(Emma G. Schaible / Fourth Estate)

In a country where appearance can be used as evidence, even citizens need to carry proof 

BY KARLOS CORIA, OPINION EDITOR

“Don’t forget to take your ID.”

My mom’s voice was calm but stern, the kind of tone you feel before you understand it. I patted down the million pockets on my new cargo pants, checking for my wallet.

Her warning felt strange. I never leave the house without it. Why was she worried now?

“There’s checkpoints all over the place.”

I hadn’t been home to Temecula, California since the city started to feel watched. In Virginia, I saw police cruisers and state troopers regularly, but they blended into the scenery. 

Here, my mom said, immigration agents had become omnipresent. More checkpoints. More unmarked cars. More people detained: people with clean records, people coming home from work, people walking their children to school.

People who were citizens.

“Don’t worry, mama. Remember, I’m a U.S. citizen.”

I tried to laugh it off, but she didn’t find anything funny.

The Supreme Court’s ruling in Noem v. Vasquez Perdomo (2025) had already changed everything. The Court had allowed immigration agents to detain people based on appearance alone, meaning skink tone could serve as probable cause. A last name, an accent or an occupation could be treated as reasonable suspicion. News stories had already documented citizens — born and raised here — swept up because they “looked” like they came from somewhere else.

“You know that doesn’t matter right now. Do you have your military ID?”

There it was: the one card she believed still held weight — even though service members and their families have been detained with it. I found it tucked in the third slot of my wallet, the shine fading. The photo showed me at nineteen with hair falling into my eyes. My hair was cropped short now. My skin, the color of canela, was the same as ever.

“Make sure you and the boys all have them.”

The boys were my closest friends from middle school. We grew up in southern California, but our families came from everywhere. I was born in Japan on a military base. Adrian is Mexican. Matt is Native American. Anthony is Salvadoran. Jason is a “no sabo.” We were from all over. We were all brown.

“Don’t speak Spanish in front of them.”

Everything had to be in English: our jokes, our food orders — even the way I quoted people in my stories. “Never give them a reason,” she said. 

“Any reason.”

I left the house calm. Citizens shouldn’t have to worry, I rationalized.

We hit the promenade. No officers. We grabbed tacos at Adrian’s favorite spot. Still fine, though an unmarked car idled near the curb. Adrian took the freeway to Old Town since it was faster. As we merged onto the ramp, a white SUV sat parked on the shoulder with “Border Patrol” stenciled in green along the side.

We kept driving. We kept laughing. We kept moving through an anxiety none of us talked about. 

By the end of the day, nothing happened. No checkpoint stopped us. No officer questioned us. No “temporary detention” to verify anything. No instruction to step out of the car.

And yet something had already shifted.

Somewhere between the promenade and Old Town, I found myself imagining answers to questions no one had asked. I touched my wallet every few minutes, then again and again.

This is the new normal: citizens carrying proof, just in case a card in their wallet means less than the color of their skin.

That day was like any other day. I had no reason to worry, except for one.

In America right now, even the plain truth needs proof. 

EDITOR’S NOTE: Fourth Estate welcomes opinion articles by people of all beliefs. If you feel strongly about a subject and want your voice to be heard, please email Opinion Editor Karlos Coria at kcoria@gmu.edu.