Citizen me!

This week, I got my US robot passport (bechipped and dripping with patriotic quotes and images) and my voter registration confirmation.

So all I need now is for someone to call me for jury duty ... ironically, I've been invited to fulfill my civic responsibility three times in the last 13 years. Each time, I had to write back and decline because I wasn't yet a citizen. You'd think they'd have made a note of that somewhere.

Oh, and the INS is planning to increase citizenship application fees by more than 60%. While that's likely to make the process even more prohibitive for low-income immigrants (who often can't afford a lawyer and have to try and untangle the bureaucratic vines themselves), it at least suggests the possibility that it could lead to increased staffing levels, better informed officers and improved communication (though note how many conditionals I use there ...).

Becoming American involves a lot of waiting

Waiting through the application process for the interview. Waiting for the interview. Waiting for the letter to find out when and where the ceremony would be.

And then, on the day, guess what? More waiting.

The letter had said to be at Lowell Memorial Auditorium at 9:30 am sharp. My previous dealings with the INS had trained me to believe that this was not open to interpretation; generally, when dealing with this particular branch of US bureaucracy, if you snooze, you lose. So I was determined to be there in plenty of time.

The problem was that the other 934 soon-to-be citizens (exact number, not a guess), who all apparently got the same letter, were also reacting to this conditioned punctuality. So there we all were, along with our assorted friends and relatives, crowded around the entrance, trying to get inside the building as the clock struck half-nine, feeling more than a little sure that at some point the doors would close and we'd lose our place.

Standing on the granite steps of this neo-classical building, listening to the variety of languages and accents around me--and wondering whether the government officials would allow me a place inside--I had a brief but potent glimpse of what it must have been like to arrive at Ellis Island. And it had been a while since breakfast, so I was tired and hungry ...

After about 20 minutes, the officials finally figured out an efficient method for getting everyone into the building. It was still slow, but at least the crowd around the door started to move.

Inside, the officials checked my papers and handed me an envelope, a cheap tin US flag lapel pin (the same kind you get when you visit a museum) and a small wavable flag (though it looked as though excessively enthusiastic patriotism would break it in half). I followed the line of people into the auditorium and took the nearest available seat.

And then I waited. And waited. A medley of Christmas tunes played over the PA (everything from The Waitresses' "Christmas Wrapping" to Barry Manilow's "It's Just Another New Year's Eve"). A man walked onto the stage every half-hour or so to remind us we would soon be eligible to petition for other relatives to come over, and to give the 800 number for passport appointments.

Time passed.



Meanwhile, what of The Boy? Well, after dropping me off outside the auditorium (which, of course, didn't have parking), he drove round and round looking for somewhere to leave the car. He was competing with every other driver heading to the same event, so it took a while. An hour, in fact. I just happened to glance up at the gallery (where guests of the relatives were sitting) and saw him arrive at 10:30.

A side note: while the INS made sure to let people know they shouldn't be practicing polygamy or prostitution before the ceremony, they gave out precious little details about the event itself. The flyer with driving directions said "Parking information appears below," but it didn't. There was no indication of how long the ceremony would take, or what was involved, or whether we might want to bring along a snack.

(I was envious of the German guy sitting two rows ahead, who obviously had inside information: he not only brought a drink and a muffin, but also his laptop, so he was quite happy for the three hours we waited.)

Yep, three hours. Finally, just before noon, the Lowell High School a capella group climbed onto the stage in red sparkly dresses and treated us to an unenthusiastic rendition of "Make Me an Instrument of Peace." At the end, they stood on stage, fidgeting, for another ten minutes before departing. (The Boy texted me, "Is this a Corky St. Clair production?")

Next, a bevy of officials wandered up the theater's center aisle and took the stage, followed by the Lowell HS ROTC kids presenting the colors, as well as the flags of the 104 nations represented.

More music: a quasi-gospel butchering of "The Star-Spangled Banner" (star-strangled, more like) that had the Turkish guy next to me stifling his laughter.

"That was the worst version I've ever heard," he whispered as we applauded.

"Obviously you don't get to many baseball games," I said.

And then, finally, the important stuff. The presiding judge (for this was a court proceeding) started reading aloud alphabetically the countries from which the present immigrants had come, and asked people to stand as their country was called. We were everything from Afghanistan to Zambia, including Cambodia, Haiti, Iraq, Nepal, Peru, Sudan. The United Kingdom was, of course, one of the last to be listed, so I got to sit and watch as the people around me, one by one, rose and took their place alongside their fellow almost-citizens.

Then we were told to raise our right hands and repeat:

"I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."

And with that, we became citizens.

Then followed a half-hour of speechifying by the presiding judge, the mayor of Lowell and Congressman Maahty Meehan (doing his most hopeful Kennedy accent). It was largely cookie-cutter "immigrants built this country and are still a vital part of the economy" stuff, and most of my new fellow Americans were shifting in their seats by the end (in fairness, we probably all needed to pee real bad. I know I did.)

