps it’s true, one staff member said, but the chances of getting robbed are much higher than the chances of being arrested because you don’t have your original passport. Stick with the photocopy.
Then she told me, “This happens.” Policemen will stand outside the metro and choose darker-complexioned individuals to ask for identification from. This is a part of their ‘border control’, so to speak. Immigration is a hot issue here, especially because immigration as we know it in the US is fairly new in Spain. They are still trying to figure out ways to deal with the influx of immigrants they’ve received in the past two decades, mostly from Africa and South America.
In California, we hear about immigration constantly. The 5Cs regularly host speakers, discussions and events concerning to the topic. Having grown up in El Paso, Texas, and then having lived near LA, I have spoken with undocumented immigrants about the debilitating fear of being stopped by the police or caught by ICE. One event like this can completely uproot your life.
Standing outside the metro station facing three matter-of-fact policemen, I felt a tiny bit of understanding of this fear. It was different, though, because I know I’m here legally. I also know I’m an American citizen. As such, I have resources and a built-in support network of government agencies that have power and sway. I know other Americans who are here illegally, some who even left and re-entered the country with expired visas. They have never had a problem precisely because they have American passports. You’d have a different experience if you tried to enter with an Ecuadorian passport, Algerian passport, or—God forbid—Libyan passport.
Some aspects of immigration in Spain are the same as in the US. I think I was a subject of racial profiling. They treated me kindly and respectfully, but the fact is they chose me amidst the many morning commuters. I never considered myself dark-complexioned before I came to Spain. Perhaps three years in the California sun have left their mark, or perhaps my Mexican heritage is much more obvious when I am placed next to fair European skin. People notice it. I have been chatted up in the metro by another Latino anxious to find a Latino-sympathizer to give him a few euros. Often when I reveal that I’m American to a new acquaintance, they hesitate and ask, “But, what else?”
It’s strange to see in Spain the same issues I see at home and see how Spaniards each deal with it differently. Some become frustrated and bitter and others welcome it. Historically Spain is no stranger to immigration. Spain, like the US, was built on immigration and the complex issues that have always accompanied it.