The Tartan

“One star is for Alaska…

One star is for Nebraska…

One star is North Dakota…

One star is Minnesota…

There are lots of other stars,

But I forget which ones they are.”

—Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends

The U.S. is a country of immigrants. It’s a country built from the blood, sweat, toil, tears, and the prayers of millions of hopefuls, teeming in docks and borders, looking for a way in. For some, it’s a shining city on the hill, the promise of a new life and new opportunities. For others, it’s a last resort. For so long, the U.S. was a door ready to be opened. She beckoned to the world, promising that you could make something of yourself here. 

I was not part of a family fleeing the terrible realities of countries abroad. Nor was my family part of some grand wave of immigration milions strong.

We are immigrants, nonetheless. We had green cards and the pain of getting those is something my parents still joke about — it seemed like the U.S. was hell-bent on keeping us out. We had our passports because we were naturalized — we were American as apple pie or a 25 percent APR Dodge Charger.

No step of that process comes easy. It can be grueling and painful. It’s a process that, at heart, is about proving to a country that you want to be one of them. It’s not as easy as simple birthright or ancestry — no ancestor of mine, last I checked, had ever been an American. It’s something less tangible, making it all the more valuable. It’s pride. Because to become an American, you have to want it and fight for it in bureaucracy. 

I remember bits and pieces of the naturalization ceremony, enough to put together a narrative. My parents remember, but they loathe to tell that story. So it’s to my recollections and not much more — the naturalization ceremony through the eyes of someone who barely understood.

I’d say it’s a terrifying experience. Of course, by the time you reach the naturalization ceremony, the entire process is practically over. It’s not as if Uncle Sam has one more trick up his sleeve, another test or document or trial waiting to trip you up. You did it. You will be an American.

It doesn’t feel real.

It’s a room, clean, white, pristine, with symbols of this country left tastefully to remind you where exactly you are. There are far too many speeches to be useful. They’re selling you on the U.S., congratulating you, giving you some hope.

And then, a roll call by origin. For the last time, you will stand up as a citizen of your home country.

The names start. It’s alphabetic, and you see the people ahead of you stand at a country’s mention. It becomes almost hypnotic; a name is called, a group stands, then they slowly sit. Another name, another group, another rustling of chairs and jackets as everyone takes their seat.

Then they get to you, after all those other people, and you hear your country named — the place you called home, the place that was, for so long, distinctly yours — and you realize it’s yours no longer.

For a moment you are a citizen of no country, a leaf blowing in the winds of a world that does not claim you. You have rejected something, and now, you wait.

Of course, that’s not actually how this works. The roll call is meaningless. In fact, the U.S. doesn’t require you to formally renounce anything, and it’s possible to pursue dual citizenship.

Yet in that moment, partially ceremonial, partially optical, you have renounced something. 

For a few minutes, you have no country, no matter what the paperwork or the rules say because for a few minutes, you sit, having stood up one last time as a citizen of your home country.

The roll call ends. The people who have spent so many years fighting to become Americans sit.

Those seconds ticked into years for me. I felt every single one wash over me, tick, tick, tick, as I waited.

I was uncitizened. Then I became American.

At that moment, I think people cheered. I know a few sung, I know there were loud shouts and tears and sobs. One man just stood up and saluted the flag that hung so unsubtly from the wall.

We gave an oath to this country, its people, its institutions. We gave an oath because we knew what we were: American. We were one of her own now, no matter who we’d been.

There’s a beauty to that change. It’s simple — a new passport and some new documentation — but it’s more than that. For immigrants, it’s something essential.

I am American. My successes are American, as much as my follies are. I make mistakes as an American would, and I recover from them in the American way.

I define what it means to be an American like millions before me and millions after, every single day I live. I gave an oath, and after that, America opened a door.

I do not remember that day as well as I’d like. I remember a few quotes — being told to stand one last time, being told that everyone in that room was American now. I remember the cheers. I remember the man saluting.

There’s a lot to find critical in these U.S. — we see that every day, and immigrants are not the type to be held especially safe from the sort of chaos and worry that engulfs this country. America is flawed, America is broken, and there are no people who are prouder of her than the ones who swore that oath. 

I find myself sometimes toying with that identity. I am Indian-American, my friends are anything from Irish American to Chinese American to Italian American to African American, and through it all, we share a suffix. We don’t need to share a culture or a food or a holiday, Hell, why would we? The way things are, we’ll get to try out a little bit of everything, and really, ain’t that the American way?