Then the a capella group shared "America the Beautiful" and "God Bless America" with us, bless them, and the flags and VIPs trooped out again.

And then we waited a little longer ... longer ... just a bit longer ... and finally we were directed to line up outside and get the certificates that proved our new status.

Worth the wait? Absolutely.

My (for real this time) fellow Americans!

My last day as a 100% English chickie

When I was preparing for my naturalization interview, I was under the impression you could choose to be sworn in right after correctly naming the number of stars on the flag. I'd decided that, given the option, I'd rather wait for the ceremony. It would feel more official, more exciting, more ... ceremonial. (As it turns out, you don't get a choice.)

And maybe it's just that I've had a long, long day at work, and we still haven't finished our Christmas shopping (haven't even written cards yet), so I haven't really had time to contemplate the enormity of this event. But somehow I just ... don't ... feel ... very excited.

I'm sure I'll feel different tomorrow as the glamorous skyline of Lowell appears on the horizon.

When I turn up for the ceremony, I have to bring a short questionnaire, which (it categorically states) must be filled out on the day of the interview. An excerpt:

After the date of your interview, have you:

Been married, widowed, or divorced?

Traveled outside the United States?

Joined any organization, including the Communist Party?

Practiced polygamy; received income from illegal gambling; become a Prostitute (their cap, not mine); procured anyone for prostitution or been involved in any other Commercialized (their cap) vice; or been a habitual drunkard?

Give me a break. I only had my interview two weeks ago. I'm just not that efficient.

My (almost) fellow Americans

Jeez, it doesn't take much to become a US citizen, does it? I mean, apart from the eight-some years of filling out forms, getting fingerprinted, collecting documents, filling out more forms to replace the ones that were lost, spending interminable hours with the huddled-masses-yearning-to-breathe-free in soulless waiting rooms, writing checks for lawyers bills and filing fees.

But when it comes to the pivotal moment--when it gets to the interview that can affect the rest of your life--it goes like this:

You wait about 45 minutes for an interviewer to call your name. Finally one does, and he directs you and your lawyer to a small office. Desk, computer, printer, paperwork, pictures of the kids, a hand-painted "Best daddy in the world" coffee mug. A small cheap radio playing a local news station.

Your lawyer is instructed to sit behind you; you're told to stand and raise your right hand.

"Do you swear to tell the truth?"

Not swear on God or your momma's life or anything specific. Just swear, vaguely. You say yes, vaguely.

"Do you mind the radio?"

You say it's not bothering you.

You're told to sit.

Ten minutes pass while the interviewer tries to find your record on the system. Then, the questions. The ones you've studied for weeks. The ones you had people test you on. The ones that may possibly include things you hadn't thought of.

Who was the first President?
Who is the President today?
What is July 4?
Can you name one Senator from your state?
How many Senators are there?
What is the Constitution?

That's it? That's it?? Come on, even Americans could get those right! The only tough one would be the last, and that's only because they're looking for the official rote answer: "The supreme law of the land." In a moment of daring, you actually include the air quotes when you answer that one.

Then he whizzes through the others. "Have you ever been a Communist ... Nazi ... terrorist ... member of a hate group? Ever been arrested ... charged ... jailed?" You assume they don't see you as posing a threat to national security, but you'd have appreciated the effort.

And then he asks for a writing sample. He slides your test paper over and says, "Write on the bottom, I love America."

You refrain from laughing out loud and do as you're told, slightly curious as to what would happen if you asked for an alternative statement.

And then you sign your name on five documents, and on two copies of your official photo, and he stamps a big red "APPROVED" stamp in your file.

And you're done.

But you're not American yet.

Back out to the waiting room for another half-hour, to get the paperwork that tells you where and when your swearing-in ceremony will be. Your lawyer says it could be between four and eight weeks.

It's in two weeks. In Lowell.

On December 12, you become an American.

A sign?

My lawyer called today. He won't be at my interview tomorrow because he broke his collarbone biking to work. He reckons he'll be up and around in a couple of days; in the meantime, his partner will be going with me.

I take this as a good sign. Not his injury, of course, but the fact that he's sending a stand-in, because he did the same thing at my Green Card interview and that went very well.

Of course, it could just be me. Is it me? Maybe it's me.

And actually, here's a question: is it appropriate to send one's lawyer a get-well card?

Wish me luck (or at least as many smarts as #24)

On Tuesday morning I have my naturalization interview. I meet my lawyer at the Federal Bulding at 8:15, and then he figures we'll wait for about an hour to be called; the interview itself will take about 20 minutes. "They don't want to waste time," he says. "They'll want you in and out as quickly as possible." So much for the great weight and importance of the proceedings.

