The Question That Sows Distrust : Racism: Transplanted Texan discovers that all too ofter skin color is sole basis by which people are judged in San Diego, and it raises some fundamental questions about citizenship.

I often forget my dark complexion.

This admission is important because it explains my utter surprise and disbelief at being approached by a U.S. Border Patrol agent on a recent, early-morning Amtrak ride from San Diego to Los Angeles, and asked this question: “Where are you from, sir?”

Quite simply, I was taken aback. So much so that my tongue temporarily wouldn’t work. Those milliseconds when I was attempting to fashion a response to the question seemed like an eternity, and I thought: “Oh no, he notices your hesitation. Now he’s convinced you’re not a U.S. citizen.”

I managed to get the words out: “I’m from San Diego.” The accentless English was apparently enough to satisfy the agent.

Thirty seconds later, I could barely contain my anger. If I’d been slightly more awake and had my wits about me, I would have answered: “Where are you from?” Or better yet: “Soy de San Diego.”

In either language, I was lying. I’m not from San Diego, or Los Angeles--to which I’ve recently moved. I’m from San Antonio, Tex., and in my 25 years there, I never encountered as much blatant racial distrust as I have in slightly less than 12 months of living in Southern California.

First, there was the taunt of an angry driver who thought I was taking too much time crossing a street in Mission Hills: “Go back to Tijuana!”

Then there was the owner of my girlfriend’s apartment building, who curtly asked why I was waiting outside the complex. His dubious reaction to my response told me his suspicion was unallayed.

Then there was the police officer who ticketed me for making an illegal pass. I admit guilt to the hasty driving, but there was something odd here. The officer followed me for several blocks from the infraction, but didn’t stop me until after he had pulled alongside my car at a stop light.

Believe me, I’m not hyper-sensitive to this sort of thing, but these episodes have gotten under my dark--and usually thick--skin. In fact, the odd circumstances surrounding the ticket didn’t even occur to me until after I had described the incident to a non-Latino friend, and she suggested the officer’s possible motivation.

Finally, there was the incident on the train. The agent was polite and very professional. No complaints there. And though he was just doing his job, I hardly fit the profile of someone trying to sneak into the country.

Ironically, I have long harbored a fantasy about a case of mistaken citizenship. It’s a humorous idea for a short story, or better yet, a stage work: A U.S. citizen of Mexican descent is stopped as he attempts to reenter the United States. He has lost his wallet and, despite his perfect English, can’t prove he’s an American. He resorts to doing a John Wayne imitation.

There is a current stage play on the subject: “De Donde?” (shorthand for “Where are you from?”)--a production by the Friends and Artists Ensemble in Los Angeles. In his Times review of the show, writer Ray Loynd said “For Angelenos, the play hits close to home and humanizes whatever imagery, cliches and certitudes we have tucked away in the back of our heads about that border problem.”

Two phrases stick out there. The first: “For Angelenos, the play hits close to home . . . “ Actually, it hits close to home for all Southern Californians--including Mexican nationals who are here illegally. While this may not be their legal home, it is part of their historical and spiritual home. If not for one bad real estate deal--the 1848 treaty that ended the U.S.-Mexican war--the only “border problem” would be how to keep rich Anglos from invading that valuable stretch of Mexico from San Diego to San Francisco.

The second phrase: “ . . . that border problem.” You know which problem--hordes of brown-skinned illegals who take those choice jobs in the fields, or in sweat shops, or in private residences. Yeah, that border problem.

The train episode has certainly sensitized me further to the plight of those residents--legal and otherwise--who more regularly, and more aggressively, have their citizenship questioned.

I’ve been trying to put the train incident in perspective ever since it happened. It seems fundamentally discriminatory to question someone’s citizenship solely on the basis of one’s skin color. And that’s all the agent had to go by. As opposed to the episode outside my girlfriend’s apartment when I was casually dressed and groomed on a weekend, on the train I was neatly attired, as I was going directly from the train station to my job in downtown Los Angeles.

So I have learned this: In certain parts of San Diego, one should always be clean-shaven and well-dressed . . . and preferably white. And having your nationality questioned is the price you pay for being dark-skinned in certain parts of the United States.