I walk past families and groups of friends pocketed through the lobby at the theater of Rowan College, Burlington County Campus. I am forty-five minutes early for the ceremony, here in time to set out one hundred blue gift bags, one for each person to walk across the stage. The immigration officer in charge sees my name tag as I walk toward the registration table. “Go on into the auditorium. Some of your ladies are already there.”
I’ve been looking forward to this event for weeks, and now it’s here. I take in the newness of the building, the generous legroom of the theater seating, and the balcony behind me as I head toward the stage. “Hello Moorestown Daughters. I’m Kate Cutts from Colonel Thomas Reynold Chapter. How can I help?”
We are middle-aged white ladies wearing lots of red, white, and blue under our big American smiles. I help arrange gift bags in neat rows and fluff up tissue paper surrounding little copies of The Constitution, desk sized American Flags, pinwheels, and other little objects to welcome our newest citizens.
Official looking people come into the space and talk to the host about what their roles will be. A group of high school ROTC students resplendent in uniforms and spats make their way toward us. While we put finishing touches on the gift table, they line up to practice bringing the Stars and Stripes up the stairs. In front of them, a boy around ten or eleven precedes and stands stage right. We stop what we are doing. Practice or not, everyone in the room places hands over hearts at the presentation of the colors. The child’s sweet voice fills the space as he sings “The Star-Spangled Banner” without one ounce of nervousness.
After all the arrangements seem ready, a young woman goes into the foyer to invite in the immigrants. They stream in, looking for their places across the seats in the first three rows. I can’t catch any of their eyes to smile or welcome them, they’re so focused on this task. I wonder if they worry they won’t find their names. What a horrible thought, to have come so far and lose what they’ve worked diligently for at the last minute. But they each sigh in relief, turn and wave at friends and family, ready.
Two other DAR and I settle into our fourth-row seats. Shortly after, an emcee gets behind the podium and asks us to rise. The color guard and soloist execute their duties seamlessly. I hear a male voice nearby. Softly, but out of tune, he joins the young singer, “. . .gave proof through the night, that our flag was still there.” I don’t blame him. It’s hard to resist lifting my voice and joining too.
The order of events is laid out by the emcee. Student leaders, county politicians, and other dignitaries take the stage. The politician reminds us of this grand democratic experiment the founders started and reads parts of the Preamble. Say what you want about Thomas Jefferson, that man could write. More than once I hear the words, “God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.”
After the speakers, the immigration officer is given the stage, and it’s time for the main event. He tells about his own citizenship story, of ancestors generations ago who immigrated, paving the way for his status as American. I am reminded of my own patriot ancestor, Benjamin McMakin, barely a teenager, who beat a cadence on his drum and marched with his father, Colonel Alexander McMakin, in the War for Independence. Along with my other ancestors, they struggled to carve out a place on this continent so that one day I too could participate in the great democratic experiment and claim to be made in America.
I admire these 100 souls who craved the dream of self-determination enough to forsake the 48 countries of their heritage. The speaker is telling us how difficult it is to pass the citizenship test, how many native-born citizens would fail it. I turn to the right and whisper, “I think I could pass it, or at least I should since my father was a history teacher.”
“I know I could pass it. I was a history teacher,” she replies.
Next, the speaker admires the future citizens for learning a new language, and says despite his best efforts he was defeated when trying to master Spanish. I sympathize, acknowledging to myself the bleakness of ever understanding French. “Even though you are choosing to become a citizen today, no one expects you to forget where you came from.” He encourages them to continue to embrace their culture and take pride in their nation of origin before he names off the countries they are leaving behind. Each person is to stand as their previous country is named and remain standing to take their oath. “Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Belarus, Brazil, Bulgaria, China, Columbia, Costa Rica, Cuba, Cypress . . . Haiti,” at this a handsome broad-shouldered young man in his bright white suit stands right in front of me. I give him extra applause.
The list continues until all 100 are standing. Next, right hands go up and a multitude of voices, “hereby declare on oath,” that they renounce all allegiance to any, “foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty.” Pledging to support and defend the constitution, they do something I never have, promise to bear arms on behalf of the United States. It takes two-and-one-half minutes to recite, and now they are citizens.
Each walks across the stage as their name is announced. The first to cross pauses at the flag, looks out to us and hollers, “I love America!” We laugh and cheer. A petite Chinese woman bows to each person in the receiving line then looks at her papers with awe as she steps lightly to the other side of the stage. My favorite new citizen, the Haitian who sat in front of me, whoops it up after his documents are handed over.
I clap and cheer and feel so proud of every one of these new Americans. After Lee Greenwood sings to us from a video, I am just about bursting with patriotism. On my way to the exit I congratulate everyone I see holding a blue bag. “Thank you, thank you.” I hear over and again. The last gentleman I congratulate grins right back at me and bows slightly, “Congratulations,” he returns.
I almost start to explain I didn’t do a thing to get my citizenship, but instead I say, “Thank you.”
Your Turn: It’s easy to be cynical and take our citizenship for granted. Have you ever participated in something that reminded you about the goodness of this country?
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