A year after my parents left, I received a letter from Homeland Security stating that I could now begin the application process to become a United States citizen. I had to take a moment to process what I was holding in my hands. I truly never thought this moment would come. And it was bittersweet because I was about to go through the entire process alone.
The most important part of the citizenship application process is the American history test. This was one exam I was not about to fail. I began to cram overtime. I read as many history books as I could, which only added to the vast knowledge of America I got from those old Encyclopedia Britannicas I still owned. I had taken those old encyclopedias with me from one new place to another. It was very masochistic of me.
Soon after submitting my application, I found myself in yet another federal building in downtown Los Angeles. The day had arrived. I was summoned to take my verbal citizenship test. I wasn’t as nervous as I thought I would be. There was no way this federal examiner was going to stump me. Not on the day I had been waiting for since I learned I was undocumented.
The government official administering the test was a kind-looking Filipino American. But since there were a lot of people waiting to see him, there wasn’t much time for pleasantries. He got right down to business. Following his lead, I answered his questions as quickly as he asked them of me…
“What is the supreme law of the land?”
“The constitution.”
“How many original colonies were there?”
“Thirteen.”
“How many amendments are there in the constitution?”
“Twenty-seven.”
The speed at which I responded seemed to annoy him. I made a wrong calculation about what he was after. I think perhaps he wanted me to take my time. I was now getting a bit nervous. I did not want to mess up my only opportunity at becoming American.
The government official sat up straight in his chair and started glancing through his document, looking for harder questions to ask. But I did not back down.
“Who is the chief justice of the United States?”
“John Roberts.”
“How many years do we elect senators for?”
“Six.”
“What are two cabinet-level positions?”
“Secretary of State and Secretary of Defense.”
The federal worker put down his papers and then reached into a drawer in his desk. Believe it or not, he brought out another set of questions. At this point, I started to freak out. But again, I did not relent.
“What line divides the North and the South?”
“The Mason-Dixon Line.”
“Who was George Washington’s right-hand man as he crossed the Delaware?”
Wait, what?
Oh fuck. I didn’t know this one. Who was George Washington’s right-hand man as he crossed the Delaware? Who the hell was George Washington’s right-hand man as he crossed the Delaware! I didn’t know. I could see the stupid painting right in front of me. I could see George Washington looking straight ahead, determined on his small ferry boat, getting his Captain Morgan on. The federal worker stared at me—was he hoping I would give up? I refused. I had come too far and endured way too much. There had to be an answer. There’s always an answer. Who else is in this painting? Damn it—who? I could even see the ice being pushed away from the boat. Why couldn’t I see George Washington’s right-hand man?
“Well?” asked the federal worker.
After a long, painful pause, I finally surrendered. I said: “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
To which the federal worker responded: “I don’t know either, but if you knew that shit—holy hell!”
Shocked, I started to laugh from the nerves. The federal worker smiled, and then added: “Congratulations. You passed with flying colors.”
I called my mom via Skype to tell her the great news. She was incredibly happy for me. It was strange not to be able to hug her at that moment, but this was our new reality now. We were connected digitally via the Internet and nothing more. My mom said that my dad also sent his congratulations. He wasn’t home. He was operating at the hospital. He was rarely home when I Skyped. I thought Ecuador would be easier for him. Instead, it ended up being harder. He said it was the price he had to pay to do what he loved in a country that had a bad economy.
Four months later, I drove down the Interstate 10 to the Pomona Fairplex. I had been there a few times before for the LA County Fair. But this time was different. This occasion was special. I was being sworn in as an American citizen.
The ceremony felt like a bad TV game show. The Pomona hall was exceptionally large, packed with family members cheering on their loved ones. I, of course, showed up alone. Without my parents in the country, I just took the ceremony as another event in the middle of a very busy workweek. It was just another check mark off my calendar. The MC—there was an MC!—kept things lively and moving like a reality competition show on steroids. He asked us to guess what countries had the most people becoming citizens on that day.
“Coming in at number five,” he said cheerfully, “Guatemala!”
The audience hooted and hollered.
“Number four… China!”
The audience clapped loudly.
“Number three… El Salvador!”
Louder cheers still.
“Number two.… the Philippines!”
The place erupted.
Thinking there was no way it could possibly get any louder, the MC then said: “And coming in at number one… Mexico!!!”
After regaining my hearing from the volcanic eruption, we all eased into a video projected onto the large screen. It was of President George W. Bush welcoming us to the United States. This was perhaps the most bizarre thing of all, since it had just been revealed that we’d gone to war with Iraq for no apparent reason, and all of us present were being asked to swear we were of good moral character or lose the ability to become naturalized citizens.
As we were being lectured on American values by our sitting president, I glanced over at the gorgeous young woman sitting next to me. Earlier, she had told me she was from Bulgaria. She looked like someone you might see in a Victoria’s Secret catalog. She also dressed like somebody you would see in a Victoria’s Secret catalog, which didn’t seem appropriate for a family-friendly ceremony. The young Bulgarian kept waving at her American husband, who stood nearby with all the onlookers behind the stanchions. He was an out-of-shape sixty-year-old man, who was ecstatic that his new young wife was finally becoming a citizen. I know that love is blind, but somebody was definitely using somebody in this scenario. I looked back at George W. Bush, a mediocre student in school who had not achieved half the things my undocumented friends had in college, and smiled at the irony.
I drove back home from the Pomona Fairplex that day as an American citizen. I thought about my parents and how if they had waited just two more years, the three of us could have all been sworn in together. But everyone’s journey in life is different. My journey was that of a blissfully stupid American kid who discovered he wasn’t American at all. It could have stopped me. It could have stopped us. But it didn’t. We rallied together like all immigrant families do. We were just three people out of twelve million undocumented Americans—and sixty million Latinos—in this country who dared to dream of something better for themselves. We worked hard, we strengthened the economy, we made local food taste better, and we committed no crimes. Well, at least we committed the same crime as every other American family before us, or did we not want to take Native Americans into consideration for this story?
I drove down the Interstate 10 and remembered the moment I discovered I was undocumented. When I asked my mom why she never told me the truth of our immigration problems. Her response still astonishes me to this day…
“We didn’t want you to grow up feeling different. Because dreams should not have borders.”
No, Mom, they should not.