Citizen

Today I took the Oath of Allegiance. I did this in what was probably the most diverse room in the Bay Area. Together with 1,305 people, representing 96 countries, I pledged to honor the United States and it’s laws. Solemnly I — we — promised to surrender all loyalties. I agreed to take up arms if the law required it even though the obsession with arms and the lack of control therein scares me. I signed documents that had me promise I wouldn’t engage in polygamy, prostitution, terrorism, or be a habitual drunk all in one breath. I can only speculate that these are the qualities of an upstanding citizen. I have no idea why or how any of those fall in one category. I did all of this without hesitation or question. I didn’t think twice because I’ve waited for this day for almost two decades. I didn’t raise my hand because I was afraid my citizenship depended on the ‘right answers’.

I have a knot in my stomach as I type this. What if someone reads this and thinks I’m not loyal? What if after all the visas and paperwork; questions and interviews; background and secondary checks; someone, somewhere even remotely official thinks I am violating some sort of code? The logical part of me knows this is irrational, freedom of speech after all is a legal right of anyone living in the United States, regardless of residency status. This is a core part of America and it’s one of the reasons why I’ve worked so hard to be here. And also because it was part of the test I took to become a citizen. But this fear, however irrational, of ‘them taking away my papers’ lingers.

Most immigrants share this same stress. It’s not easy to be here and when you finally reach the (successful) finish line you realize how long you’ve been holding your breath. The ‘legal immigration’ process is long, laborious and every immigrant gives up a piece of themselves to become part of this Nation of Immigrants. I appreciate John Oliver’s summary where he talks about how difficult it is to ‘get in line’. I especially appreciate his coverage of what refugees go through for a chance to be here.

So what responsibility do people have to their country? Conventionally your responsibility is to be loyal and respectful to the laws, land and fellow citizens. Mostly what that means is pick up your trash and don’t be a sociopath.

I can’t think about responsibility though without first considering what it means to belong to a place; to really be part of a country. In his examination of society and it’s will (In Search of a Majority), James Baldwin puts forward the idea that these ideals are led and shaped by the majority. This group is, of course, determined by race. If I were to agree with this, and I do, the majority usually dictates that ‘your country’ is wherever you were born and therefore belong. Needless to say this definition of ‘belonging’ is troublesome for someone like myself; an immigrant.

Where are you from? My fellow Lyft rider asks me. We haven’t exchanged pleasantries or some much as a nod. It’s late, I’m tired and today I just don’t want to. Here, I respond quietly. Yeah but, like you don’t sound like you’re from here. I look at him donning my best RBF and say again, here. He insists on his question again, and lets up when the Lyft driver finally intervenes with dude, she clearly doesn’t want to tell you.

This experience is not uncommon for people who look and sound, well, unlike the majority. Most of us who fall on the darker side of beige also know that this sort of question almost always comes from the same type and shade of person. I can’t help but wonder then, if no matter how many promises I make to be an upstanding citizen will the majority ever just take for granted that my standing as a citizen is the same as theirs?

Are you from one of those hot countries? The middle-aged, white lady smiles at me. I imagine she thinks she’s being worldly as she looks across at me in the cramped Ramen shop. What do you mean, I ask with genuine confusion I sit down. Oh you know, those countries that are hot. My neighbor looks like you, she’s ah, she’s from the south part of India. Way down, she gestures downwards. She’s fumbling now and I’m aware of my petty pleasure in watching her squirm. I’ve never been to India, I say with a straight face. I zone out as she babbles on about colorful outfits. If this had been even 5 or 6 years ago I might have explained the geography of South Asia. There have, of course, been situations that were much harder to brush off. So now I just stay silent.

This narrow definition of belonging is also controversial for the American-born person who is not the color of the majority. As someone who has lived half her life in a different place I’m aware that it’s tempting to want to know more when you hear an accent. But it’s taken for granted that I’m not from here even before I open my mouth to speak. For the person of color who is indeed from here, their responsibility must take on the burden of whatever ancestors first immigrated. A good friend of mine born and brought up in San Jose is constantly asked these same questions. When she responds that she is indeed as American as them, they want to know which generation first hopped on a boat.

I took a vow today and that evokes a certain responsibility.

To me this means a refusal to be put into a random, loosely defined other category. It’s a conviction to not be minoritized. And sticking to that when someone feels they need me to explain why or how I fit in.

I believe that a person can indeed be from, and belong to, multiple places while physically living in another. It is, by this definition, also possible to belong wherever you create a home and find community. I am dedicated to the idea that we — all of us who are a different shade of beige — must represent the last place we called home. It’s essential, now more that ever, to bring forward my values and ideals. And to add my passions, rhythms, and even my so called contradictions.

And at the end to bring forward my voice and vote, despite the nerves. This to me, is the duty of my oath.