WSJ: An Old Scam Casts Doubt on the Citizenship Of Texans Delivered by Midwives

August 11, 2008

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They Say They Were Born in the U.S.A.
The State Department Says Prove It
An Old Scam Casts Doubt on the Citizenship  Of Texans Delivered by
Midwives

By MIRIAM JORDAN
August 11, 2008; Page A1

WESLACO, Texas -- In the archives of local institutions, Juan Aranda's
life is firmly rooted in this small south Texas town.

His birth certificate says he was delivered unto Weslaco 38 years ago,
and church records say he was baptized here soon after. School files
list him as a student in the local district from kindergarten through
high school, and voter rolls show he votes for president here.

But to the U.S. State Department, all that black and white looks a lot
like gray. It recently refused to issue Mr. Aranda a passport; the
government isn't sure he's an American.

"I never imagined my U.S. citizenship would be questioned," says the
manager at a water company. "I've lived here since the day I was
born."

The problem is that Mr. Aranda was delivered by a midwife at a private
home. Parteras, Spanish for midwives, have been part of life in
Hidalgo and Cameron counties along the border with Mexico from the
time of the Texas Republic and before. But in the early 1990s, dozens
of midwives were convicted of forging U.S. birth certificates for
about 15,000 children born in Mexico as far back as the 1960s.

As a result, the U.S. government no longer trusts that anyone in this
region delivered by a midwife is an American citizen. In those cases,
the government demands additional proof -- a demand that has
applicants scouring school warehouses and church offices to document
their pasts.

That has caused a panic in south Texas, where locals need a valid
passport more than ever. A new law that goes into effect next year
requires Americans to use a passport, rather than just a birth
certificate or driver's license, to visit Mexico and Canada. The
situation threatens to isolate thousands of people in the Rio Grande
Valley who regularly travel back and forth to Mexico for work or
family reasons.

"Usually a state-issued birth certificate is sufficient to establish
U.S. nationality," says Michael Kirby, a senior official for consular
affairs at the State Department. But, given the fraud committed by
some south Texas midwives, "we want to be careful that we issue
passports to everybody who is eligible and not to anyone who isn't,"
he says, acknowledging that thousands of passport applicants could be
affected.

"These people aren't planning to tour Europe," counters Jaime Diez, an
immigration attorney in nearby Brownsville. "Going back and forth to
Mexico is a way of life here." Among his clients is a U.S. border-
patrol agent. "These are people...who have passed security checks for
government jobs," Mr. Diez says.

Desperate for Evidence

Desperate for evidence that they were born on U.S. soil, passport
applicants born as far back as the 1930s come into the Cameron County
Clerk Office in Brownsville to search for their midwives' whereabouts,
in hopes that the aging women can testify for them, says Lettie Perez,
deputy county clerk.

"Most of the midwives are gone," says Ms. Perez, throwing her hands in
the air.

Mr. Kirby acknowledges that digging up evidence "might be difficult
for somebody born 40 or 50 years ago." Passport adjudicators, he says,
"are trying to make the right call in each individual case. It's
hard." The State Department doesn't disclose how many people have been
asked for additional proof, and the agency denies that it is targeting
Hispanics.

Back in 1969, Juan Aranda's mother, Mexican immigrant Cupertina
Espinoza, worked as a live-in housekeeper for Fela Hinojosa. The
Hinojosas owned a flower shop called La Perla, which still stands on
the main street of Weslaco.

"I started working for them when I was about three months pregnant,"
recalls Mrs. Espinoza, 69. She had come north to make a living after
her husband died in a car accident in Mexico and settled in this town
of modest clapboard homes.

One of a string of towns in the Rio Grande Valley that grew up along
the railroad, Weslaco, population 30,000, reflects life on the border.
While its strip mall and Wal-Mart are quintessentially American, the
mom-and-pop stores and Spanish signs are straight out of Mexico.

Mr. Aranda's birth on April 11, 1970, was attended by midwife Manuela
Bazan. Ms. Bazan signed the baby's birth certificate and filed it with
the Hidalgo County registrar, as required by law. On April 26, Mr.
Aranda was baptized at St. Joan of Arc Roman Catholic Church in
Weslaco, according to parish records. His mother rented a tiny
apartment nearby.

Last year, Mr. Aranda, a father of three who wears cowboy boots and
frequently says "y'all," applied by mail for a passport, enclosing two
photographs and his birth certificate. As a supervisor for a small
U.S. company that filters and sells drinking water in Mexico, he needs
the passport to continue making his frequent business trips south of
the border when the new rules take effect next year. "My job depends
on it," says Mr. Aranda.

He received a letter from the State Department's national passport
center stating that "upon review, we have determined that further
information is needed to support your claim of birth in the U.S." The
letter listed documents -- his mother's prenatal medical care in the
U.S., a newspaper announcement of his birth in the U.S. and his
parents' U.S. school records, among other things -- that could be used
to bolster his request.

Mr. Aranda sprang into action, driving to a school district warehouse
on the outskirts of town to collect records dating to kindergarten,
which cite Weslaco as his place of birth. Mr. Aranda also obtained a
baptismal certificate with a church seal that states he was born in
the town. His mother tried to find her midwife, only to learn that Ms.
Bazan -- who wasn't one of the midwives accused of wrongdoing -- died
several years ago.

Eva Gonzalez, the church secretary, says that she has been issuing
baptism records at the rate of 30 a week for passport applicants. "I
have people coming in here crying," she says. "Ladies are saying, 'I
was born here and have lived here all my life, but the government
doesn't believe me.' " Ms. Gonzalez's own mother, who was delivered by
a midwife 75 years ago, is among those caught in the confusion. She
says federal agents also visited recently to inspect church ledgers
for fraud.

No Recourse

Since the adjudicators don't formally deny a request, but only request
more evidence, applicants who are refused passports don't have any
recourse to appeal within the State Department.

"We started seeing people in droves," says local lawyer Lisa Brodyaga.
The attorney, who has filed a federal lawsuit on behalf of several
applicants, says: "I can't take any more calls."

Ms. Brodyaga says that the State Department is making "outrageous and
unreasonable demands" on people delivered by midwives, such as seeking
birth listings in census data going back seven decades. The American
Civil Liberties Union is considering joining the lawsuit, for which
class-action status is sought.

In January, Mr. Aranda sent the school and baptism records to the
State Department with a note explaining why he didn't have the
additional documents. For example, he wrote that his mother "did not
have the resources" for prenatal care. His mother, meanwhile, amassed
what she could: a discolored document attesting to the first loan she
ever took out -- for $10 -- shortly after her son was born in 1970;
she found his immunization records and pictures from the local
elementary school.

In early February, Mr. Aranda received a letter from the government,
saying that he hadn't "fully complied with the request for additional
information." The letter advised Mr. Aranda to learn about "procedures
for your possible naturalization as a U.S. citizen" and closes: "Once
you obtain U.S. citizenship, you may execute another application for a
U.S. passport."

Mr. Aranda began looking for an attorney.


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