The Fog of Citizenship
On the day I passed my citizenship exam, the Senate voted to clear President Trump of all charges in his impeachment trial. I had passed the exam; the Senate flunked.
At first I felt elated. I’m a diligent student and I like passing exams. Besides, this was already my second try. The first time, two years ago, I had been disqualified on a technicality. So, I was ready for another long process of rejections and legal challenges. I did not expect that within twenty minutes of my arrival at the Vermont office of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, I’d walk out again into the parking lot with a notice of naturalization and a date for my swearing-in ceremony.
But during my two-hour drive back home to the other side of Vermont, with my radio tuned to the impeachment proceedings, I understood the significance of my new status, and the dread set in. Was it a good idea to associate myself with this country at a time like this? I realized that some part of me had secretly been hoping I would be rejected and deported to the Netherlands, my country of birth and citizenship. It would have resolved a dilemma I’ve been struggling with for years: should I stay here or move elsewhere?
My relationship with America has always been conflicted. I never made the conscious decision to live here. America just happened to me. I stayed out of inertia, always assuming this wouldn’t be permanent. First, my spouse and I were graduate students, intending to stay for just a few years. Then Gil and I got jobs, green cards, and had children. My life is here now, and I’ve grown to care about this country, not because I’m convinced it’s the greatest nation on earth, but because my memories, my family, and my friends are here.
But since the 2016 election I’ve lived in a fog of anger and confusion. My first impulse was to move, either back to the Netherlands (where I haven’t lived since I was eighteen) or to some other country with a promise of democracy. But democracies are fragile everywhere, and I’m afraid that if everyone just packs up and leaves whenever there’s a problem, we’ll soon have nowhere to go. I’ve grown up in the shadow of the Second World War, so I have always known that it doesn’t take much for a society to succumb to tyranny. It happens when citizens give up trying.
This is the only reason I decided to apply for citizenship. My children have grown up as Americans and I’ve lived here for almost twenty years, so I feel an obligation to help make things right. I used to live in Israel before I moved to the US, and I feel guilty for already having abandoned one society. I don’t want to be the kind of person who always runs away.
But now that I am about to become an American, I wonder if I’m ready for such a commitment. As soon as I got home, I went to the USCIS website to find out what I was actually in for. Gil took the citizenship oath four years ago, but I had been so caught up in taking pictures that I hadn’t paid attention to the details of the ceremony.
“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...”
My heart stopped when I understood that I would be required to renounce allegiance to the Netherlands. I am not a particularly patriotic Dutchwoman — I have friends all over the world whose well-being is more important to me than the Dutch nation per se — but I am proud of many things my native country has done right, and it feels thankless and rude to renounce my loyalty so explicitly. Besides, I need the Netherlands as a backup. My Dutch friends already think I’ve gone mad throwing my lot in with the USA. Can’t I be loyal to multiple countries? Or be a citizen of the world?
I asked Gil if it had been difficult for him to renounce his native Israel when he became an American. But it turned out he had repeated the oath without registering its meaning and didn’t realize he had renounced Israel. “It’s just words,” he said, and urged me not to overthink everything and just go through the formality of the ceremony so I can vote in November. He is a professor who studies texts for a living, so he knows that words tend to hide the real meaning that lies beneath — that what ultimately matters is action.
But I’m a writer and I care about words. After all, everything is just words: constitutions, countries, nationalities, identities, citizenship... If I declare loyalty to the USA, I want to understand what I’m committing to.
“... that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic...”
It dawned on me that maybe I can be a patriot after all. I don’t care much for flags, but I am ready to support and defend liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and equality for all.
When I get into something, I tend to commit all the way. So, I not only analyzed the Oath of Allegiance, I also downloaded the USCIS Policy Manual to study the policies and procedures for citizenship ceremonies. As I delved into the guidelines, I was moved by how carefully they tried to accommodate the beliefs and principles of all new citizens. The manual offered special provisions for people whose faith prohibits them from taking an oath, allowing them, instead, to take an “affirmation.” It also specified that committed pacifists can omit the clause about carrying arms to defend the constitution, and that non-believers have the option to omit the mention of “God.” I was so touched by the thoughtfulness of whoever had composed the manual that I started tearing up. As I read on through the blur of my emotion, I found a clause that specified that standing for the national anthem is voluntary:
“When USCIS plays musical selections during ceremonies, naturalization applicants are not required to stand or sing.” (USCIS policy manual, chapter 5)
When I told friends I had applied for citizenship, I had joked that the activist in me might be moved to take a knee at the ceremony. It turned out that whoever had written the manual had already anticipated my thinking and made sure to protect my first amendment rights. Now, that’s what I love about America.
Judith Hertog is an essayist, journalist, and teacher. She is originally from Amsterdam but moved to Israel as a teenager, and, after some wandering around the world, eventually ended up living in Vermont with her family. Her work has appeared in publications such as The New York Times, Longreads, The Sun, Hotel Amerika, Tricycle and many others.