It was the morning of my final US Citizenship interview and Civic Test and as with all exams, I was eager to get it over with. I had arrived in the USA in 1997 on a B1 visa and, had over the years, filed four separate H1B Work Visas, before marrying my American husband and filling out Form I-551 for permanent residency and now was in the final stages of my N-400 application to become a US Citizen. That's a lot of paperwork! So I should have been looking forward to this one last test, but I have to admit I was ambivalent about taking this last step.
As with most of foreign nationals living in New York, I was committed to living here indefinitely. But somehow tossing off my Australian identity for US citizenship felt like a betrayal. But then I had struggled long and hard to secure the right to work and live in this country, so why not seal the deal? Was I having doubts, like pre-wedding jitters? I went through the benefits of being a citizen again, the tax breaks, voting rights and why pay taxes without representation? Actually, hadn’t there been a war fought with the Brits over this very issue? I flipped back quickly through my N-400 crib notes to check the dates of the Revolutionary War. But then I couldn’t rid myself of a nagging fear that accepting US Citizenship would somehow mean forfeiting all prior national claims to Australia. And what about Ireland, my mother's birthplace and my spiritual homeland. And having lived in New York through 9/11 I knew the importance of having your own exit strategy. But then it was getting late and I had to run for the subway.
When I arrived at the Jacobs Javits Federal Building the intense security came as no surprise; as rigorous and thorough as any airport security. It was only just 9am and already it was clear that getting into the building would take longer than our two-train commute had. I was so happy my husband Dave was with me for company. Though I wondered whether he was beginning to regret it. We waited on the long line, in the light rain, while the guard carefully checked everybody’s photo id, then once inside we removed belts, coats, shoes, bags and emptied the lot into plastic bins which were fed into the x-ray machines while we walked barefoot through the metal detectors. While slipping my shoes back on, I looked up to see a man unnoticed by lobby security, leave the cue to open a door marked 'Emergency Exit Only' to let a female companion into the foyer and rejoin the line. I wondered at the oblivious breach but then thought why didn't I think of that.
We took the elevator to the Department of Immigration and Naturalization Services on the 7th Floor and then shuffled into yet another waiting room which had the hushed silence and barely contained excitement of a school auditorium on graduation day. We took our seats on the far side of the room overlooking Federal Plaza. The room had a quiet order to it. Parents kept a tight rein over rambunctious children, while other family members conferenced in whispers. This reception room was warm, comfortable and clean; gracious in comparison to the usual shabby government offices in the outer boroughs, often located in a struggling mall or behind deteriorating storefronts. I would would make my way home from the satelite suburbs, passing Hasidic Jews in scruffy suits, boarded up houses and sleepy West Africans sitting on plastic drums outside of auto repair shops, and I would think - If I lived here would I really consider emigrating too?
The appointments were running late and I had no idea what time I might be called. After sitting around for about an hour, Dave had to leave for work. Sitting alone and bored beyond belief, I took out a beat-up copy of 'The New Yorker' magazine from my bag and started re-reading old articles but after another hour or so I started to experience a kind of audio-hallucination where I would hear my name “Donna” every time they announced “Abdul, please come to Door 1”. When I finally heard my name called I practically lept from my seat and met my interviewer, Nina Rodriquez, who immediately launched into bright small talk as she led me through a labyrinth of glassed in offices where I spied similarly nervous applicants mouthing answers or sweating over their documents across from their examiners.
On arriving at the crampt interview room, I shed my coat and set out all my required original documents and duplicates in front of me and Nina Rodriquez. I was raring to go, and frankly looking forward to what I felt would be a fierce but fair oral exam on the US Constitution and American History. I hoped to prove a formidable adversary. There were about ten minutes of preliminaries, during which Nina verified that I had all my required documentation for the final application. Then she started lobbing a few simple questions my way. There was no satisfaction in answering these. I could have answered them without any preparation. I told myself though that this was just my warm up. Then we got to question ten. “What is the capital of NY State?”
“New York City”, I answered without skipping a beat. My inquisitor looked up sharply from marking my exam and frowned. In seconds I noticed my slip and sheepishly corrected myself. Unfortunately while “New York” may pass for an acceptable answer on the “Sex and the City” franchise but the last time the Dept of Citizenship & Immigration Services actually checked, it was still Albany.
Albany! Albany! I meant to say Albany! Immigration Officer Ms Rodriquez arched eyebrow and little smile said as much as, “Well, we’ll give you that one." Then she abruptly stood up, signaling an end to our meeting, and quickly exited down the hallway to the photocopier with my supporting documentation. I couldn’t believe it. It was all over in 20 minutes.
I scrambled to gather my own files, a handful of coat and darted after her. Having memorized all the answers perfectly, I didn’t feel sufficiently grilled; I felt robbed. After twelve years of living in New York City and five years of being a green card holder I was finally getting my US Citizenship and it felt like, like I was just being handed a receipt with my change. I trailed after Ms Rodriquez into the hallway pleading, “Don’t you want me to name the 13 original colonies? Or the date the Constitution was signed? Or who the principal author of the Declaration of Independence was?” I shouted into the back of her swiftly retreating nylon blouse.
I started rattling off, “Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhodes Island, New Hampshire, Delaware, New York. “Did I say Rhodes Island?” At the photocopier Ms. Rodriquez spun around, clearly irritated.
“Yes Ms Graham, thank you very much. We will be in touch in a month or so with the dates for your Nationalization Ceremony.” Then reaching across me, she opened the door and with a tight smile issued me out the exit with a very firm, “Ok?”
I took the elevator down to Federal Plaza. I couldn’t believe it was all over, after so many years of jumping through hurdles, I was now a newly minted US Citizen. It was a warm Spring day and as I drifted down Broadway towards Battery Park I was thinking that I should be celebrating but instead found myself in a more reflective mood, remembering back to another interview. In August of 1998, I had my first real job interview at a small advertising photography studio on W20th St. and to my utter shock and absolute delight I was offered the position. That day spawned a new beginning for me, a new chapter that would extend throughout my thirties involving new experiences, new career changes, new friends and relationships, finally resulting in a happy marriage now in it’s seventh year. Today felt like the closing of that chapter, the bookending of an amazing New York adventure spanning 12 years.
