I was trying not to panic. That is, I had no reason to panic. I had prepped days in advance. Well, weeks in advance. Well—really, years in advance. My first experience with American history had been in middle school and through an unfortunate set of circumstances which involved changing schools after my seventh grade year, I’d had a double dose of Revolutionary and Civil War battles back-to-back. I knew almost all the presidents. I knew more about America than I’d ever know about the country I came from.
But the real prep had started a couple weeks ago when I’d actually taken the initiative to start studying. Then it had officially hit its peak a couple of days ago when I’d suddenly awoken to find that I had forgotten everything. Who was Susan B. Anthony? How many Supreme Court justices were there? What the hell was a veto?
Now it was time. There was traffic, but I’d anticipated that so I was still four hours early. In two miles I will just have to take the left off the main road to the one way that led to the parking garage. Then I’ll double check that my folder has all the papers, all the documents I’ve spent months procuring from my unrelenting soon-to-be-former government in order to join the Red, White, and Blue. I’ll push the stray hairs out of my face and straighten my skirt. In the street, the Miami heat will sear the sweat into the undersides of my pressed white collared shirt, and I’ll fan myself with my portfolio. My heels will clack across sweltering pavement as I scamper across the busy intersection. The men on the corner will catcall at me Oye mami, te ves para comer and I’ll pointedly ignore them instead of throwing up my middle finger like I normally would because today is too important. I don’t want to give them any reason to turn me away.
Inside the immigration office, a lady with a friendly smile will take me aside and read me the questions. I’ll shake, but I’ll know the answers because I’ve been here. This is just a formality. I’ve been an American since my mother stuck me on a plane seventeen years ago and told me we were moving to the heart of America, and on our first week there she took me to see the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument and the voices around me had sounded jumbled and incomprehensible. My mother read to me every night until the thoughts that flew in my head no longer came in Spanish.
After the test, her smile will widen at my superior knowledge. I will stumble out of the office on shaky legs and make my way past the catcalling men to the parking garage. My trembling hands will pick up my cell phone and I’ll tell my mother I’ve passed. She’ll say that of course I did. When we’ve hung up, I’ll grin like a maniac and blast salsa, merengue, bachata, and reggeaton because I’m not saying goodbye.
In a week or so, I’ll show up to the ceremony with my best dress and look around because everyone is staring at their feet and hands. One woman will have a rosary in her hands and, under her breath, she’ll recite Padre Nuestro. The American flag will hang like the embodiment of light at the end of the tunnel that it is. I’ll see a man in the corner bring the back of his hand to his mouth and suck in a breath. I’ll remember the way my mother held my hand when we walked home from daycare in the downpour and rushed us into our one bedroom apartment in the Kenmore building on Connecticut Avenue. I’ll remember the Spanish to English dictionary we used to play I Spy. I’ll remember the way my accent disappeared into the shadow of well-recited vocabulary words and the day I’d finally spoken my second grade teacher’s name aloud and Simon, in front of me in the recess line, had whipped around in proud shock and said, “Ms. Gilbert, she can speak English!”
I’ll recite the oath in a mix of accents and by the “so help me God,” I’ll be in tears.
In the car, traffic still isn’t moving and I’m feeling more nostalgic than when I’d woken up this morning. I search the internet on my phone for my national anthem and hook it up to my car stereo. As the cars start to inch forward, I sing along to the words of a country I’d given up in favor of this one.
—
A.C. Levy is a second year student at the University of Virginia. She’s been telling stories since she learned to speak–first in Spanish, now in English.
