How many times have you had somebody, upon hearing you’re from New Mexico, ask 1) how far you live from Mexico City, 2) what unit of currency is in use in that place way south of the U.S., or 3) are you ever afraid the Immigration and Naturalization Department will be shipping you back home?

We denizens of the Meadow City often face another barrier to communication as we explain that we are not the glitzy gambling city in Nevada. Geographic confusion makes me wonder about the quality (or even the existence) of geography instruction in American schools. Why is it that of our dozen trips to Europe, all our acquaintances there seem able to locate New Mexico?

But yet, many fellow Americans had trouble recognizing this state. My three-year stint in Illinois when I was in my early 20s, included a recitation of explanations combined with mini-geography lessons. The I’m-not-from-Mexico-City routine is the essence of a column in New Mexico Magazine: “One of Our 50 is Missing.”

Usually the submitted items are about someone’s confusion as to whether to carry pesos rather than real dollars or whether we perform El Jarabe Tapatio (Mexican Hat Dance) upon rising each morning. Retired language professor, Sara Harris, provided the tapatio translation. If not for my former Highlands colleague, I might have interpreted “Jarabe Tapatio” as a blend of jam and tapioca.

At Immaculate Conception School, in the ‘40s, our homeroom teacher, Sister Mary Geographica, made sure we learned the difference between North and South Dakota (or Carolina); we all knew the capital of West Virginia and all the states with “New” as part of their name.

So why was it so difficult for others in the U.S. to accept our place of birth?

Compounding the confusion was my having moved to the town of Naperville, Ill., where I soon learned there must have been a shortage of geography teachers in that town of 14,000.

I became more amused than bothered when asked about the kind of legal papers needed to cross into the United States. Sometimes I’d play along, saying my backside hurt from sleeping against a saguaro cactus

People often refused to recognize New Mexico’s membership among the other 49. When people insisted, “I’ve never heard of New Mexico,” it was time to move to a different conversation.

My struggle with New Mexico’s existence while a reporter for a couple of Midwestern newspapers — forced me to skip the geography lesson and simply fudge a bit about where I came from. Gallup, N.M. was my hometown before moving to Illinois, and I found it easier to give my place of origin as “Well, it’s close to Arizona,” which it is.

Although I sometimes sensed confusion among people whose knowledge of Spanish didn’t go much beyond “Aye caramba!” I chose to enjoy the patter, often exaggerating things. Even after a couple of years of my dating his daughter, Carol’s father still wasn’t convinced. Once, when we three were driving into Chicago’s “Loop,” the busiest area in that Toddling Town,” we got caught up in a police stop for licenses.

The slow line gave me time to request that my girlfriend’s father trade places with me: He would take over the wheel. I explained I might get in trouble if I flashed my MEXICAN driver’s license. Well, Bernie fell for it, as Carol and I cracked up over a matter her dad never quite understood.

Later, feeling bad that we’d tricked him, I offered to show Bernie my genuine AMERICAN license, paid for not with pesos but real dollars, and insurance papers written in unquestionable English.

I played along, exaggerating my Latino heritage, my black hair and dark complexion, which drew some attention, and with that, invitations. A non-Hispanic professor at Naperville’s North Central College insisted that I present a lecture to her beginning Spanish class, and the high school teacher of beginning Spanish, and also requested that I could also critique her students’ work.

The attention at once pleased me, but it also became burdensome. I was only a young man, trained in Las Vegas Spanglish and not entirely confident of my ability as a guest teacher, grader and lecturer. The attention made me secretly question my belief that schools all across the country offered introductory Spanish classes. Surely a number of residents in that town of 14,000 could speak the language.

But maybe not. Since I left Illinois in the mid-60s, the city has grown to almost 150,000. On a trip there a dozen years ago, my family discovered many all-Spanish newspapers and radio and TV stations.

Even here at home, businesses like Wal-Mart provide the English and Spanish versions of items for sale. It’s a start.

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In keeping with the tradition of having Christmas span 12 days, I included yet more questions about the yuletide season.

Last week’s column asked readers to explain why the depiction of the three wise men’s arrival in Bethlehem often led children to visualize the men dressed in insulated outfits, carrying axes and pulling water hoses.

We received some responses:

Ed Littleton wrote, “Yeah, Art, you stole my joke. “They came from A FAR.” He added, “The joke works only in West Texas.” And my sister, Dorothy Maestas asserts the answer “is so obvious.” She also said the firemen “came from afar.”

Richard Lindeborg,“ a frequent contributor to this column, asked whether questions I presented, about Rudolph, are of the variety of the hymn, “Gladly The Cross I’d Bear,” which some people interpret as “Gladly, the Cross-Eyed Bear. We all know about Smoky Bear, but Gladly, with vision problems?

And finally . . . where does the Bible mention baseball? Please submit answers to my email address below.

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My weight today: 229