I Pledge Allegiance to the — Queen?
Taking British citizenship was a practicality. I was surprised at the emotions it stirred up.
My partner and I never planned to become British citizens. Not because we had anything against the idea, but because we were American, and some things run so deep that you can’t imagine them any other way.
We moved to Britain on writers’ visas, which at the time could be renewed until they led to indefinite leave to remain — a nearly permanent visa. But by the time we applied for our final renewal, the rules had changed and writers were no longer worth keeping. It was all about numbers and the politics of immigration. If the government kicked us out, it could subtract two from the unpopular side of the ledger, so it sent us a letter saying pack your bags, scribblers, and get out before we have to deport you.
Unlike a lot of people in our position, we weren’t facing death or prison or devastating poverty, but we’d built a life in Britain, and we’d burned our bridges. So we filed an appeal. This involved lawyers and petitions and European Union law and one hell of a lot of money. I’ve written about it elsewhere, so I won’t go into it here. except to say that we won the appeal, but it left us with a strong sense that as resident aliens the ground under our feet was shaky, and when we became eligible to apply for citizenship we did. It’s not impossible to get thrown out of a country if you’re a naturalized citizen, but you do have to work at it.
I was surprised at how wrenching the decision to become a citizen was. I’ve never been a flag waver, and if I’d been given one of those silly yes/no, carrot/parsnip, die of hunger/die of thirst choices between describing myself as a nationalist or an internationalist, I’d have said internationalist: many countries, many cultures, many contributions to the world; the sisterhood of men, the brotherhood of women, all that kind of thing. Besides, I’ve seen the toxic side of nationalism: the way it can divert people’s anger away from the good folks at home who are stealing them blind and crank up fear, hatred, and support for insupportable politicians and even less supportable wars.
So no, I’m not a nationalist. But I’ve been an American citizen all my life, and even though I wouldn’t have to give that up to become a British citizen, I was uneasy about the add-on. If I wasn’t solely American, who would I be?
This wasn’t about any traditional form of loyalty, because I’ve been in disagreement with my government about an assortment of things for as long as I can remember. It was about identity, and it surprised me to find my identity wrapped up, not in a flag, but in a legal construct like citizenship.
We went ahead, though. The ground was shaky. A legal construct was the only thing that would stabilize our lives. I’d normally have been happy to discuss whether citizenship is an artificial concept, or even essentially false, but right then it wasn’t up for discussion, thanks.
In order to become citizens, though, we were going to have to swear allegiance to the queen, as well as (if I remember the wording correctly) not just her successors but her heirs and successors, as if, pitching all that sacred symbolism out the window, she might give in to a whim and split it all up — leave the kingship to Charles but the throne, now just a piece of furniture, to William. And the sceptre to Andrew. And the hats — all those planter-style hats — to Zara.
Then, having sworn allegiance to all those heirs and successors, we wouldn’t be able to take sides in the family squabbles that would inevitably follow, although we could be grateful that we weren’t invited to the family parties.
An English friend tells me I’ve missed the point here: Without its sacred trappings, the whole idea of monarchy falls apart. Madge, as my friend calls the queen — it’s short for her majesty — couldn’t imagine the throne as nothing more than a piece of furniture; she believes every bit of her own hype. She has to. If she didn’t, she couldn’t be the queen. But surely the fact that I missed the point is part of the point. I’m American, born and raised in the U.S. of non-monarchical A. I look at the monarchy and think, What? On some very basic level, I can’t believe anyone’s serious about this. It’s that sort of thing that reminds me I’m American.
So the oath made us uneasy. It seemed not just unnatural but absurd.
I should probably say more about being born and raised in the U.S. of A. My partner’s from Texas, which has always had mixed feelings about the union. She swears that when she was a kid the post office stayed open on July Fourth. As her family and neighbors said, “They better if they want our business.” You can take that literally if you want. I take it as a bit of good old Texas hyperbole: Never let the truth get in the way of a good story. As for me, I’m from New York, and forty years in Minnesota taught me that the rest of the union has mixed feelings about my home town. When I was a visiting writer at a school in suburban Minnesota, a kid (responding, I assume, to my accent) asked what country I was from. I said New York and we both went on as if we’d agreed that it was another country.
I often felt that it was.
But drop us down in rural Cornwall and those shadings disappear. We’re American — more so than we ever were in the United States. And here we were, about to swear allegiance to an expensive and antiquated monarchy.
We went through some mental gymnastics on the subject. My partner decided that if the queen ever called at midnight needing to talk, she’d talk to her. If the queen ever needed to borrow a fiver, she’d lend it. I don’t think it’s what the queen thinks of when some psychologist says (as surely they must, time after time in her life), “I’ll say a word and you tell me the first thing that comes to mind: allegiance.” But never mind. The queen didn’t have to take the oath, so why worry about what comes to her mind?
