My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.
~Maya Angelou
To say I was excited is an understatement. It was my eighteenth birthday, and I was about to realize my dream.
Most kids can’t wait to grow up, but for different reasons from mine. They want the right to stay out late, be independent of their parents and, maybe, have a drink legally. All I ever wanted since I came to the U.S. ten years earlier was to become a citizen of this country I loved. It was my mission. As soon as I turned eighteen, I applied for naturalization.
My brother’s friend Val also applied. He was in his mid-twenties and had been in the U.S. for five years. Both our families had fled Czechoslovakia to escape Communist oppression.
To become naturalized, one is required to take an English speaking and written test. U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services gives applicants a hundred questions, with answers, on U.S. civics. Up to ten random questions could be asked. Of those, six had to be answered correctly.
I wasn’t worried about myself because I had been a good student. I was concerned about Val, who had never attended school in the U.S. and spoke broken English.
When I asked him how his studies were going, he answered boldly: “No sweat. Piece of cake.” Although he had a limited English vocabulary and a heavy accent, he had easily picked up American clichés and slang.
Several days before our naturalization hearings, an urgent knock sounded on the door of my family’s apartment. My brother opened the door to a panic-stricken Val.
“What’s wrong, Val?” I asked, concerned. “Come in. Come in.”
Poor Val began, his English worse than ever. “I remember nothing. I don’t know what I going to do. I never pass test. I try study but is so confusing.”
“Relax, Val. Relax.” I tried to calm him down. “We’ll get you ready.”
I could see why he’d be anxious. While I studied earnestly, Val was more interested in hanging out at the local bar and grill with his buddies, meeting girls.
That evening and several other agonizing evenings later, I tutored Val. I quizzed him, coached him and did everything I possibly could to get the correct answers into his head.
“What are the first three words of the Constitution?”
“We, the peoples.”
“Name one branch of the government.”
Val hesitated but finally guessed correctly, “Congress.”
Then the day came for our interviews. At a government building in New York City, a USCIS officer would determine if we would be naturalized. Even as we rode in Val’s beat-up, old Pontiac, I quizzed him.
“Name one of the two longest rivers in the U.S.”
“The Missipi.”
Close enough, I thought.
I started to relax, thinking Val might pass this test after all.
When we reached the USCIS offices, we parked the car and entered the lobby.
There we were ushered into a crowded waiting room with people of all nationalities. To my surprise, it was packed. Did I think a couple of Czechoslovakians like Val and I were the only ones applying for citizenship in this incredible country? There were Europeans, Africans, Asians, Middle Easterners, Mexicans, Australians and others. Val and I took our seats among other hopeful applicants.
The girl next to me was with her parents. She must have been about my age. She and her family had come from Hungary. They had fled their country during the Hungarian Revolution, taking refuge in Western Europe until they were able to enter the U.S. She was as thrilled as I was. Her mom was overwhelmed with joy, wiping her tears discreetly. We shared our excitement, and I felt as if we were sisters. I still remember her name: Anika.
Val sat next to an elderly couple who were holding hands, obviously overwhelmed with emotion. They were from Ukraine. Val had no problem conversing with them, partly in broken Russian and partly in English.
We exchanged stories of our lives and expressed our hopes for our futures as U.S. citizens. Immigrants from all over revealed how grateful they were to be in the best country in the world. Some spoke with joy. Others held back tears. We had something in common. It was as if we were family, and I guess we were.
One by one, we were called for our interviews. Val went before me. The desk of his interviewing immigration officer was in the front of the room, still in my view. I watched as Val raised his right hand, as if taking an oath. Later, I learned it was an oath to tell the truth and nothing but the truth.
A few minutes later, my name was called. I eagerly approached the officer’s desk. His demeanor was friendly and encouraging. I breezed through my speaking and written exams. The civics test was next. I had studied the sample questions so well that I had no problem giving the correct answers.
My CIS officer congratulated me and informed me that I had passed. I would be notified when to appear for the Oath of Allegiance ceremony where I would receive my naturalization documents. I was elated, to say the least. I was one step closer to realizing my dream and becoming a U.S. citizen.
Back in the waiting room, I found a seat in the front row where I could observe Val still being questioned. Why was he taking so long? I was beginning to worry.
Suddenly, I heard raucous laughter coming from Val’s interviewing officer. But Val was not laughing. This made me nervous.
At last, Val stood up. I watched as his CIS officer shook his hand and, still laughing as if he had heard the best joke ever, bid him goodbye with a pat on his back.
Finally, Val was walking toward me. He looked baffled, but not necessarily troubled.
“How’d it go, Val?” I couldn’t wait to hear. “What was so funny? What did you do?”
“Nothing,” answered Val. “He just ask me final question.”
“Which was . . .?” I prompted.
“Who was first president of United States?”
“Well, what was your answer?”
“George Washington Bridge,” answered Val, as if it were obvious.
A month later, Val and I returned to the USCIS building to take our Oath of Allegiance. We left the building proudly, our precious citizenship papers in our hands.
Returning home over the George Washington Bridge, our voices rang out joyfully, singing “God Bless America.” Nothing could stop us now. We were young and free, and anything was possible in these United States of America. It was a blessed day.
Mission accomplished.
~Eva Carter
