Why has Donald Trump not released his long form American birth certificate?
On April 15, 2011, I mentioned, in passing, that Trump was not eligible to become President of the United States of America, by reason of:
(a) having been born in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico to my friend Mary Anne ‘Bitsy’ MacLeod Trump – a single, unnaturalised Scottish immigrant mother engaged in a bigamous marriage with Donald’s father, an American man called Frederick Christ Trump; and
(b) therefore, being either British or Mexican-born.*
This lead to a flurry of correspondence with lawyers; the sending of a laxative-laced fruit cake which cleared out the entire litigation group of Jarndyce and Jarndyce for about a week and a half; a futile threatening visit from two large men with too many knuckles and Carhartt tattoos (seen off by two randy pugs, a limpy chihuahua and several madwomen with canes and dodgy colostomy bags); the jogging forth from my aged memory of an anecdote about Bitsy Trump’s Christmas party and a quite lovely story in which Donald gets chomped on his ample balls by a pissed off pekinese called Frou-Frou; and further and extensive legal correspondence, culminating in the execution of a Deed under which I promised not to tell you all about the time that Donald was trapped in a steam room in Aspen with Joan Collins and her flatulent Burmese hairless, and Donald made me a small payment of damages that I blew on three weeks in Bermuda, a parking lot attendant named Juan and a kilo of blow.
The subsequent quiet, if uneasy, truce has been sullied only by my bribery of Donald’s maids to slip a few blueberry and ipecac muffins into the breakfast buffet every couple of months.
Just the other week, however, I received a call from my lawyer. He just wanted to note that the deed which Donald and I signed contained strict terms under which neither of us were ever to discuss Mexico or anything that ever happened there, up to and including the very existence of Mexico itself. Interestingly, my lawyer added, the fact that Donald has spent the last few weeks suggesting that all Mexicans want to come here and steal our women and fuck our jobs means, under the old legal maxim feci coram eo feceris,, that I can talk about whatever I damn well want.
Now some people would tell you, if you allowed them to speak to you despite the stench of BO, flopsweat and Cheeto they emit, that my friend Bitsy Trump was naturalised in 1942. They would show you a signed naturalization receipt for one Mary Anne Trump, dated March 10, 1942 and issued by the US District Court in Brooklyn. They would say that it doesn’t matter if Donald was born in Mexico to an unwed mother, because that mother was an American citizen at the time.
The truth is that Bitsy’s mother hated Americans with the passion that good Scottish women usually reserve for the English – a nation, she would say, of hoors, scousewits and tammany men, and not a one of them worth piss – as a result of her having been swindled out of her family’s meager fortune by an American gent in the Great Orkney Oatmeal Bubble of 1889. Although she knew she couldn’t force her daughter to stay at home, Mother Mary had extracted from Bitsy, on the eve of her departure for America, a promise sworn on the blood of the Holy Virgin and her blessed womb that come what may Bitsy would never become an American.
Fred had in fact raised the issue in about 1942, but Bitsy said, “I’d as soon you rip the heart out of me”, and that was that.
Years later though, when Fred had recovered from the palaver of Bitsy and Donald’s return from Mexico and his quickfire marriage to Bitsy, not to mention the rather considerable drain on the Trump fortune from bribing dozens of immigration and airline staff, he set about carefully papering over the cracks.
Even then, he thought Donald could become President. “Look at the nuts on him, Sarah,” he would say. “A man with balls like that could rule the world.”
Donald was smuggled in the back door of the Jamaica hospital in New York, shortly before Bitsy was stretchered very publicly in the front door, clutching at her pillow-swollen abdomen and shrieking at Fred and Jesus at the top of her lungs. Bing bang boom, mother and baby trundled out the front door, to all appearances legitimate and (in Donald’s case at least) American.
There was a short outbreak of arson attacks in San Miguel – the Registro Civil, the local doctor’s house, a building where two nurses shared an apartment, a couple of banks and restaurants for camouflage, a couple of unfortunate deaths. Fred didn’t mind buying silence when it was a white person though, so I lived off the proceeds of that one for several years. I also swore blind to Fred that there were no surviving copies of Donald’s Mexican birth certificate. Nice and neat, he said.
Now, Fred was a businessman, unlike his son, and a good one. He liked things nice and neat, and his Mary being Scottish was the last thread poking out. Still, he loved Bitsy very much, so he compromised. He got her naturalized retrospectively, but never told her he had done it. Lucky for him, Bitsy didn’t much care for handling her own paperwork.
Now, as I said in my original post, I’m sure Fred had no trouble obtaining an American birth certificate for young Donald. Still, my lawyers would rather like to see a copy so they can check the kerning.
More to the point, this raises the question: If Donald Trump is a Mexican-born foreign citizen smuggled illegally into America in a handbag, and all Mexicans who come to America illegally are crime- and drug-addicted rapists, what does that make Donald?
* My lawyers are still unclear on this point. Apparently, I am told, it “depends upon the answer to a rather tricky question on the interpretation of Magna Carta in the context of Mexican law as the inheritor of Spanish Imperial jurisprudence”. I interpret this to mean I may have to hock a few jewels to pay the bills this month.