Telling Laura my secret about being born in Mexico and not in Colton, California, finally lifted a heavy burden of guilt I had carried with me since childhood. Now I felt I had to confess it to Father John Shanks too. As my spiritual advisor, he met with me periodically to discuss my progress as a member of Sodality. Ar one of our meetings, I told him my story.
"I'm glad you told me. One should always tell the truth." His serious tone made me feel uncomfortable. "However, I understand why it has been difficult for you to be honest about where you were born, but you're here legally now, so try to get over it." He grinned slightly and lit up a cigarette.
"But I've lied about it in all my school records, in my application for admission to Santa Clara, and in my applications for financial aid from Santa Clara and the federal government."
He stared wide-eyed at me for a few seconds, taking a deep puff. "There is no problem with Santa Clara, but I am not sure about the federal loan." My heart fell to my stomach. Could I lose my scholarship?
"You would have heard from the federal government by now if it were a problem," he said, noticing my anxiety. "Why don't you become an American citizen? Ir would simplify matters."
Even though I was born in Mexico and was proud of being Mexican, I felt I was an American too. I had lived most of my life in the United States. It had become parr of me. "I'd like to, but I don't know how."
"Well, that's a task for both of us. We'll start by getting you an application form."
A week later, Father Shanks handed me the petition for naturalization form and asked me to work on it. I read through the long document and was happy to find out that I qualified to apply for citizenship because I was an adult and had been living in the United States legally for eight years; the minimum was five. The application called for two witnesses from each of the places in which I had lived during the past five years. They had to be U.S. citizens and willing to give testimony in court, under oath, on my behalf. I asked Darlene Jimenez, Roberto's wife, and Eva Martinez, a family friend, from Santa Maria. Both agreed. Father Shanks asked Brian Servatius and Ron Whitcanack, two students at Santa Clara, to be my witnesses. They knew me well. Brian was a senior, president of Sodality, and a prefect in McLaughlin Hall. Ron was a classmate of mine and codirector of the Sodality Tutoring Cell. I completed the application form, writing down "Tlaquepaque, Mexico" for my place of birth. Writing down the truth felt strange but liberating.
A few days later, after I had mailed the petition, I received a letter from the United States Department of Justice in San Francisco informing me that I had to go to their headquarters to take an examination. I had to prove that I could speak, read, and write English. On Friday, February 12, I borrowed Tom Maulhardt's Volvo and drove to the Immigration and Naturalization building at 630 Sansome Street in San Francisco to take the test. I felt nervous but confident that I would pass.
James Welsh, the court clerk, greeted me and informed me that he would be administering the exam. He was an elderly, short, and balding gray-haired man who wore a rumpled dark gray suit and bow tie. His cramped office had a glass window that looked onto a larger office. I sat at a small worktable, to the right of his paper-cluttered desk. Adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, he asked me questions on U.S. history and the Constitution: "In what year did the United States declare its independence? What are the three branches of government, and what is their function? How many articles of amendments to the Constitution are there? What is the Thirteenth Amendment?" I answered them all correctly. He then gave me a form with two sets of yes-or-no questions. I read through the first set and checked no to each question: "Are you now, or have you ever, in the United States or in any other place, been a member of, or in any other way connected or associated with, the Communist Party? Do you now or have you ever advocated, taught, believed in, or knowingly supported or furthered the interests of Communism? Have you borne any hereditary title or have you been of any order of nobility in any foreign state? Do you owe any federal taxes? Have you ever been a patient in a mental institution, or have you ever been treated for a mental illness?" The image of my father's gaunt face flashed in my mind as I read this last question.
I began the second set, checking yes to each question with confidence: "Do you believe in the U.S. Constitution and form of government of the United States? Are you willing to take the full oath of allegiance to the United States? If male, did you ever register under United States Selective Service laws or draft laws?"
However, when I got to the last two questions, my self-confidence quickly disappeared, I could hear my heart pounding as I reread them: "Are deportation proceedings pending against you, or have you ever been deported or ordered deported, or have you ever applied for suspension of deportation or for preexamination? Have you ever represented yourself to be a United States citizen?" I did not want to answer them but had no choice. My hand trembled as I checked yes and gave a brief explanation for each.
After I completed the questionnaire, the clerk dictated a sentence to me: "I like the American way of life." I wrote it down, hoping that he would not ask me to explain "the American way of life," He picked up the questionnaire, glanced at it, and frowned. "Excuse me," he said. "I'll be right back." Through the window, I could see him in the larger office talking to a man who was dressed in a suit and tie. I guessed he was the supervisor. My mouth was dry and I had a tight feeling in my chest. They are going to turn me down, I thought. When the clerk returned, I said a quick silent prayer. "Your petition is complete," he said, closing the door behind him and placing the questionnaire on his desk. "All the depositions are in and you have passed the exam. Congratulations!"
I stood up and shook his hand. I was elated.
"You can expect to hear from us in about a month."
As I was about to leave, I glanced down at the questionnaire and spotted a scribbled note in the margin, next to the last two questions, but I could not make out what it said. He caught my eye and grinned.
On April 2, I received a second letter from the United States Department of Justice. I nervously opened it and sat down at my desk to read. "You are hereby notified to appear for a hearing on your petition for naturalization before a judge of the naturalization court on Tuesday, April 13, at Ceremonial Court, Room 415, U.S. Courthouse, 450 Golden Gate Avenue, San Francisco, California. Please report promptly at 8:15 AM. Certificates of naturalization will be mailed by the Clerk of Court within five (5) days after your admission to citizenship."
I anxiously showed the letter to Father Shanks. He assured me that I had been approved for citizenship, that the hearing was simply ceremonial.
On the day of the hearing, I got up at dawn and hurried to the Santa Clara train station, which was a few blocks from the university. I bought a roundtrip ticket to San Francisco and took a window seat. As the train pulled out of the station, I thought about the long train trip my family and I had made when I was four years old.
Our journey from Guadalajara to Mexicali on a second-class train, Ferrocarriles Naciones de Mexico, took two days and nights. I was excited and impatient to get to California because my father repeatedly told us that life would be better there. When we arrived at the United States-Mexico border, Roberto, my parents, and I waited until night to cross the barbed-wire fence, which separated the two countries. We walked several miles along the wire wall, away from the entry point, until we spotted a small hole underneath the fence. My father got on his knees and dug a larger opening with his hands. We all slithered through like snakes and entered California.
The train to San Francisco jerked and grinded its brakes as it made the first stop. I looked out the window. The sun was beginning to rise.
About an hour later, the train arrived in San Francisco. I took a city bus to McAllister Street and walked up to the Ceremonial Court Room in the United States Courthouse. The spacious room had a high ceiling and stained-glass windows. It quickly filled up with men and women who had also petitioned for citizenship. Some wore suits and ties, a few dressed in full-length white robes and colorful turbans, others wore casual clothes. I took a seat toward the front and overheard different languages being spoken. The court clerk came in and asked us to stand for the presiding judge. After making a few welcoming remarks, the judge administered the Oath of American Citizenship, and at the end of the ceremony we recited The Pledge of Allegiance, which I knew so well.
I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
Our voices filled the Ceremonial Court Room like a prayer. We all had emigrated to the United States from various countries and were now American citizens. We were all different yet the same.