Becoming Mexican

I’d always wanted a second nationality. Call it an itch, a restlessness, or just a handy loophole to outwit bureaucracy. As an extreme traveler chasing down every one of the 193 recognized countries on this messy planet, my blue American passport—powerful as it is—felt like a gilded cage at times. A handful of nations don’t exactly roll out the red carpet for U.S. citizens. I could either smuggle myself in (thanks, but no thanks—foreign prisons don’t exactly scream “charming ambiance”) or I could play the long game: get myself a shiny new passport from somewhere else.

Option one? Money. A lot of money. You can buy your way into a second nationality if your wallet’s fat enough—$200K gets you in with some Caribbean countries. Half a mil might make you Portuguese. Nice, if you’ve got that kind of cash to burn. I didn’t.

Option two? Earn it. Move somewhere, put in the years, and jump through the hoops to earn your citizenship the old-fashioned way. Romantic, right? Until you realize there’s this pesky thing called a job keeping you tethered to one place. I love my life in San Diego, and walking away wasn’t in the cards.

Then it hit me. San Diego is practically Mexico’s northern suburb. I could live there, cross the border every day for work, and after a few years, claim my prize: a Mexican passport. Best of both worlds. So I started the process.

Let me tell you, this wasn’t some casual bureaucratic stroll. First, I needed a visa from the Mexican Consulate in San Diego. Then came the paperwork parade—birth certificates, bank statements, fingerprints, the works—for my temporary residency. Two years later, that turned into permanent residency.

The final boss? Naturalization. This was no joke. Sure, the ten-question test sounded simple on paper—multiple choice, even—but those questions came from a pool of 700. And not your garden-variety trivia, either. These were deep cuts: obscure Olympic records, constitutional articles, ancient legends, treaties, battles, even prehistoric Mexican history. All in Spanish, of course.

So, I hit the books. Hard. It was like cramming for the SATs on steroids, with a side of tequila. There was also a reading comprehension test and a Spanish interview to survive. By some miracle (and a lot of coffee), I aced it—100 percent. I walked out feeling like I’d just conquered Everest.

Then came the wait. They said six to eight months, but bureaucratic timelines are like cooking pasta—always longer than advertised. Thirteen agonizing months later, I finally got the email: my swearing-in ceremony was set for December 18th. Just days before the year ended.

That day? Unreal. Standing there, surrounded by people who were fleeing hardship, chasing dreams, fighting for a better life, I felt a little sheepish. Here I was, a gringo playing the system to get a new stamp on my passport. But damn it, I was proud. Proud to be Mexican.

I’ll always be American. That’s home, no matter what. But now, I’ve got a little more flavor in my identity. Two nationalities, two homes, twice the adventure. And that feels pretty damn good.