I met with him earlier this week to go back over the list of questions they'll ask (the basics such as name and current address, plus the more involved: membership of Nazi party; titles of nobility; habitual drunkardness. As I told my lawyer, I'm not a habitual drunkard. I'm a social drunkard).

He did say something about being "clear and straightforward" with my answers, which I suspect is his polite way of telling me not to be a smartass.

"For the last part of the interview," he said, "they ask you the civics questions."

I figured I was so totally prepared for that; I've been listening to the 100 questions on my iPod every day, and I know them backwards.

Q: What color are the stars on our flag?
A: The stars on the flag are white.

Q: What are the three branches of our government?
A: Executive, legislative, and judicial.

Q: Who is the governor of your state?
A: The answer to this question depends on where you live.

But my lawyer started throwing out other questions. Who is your congressman? Can you describe three Amendments in the Bill of Rights? What were the causes of the Civil War?

For the last one, I started on a detailed explanation of the southern states' determination to hold on to their agricultural economy in the face of what they saw as interference from the industrialized northern states. But the look on my lawyer's face made me think I was on the wrong track. "Um ... slavery?" I ventured.

"You should probably say 'slavery and states' rights,'" he said. "When previous clients have said 'slavery,' the examiners have allowed it only grudgingly."

"Anyway," I argued, "those questions aren't in the official list."

"Doesn't matter; I've heard them asked on occasion. But don't worry, you'll do fine. You only need to get seven questions right out of ten."

And as The Boy points out, if Manny Ramirez can pass the test, anyone can.

I have a date

With pleasantly unexpected efficiency, those fabulous people at the INS got their act together and sent me an appointment for my naturalization interview: November 28. That's several months sooner than my lawyer expected, and while it means I won't be eligible to vote in time for the mid-term elections, I should still have everything sorted before the end of the year.

Of course, it also means I have to start studying for the civics test, but it should be pretty straightforward, especially as I'm going to transfer the test-prep CD to my iPod so I can listen to it over and over and over while commuting. I just have to make sure not to get carried away and start yelling, "Abraham Lincoln! Second Amendment!" on crowded trains ...

Ame-ruh-kuuuhhhh ...

Yesterday I met with my immigration lawyer and started the filing process for naturalization. I got a form to fill out, plus a list of the 100 questions I'm most likely to be asked during the interview.

The questions are pretty easy on the whole: Who was the first president, how many stripes on the flag, what were the first 13 colonies, etc etc. My lawyer says it's good to study anyway; the people who do poorly on the interview are those at the extreme ends of the spectrum (the quasi-literate who have trouble understanding the questions, and the Ph.D. holders who assume they know this stuff because they read the NYT every day). I'm neither one or t'other, but I haven't failed a test in my life and I don't intend to start now.

Of course, because I'm a smart-arse, my gut instinct is not to give the pat answer, but to give the accurate answer:

Q: Who is the vice-president?
A: A Dick

Q: Who is the president?
A: Concidentally, also a dick.

Q: Whose rights are guaranteed by the Constitution and the Bill of Rights?
A: Rich white guys.

And then I looked at an older citizenship prep book I picked up at Dollar-a-Pound a while ago, which had questions like, "What is the 20th Amendment?" and "Who wrote the Pledge of Allegiance?" (I'm not going to tell you, because if you're a citizen, you already know the answers. Right??)

But becoming a citizen isn't just about knowing a bunch of stuffy historial and political facts. It's about gaining a sense of belonging to something bigger than oneself. It's about uniting with everything this great country stands for. And nothing, I think, sums up the total awesomeness of what that means better than Dennis Madalone's America, We Stand As One. If you're not in tears by the end of this video, you have no soul.

La puta Migra

So this is the story (okay, rant) I was going to write earlier, before Tony Bourdain made me realize the essential pettiness of my problems:

This morning I had my annual appointment at the INS (sorry, it's now the USCIS) to update my I-551, which is the stamp in my passport that proves I'm within status. In theory, this should no longer be necessary because I already have a green card. The problem is, I've never actually seen it.

In 2003, I went to get the I-551 stamp and learned that my green card had been approved a whole year earlier. When I said it hadn't arrived, I was told to fill out an I-90 application for a replacement (which included fingerprinting, which cost $70), and to watch the mailbox.

In 2004, I was told the application to replace the lost card hadn't been input into the system yet, "But it's probably around here somewhere."

In 2005, I was told the original card had never been created in the first place. And the application for a replacement still wasn't in the system.

Today, I 'splained the whole charade to yet another officer, who handed me a piece of paper. "What you need to do," he said, "is go over to the forms desk. Ask for an I-90 form, fill it out and mail it to--"

"But I did that already," I said. "I did that three years ago."

"Well, it's not in the system."

I asked whether it would be quicker to file for citizenship. "Yeah," he said, "at this point it probably would."

So next Friday I meet with my immigration lawyer, who says that the turnaround time from filing to inteview is currently four months. I could be a citizen by the end of the year--without ever seeing my green card.