Man without a country

John Garman's dream might not seem like much. But for someone who has spent nearly a decade struggling to prove his nationality, the possibility of being able to hold a valid Utah ID is priceless.

"I'm working under the table," said Garman, who for years has lived essentially without a country. "I don't have a life outside of keeping my head above water."

Garman, 33, was adopted by an American family as a child. Yet he hasn't been eligible to apply for citizenship because of a felony conviction at age 18 for a string of burglaries. And he has no official record of his actual birth. His only photo identification is his prison ID.

For years, the only evidence Garman has had of his birth was a delayed registration of birth — issued in Merced County, Calif., when he was adopted — which said he was born in Tijuana, Mexico. But that was never verified, according to the Merced County Human Services Agency.

"Because of this error, the minor is a person without a country. He is unable to obtain citizenship in any country at this time," the agency said in a petition filed in court last year, seeking to remove Tijuana from Garman's record.

The statement could be true, since in order to prove Mexican citizenship he would need a document issued in that country, according to the Salt Lake Mexican Consulate.

But all that is set to change. As a result of Garman's petition, the California Department of Public Health is issuing him a new delayed birth registration, which shows Livingston, Calif., as Garman's birth place.

He hopes to be able to use that to get a valid Social Security number and with it an American identity.

"My situation makes me unique, it makes me who I am," he says. "If I survived this long, imagine what I can do with a Social Security number."

But even with the new birth certificate, Garman says his troubles aren't over. He's facing a misdemeanor domestic violence charge after an alleged altercation with his now ex-girlfriend.

He worries now that after losing so much time, he could lose even more. If convicted, he faces up to six months in jail and a fine up to $1,000.

"I did seven years (incarcerated), and that scared me enough, realizing that's time wasted," he says. "I've been doing this for (another) eight years. My life's gone. I don't want to lose any more of it."

For now, Garman carries his life in a black zipper-binder. Everything from records of his immunizations and report cards from grade school to copies of various applications he's filed to try to gain some status. There are also tattered notes he's written to himself, along with business cards and hand-jotted phone numbers for attorneys and congressmen.