As for me, when I was a kid I mumbled my way through the “Pledge of Allegiance” so many times that any meaning allegiance might once have carried has been sanded away by the grit of repetition. And to anyone who’s offended by that I can only say, That’s the penalty you pay for dominating the national conversation so completely. All your carefully chosen words turn into nothing more than the buzzing of a fly at a window.
So what does allegiance really mean? I never stopped to wonder when I was mumbling the pledge. When the whole thing means nothing, why fret over the individual words? But being asked to swear allegiance of a different kind woke me up to it the way having a dead fish thrown at me would wake me up to fishiness. And deadness.
I looked up allegiance. My American dictionary talks about loyalty. My British dictionary mentions loyalty but then turns feudal, talking about the liege lords who are at the root of the word, a-liege-ance, despite (this being English) the changed spelling. Wikipedia’s entry, when I checked, was full of the obedience owed by the citizen or subject to the government or sovereign.
No wonder I mumbled. Even as a kid, I knew that word was hiding something I didn’t like. I don’t care which government we’re talking about, I’m not big on obedience. I came of age during the Vietnam War, and if I’d belonged to the draftable sex, I’d have refused induction. I’d have had to. It’s a different form of loyalty, and it’s the one I still hold to. Governments aren’t to be obeyed unquestioningly. They do seem to be necessary, and I recognize that any government will make demands on its citizens. Our job is to ask which ones make sense and to resist when necessary.
So far, I’ve skidded over the top of the citizen/subject issue, and it’s relevant, since in addition to becoming citizens we might also become subjects. I won’t go into it deeply here, in small part because it’s complicated and in much larger part because I don’t understand it and although my British friends think they do, they all understand it differently. But I can say this much: Britons, both in Britain and in the Empire, used to be subjects. Then, at some point, they became citizens. Except for those who didn’t become citizens but remained subjects and, guess what, they were from the Empire, not from Britain itself, and tended not to be white. Do you notice anything strange happening here? Any slight whiff of racism?
Of course not.
But those people who did become citizens, are they also still subjects? Possibly. It’s all a rich field for argument, because Britain doesn’t have a written constitution. It has an unwritten constitution. I’m still trying to figure out what that means.
So we were becoming citizens, and maybe we were becoming subjects, but either way we were swearing an oath of allegiance to a monarch and her etceteras.
Back when allegiance to a monarch was the same thing as allegiance to a government, more than one noble pledged loyalty to a monarch and then fought for his (or occasionally her) rival. As a way to guarantee future behavior, oaths are right up there with coerced apologies: I’m sorry I kicked my brother. I’m sorry I took up arms against you after I swore I’d defend you to the death, but your hold on power’s looking shaky and that does make me see my oath in a new light.
In the end, we took the oath and became citizens, as we’d known we would. And we haven’t tried to overthrow the monarchy. It’s not in the cards right now, so our sincerity hasn’t been tested. And when the cards are dealt out again and it starts to look possible, I doubt we’ll be the first people anyone consults. As far as I can work it out, that fulfils the letter of the oath if not quite the spirit.
We didn’t swear to take the outward fripperies of monarchy seriously — or at least that’s not in my understanding of the oath. You may have noticed that I haven’t granted the queen a capital Q. And I not only wouldn’t bow if I met her or her heirs and successors, I don’t think I could. And curtsy? Get off it. On the other hand, I’d be happy to say hello if any of them stopped by. Give me some warning and I’d vacuum and thaw out some homemade cookies. I might, just remotely, be intimidated enough to dust. I mean, minus the dusting I do all that for my friends all the time, so why not?
Is any of that good enough? We didn’t swear to become monarchists, and no one asked us to give up our beliefs or edit our thoughts.
So here I am, a citizen of two countries, and by some people’s reckoning a subject of one. Each country has qualities and cultures and subcultures that I admire and structures and histories I’m grateful for. I love many things about both, and despair of others. And I have two governments to be in disagreement with. It’s my form of loyalty.
Before I started writing this essay, I hadn’t thought to ask myself how, after all my hesitation, becoming a citizen of a second country has affected me. Once I made my decision, the question of who I’d be if I wasn’t entirely American faded into the background. It hasn’t changed anything essential in who I am, and I’m a bit surprised to report that. By birth, by culture, by noise level and accent and food preferences and history, I’m still American. By political involvement, I’m both American and British. By residence, I’m British.
Citizenship is intensely practical, intensely important, and in many ways entirely superficial. I remain the same person, in two countries.
Ellen Hawley is the author of The Divorce Diet (Kensington Books, 2014), Open Line (Coffee House Press, 2008), and Trip Sheets (Milkweed Editions, 1998). Her blog, Notes from the U.K., explores the spidery corners of the British culture.
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