Taking the Oath of Allegiance

Written by Danielle Crittenden on Sunday July 4, 2010

I expected my swearing in ceremony to be a bureaucratic rubber-stamping of citizenship papers. But for all my patriotism, I had underestimated my new country.

The U.S. immigration authority was bedecked with the usual array of leather-strap epaulettes and official badges. He sat atop a little stool, guarding the passage to the American-destination departure lounges at Toronto’s Pearson International Airport. For once I was not going to hand him a customs card, flash my Canadian passport and shuffle past, mumbling something about returning home to Washington after a visit with my Canadian family.

“Purpose of your trip today to the United States?” he asked dully, glancing over my documents.

“To become an American citizen!”

My answer, uttered with such obvious enthusiasm, caught him off guard. He fingered my card, and then, with genuine puzzlement, asked me why I would want to become an American citizen.

It was my turn to be puzzled. I pointed to his American badge. “That’s the question the guys in the Canadian booths are supposed to ask me,” I replied. “But you of all people should know why I would want to become a citizen.”

“No, seriously—why?”

For a moment, I wondered if he was asking me the question for immigration purposes—was he trying to catch me in some border-crossing lie?—but when I looked at his face, he seemed honestly incredulous, and his incredulity bothered me.

“Because, like, it’s the greatest country on earth?”

He shrugged and stamped my card. “Have a nice flight.”

I thought of this man when, less than twenty-four hours later, I stood amongst fifty other people from all over the world, raising my right hand and reciting the Oath of Allegiance. We had been summoned to a ceremonial court room in the grand federal court house in downtown, Washington D.C., on the Monday after the July 4th weekend, 2003.

My husband, kids and I usually escape Washington’s tropical summer heat by traveling to the breezy north shore of Lake Ontario, where my parents have a vacation house. But just before we all packed into the car for that year’s journey, my notice from the INS arrived, informing me that I was due to become a citizen on July 8. It meant I’d have to fly back down to D.C. by myself a few days later —at full fare!—and stay overnight in order to keep the appointment. As I booked my ticket online, wincing at the price of the air ticket, I consoled myself by thinking of the much higher price so many had paid to become Americans.

And standing in that ceremonial court room, surrounded by unbelievably cheesy portraits of past U.S. District Court Judges staring down at us from the high walls (note to art critics: they didn’t paint much better a hundred years ago), I was vividly aware of how many extraordinary prices were being paid at that very moment. Changing one’s identity from Canadian to American hardly feels exotic. Superficially, it’s like flipping channels from Canadian television to American: the faces are the same; the outfits are the same; the hair-dos are the same; the baseball and hockey teams are the same! Just the local weather report is different.

But behind me were Ethiopians and Eritreans. On my left was a man from El Salvador, and down the row, two women from Nigeria. What hellish situations they had left—what family they had achingly left behind, and in what circumstances—was not discernable in their expressions. Their eyes were fixed beamingly on the judge who, looking back upon all of us, said, “You often hear of a party or an organization trying to look like America. Well let me tell you, from where I sit, YOU look like America.” And the room erupted in applause.

I had not known what to expect at the swearing-in ceremony. I half-expected it to be something of a cattle-call, followed by a bureaucratic rubber-stamping of our citizenship papers. But I was completely wrong—and, for all my patriotism, had underestimated my newly adopted country.

Just the night before, at dinner, a friend of mine told me about her experience taking out British citizenship. She had gone to a government office in London, been interviewed by a bureaucrat, who then informed her that her citizenship papers would arrive in the mail. None of that legendary British pomp and ceremony. No judge in wig and ermine. The authorities couldn’t have cared less that she held citizenship elsewhere.

But in the D.C. court room, a full morning’s ceremony had been planned. There were two court staff to greet us and take care of the final bureaucratic forms—they did so cheerfully, and were almost apologetic about having to go over the last bits of paperwork, understanding our impatience to get on with the more momentous swearing-in. Relatives and friends accompanied many of those becoming citizens, and everyone, with few exceptions, had dressed for this special occasion. Most of the men wore jackets and ties, and those who did not were clearly in their best shirt and pants. The women, by and large, wore dresses and skirts. A couple were in jeans but it was possible these were the best garments they owned, and they paired them with blouses—not t-shirts. I was struck by the solemn mood: collectively, we were like brides and grooms before a wedding ceremony. And weirdly, in some way, it was like a wedding ceremony. Until the very moment when the judge entered the court room, this act of changing citizenship could be seen as a mere formality, “a piece of paper.”

But all of us standing there felt and knew it to be much, much more—and if any were left in doubt, there were several speakers to remind us exactly what we were signing up for. A representative from the League of Woman Voters gave us a full account of our new rights—and responsibility—to vote. An official from the Daughters of the American Revolution gave us a historical perspective of what an honor—and also a challenge—it was to be an American citizen. This was followed by an inspirational chat by the then new Asian-American president of the District of Columbia Bar, Shirley Highuchi, about the distance the children of immigrants are able to travel, no matter how humble their origins.

In any other context, these speeches might have seemed anodyne, sentimental, cliché even—but as at a wedding, the hearts and minds of the participants were throbbing ; every word fell upon eager, receptive ears. By the time we were ready to recite the Oath, the room was brimming with emotion. It was like being inside a glass full of water, about to tip over. The words came out, yet unspoken was the full import of what reciting these words means in a post-September 11 world. The judge hinted at this when he spoke of the difficulty many of us might have in becoming an American at this time. Of course, his words only pushed the emotion in the room more fully to the tipping point: we all knew exactly what they meant, and that’s why we were there:

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 the 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.

Another Canadian in the row ahead of me wiped a tear from her eye. My head and jaw felt locked in their position—if I were to move them slightly, I felt the whole dam inside would burst. I focused on the sheet of paper with the words of the Oath helpfully typed out in capital letters; I followed the judge’s steady, leading voice; I kept my right hand firmly up; I made sure I pronounced every single word. And at the end of it--“So help me God”--my breath escaped, and tears began to pour from my eyes.

When I returned to Canada that very afternoon, to rejoin my family at the lake, I handed the Canadian immigration official my certificate of US citizenship along with my Canadian passport (the U.S. passport would arrive in a few weeks).

“So you’re dual now?” the official observed.

“Oh no. I’m an American.

“I’ve had to renounce all foreign potentates and sovereigns,” I added.

She smiled and shrugged.

And that’s about all I had to declare.

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