Patriotism

When I first began to think about becoming an American citizen, I wondered: Would they quiz me about baseball (like who’d won the World Series in 1961, the year I’d entered the U.S. as an alien)? Would they make me renounce fish and chips, bangers and mash, Yorkshire pudding, treacle tart, Christmas pudding, and everything else quintessentially English? Would they tell me that I could no longer say “garden” for “yard,” or “car park” for “parking lot”?

On my first Halloween in the U.S. I didn’t know what was happening: why were children knocking on doors dressed as goblins and astronauts? I turned off the lights and pretended I wasn’t home. Memorial Day, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Presidents’ Day — so many new holidays to digest and understand. And so many poignant memories of holidays no longer celebrated: bonfires on Guy Fawkes Day, Christmas leftovers on Boxing Day, pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, raucous crowds along the Thames on Boat Race Day. I am trying to feel the same about pumpkin pie and Labor Day picnics. I really am.

My swearing-in ceremony took place in the Masonic Auditorium in San Francisco. “There are 103 countries represented here today,” the emcee said. “As I read your country’s name, I want you to stand up and remain standing until all 1,535 of you are standing. Then we will say the oath of citizenship together.” She began reading the names: “Antigua, Armenia, Aruba, Australia, Bermuda, Bosnia . . .” One by one the people around me stood up.

When she said, “China,” it seemed as if half the auditorium rose. “Mexico,” she said, and another large percentage stood. After the Philippines I felt as if I were the only one still sitting, surrounded by standing bodies in their Sunday best. Finally the emcee said, “The United Kingdom,” and I hauled myself up, looking round to see who else was from my homeland: no one that I could tell. The days of the Irish and the English setting sail for the New World in numbers were long past. So why was I doing this? To vote. Forty-six years in the U.S., and I had never voted.

My eyes filled with tears as we sang the national anthem. I realized I’d never sung it before. The images of bombs and rockets had always bothered me. And yet seeing 1,535 people from so many different backgrounds standing to sing it together was an emotional experience.

In childhood I had heard real bombs and rockets going off. There is nothing like growing up under threat of enemy invasion to forge an unshakable sense of patriotism. I used to imagine sitting on the roof of our house with a machine gun, picking off helmeted German soldiers as they came down our driveway. But when we took the oath of citizenship in the Masonic Auditorium, I could not bring myself to say the words “I will bear arms against all enemies.” (Was anyone watching to see if my lips were moving?) I pledged allegiance to the flag, but in truth, it was another red, white, and blue banner that still had my heart.

Where is home now that I am a U.S. citizen? Yesterday on the radio someone spoke of the primaries in Michigan and Florida, and I found myself repeating the names in my head — Michigan and Florida — and I started to cry. This is my country now.

Clare Cooper Marcus
Berkeley, California

When the U.S. invaded Iraq in March 2003, I took leave from my middle-management job, brought a folding chair and a hand-scrawled sign down to the Federal Building, and fasted for peace for one week.

I wasn’t alone. There were other antiwar protesters on the sidewalk with me, and support-the-troops counterdemonstrators across the street in front of the bank. At first I seethed at our opponents, whom we called the “pro-war people.” Then came John, carrying his three-foot-high sign that read, “Peace,” in neat block letters. John lived in a one-room cabin in the woods and walked into the city every day, two hours each way, to take part in the protests. A Korean War veteran, he visited the protesters across the street, chatting with a fierce-looking man with a beret, mirrored sunglasses, and a chest full of medals.

Following John’s example, I sought out this veteran, whose name was Tim, and I offered to buy him coffee. He declined and offered to buy me a cup instead. I turned him down because of my fast, but an unlikely mutual admiration grew between us, and we crossed the street several times a day to talk.

As the week wore on and tensions rose, Tim came over to read me the poem “The Soldier Fights.” A group of antiwar protesters surrounded him and demanded to know what he was doing on “our” side of the street. Tim snapped back at them, and I had to step in to break up the shouting match. The antiwar protesters walked away while Tim and I shook hands.

Minutes later the opposite sidewalk was wild with shouting and pushing. Tim got in the middle and broke up an argument between his crew and a veteran for peace. Afterward he crossed over and said to me, “I’ve got to go. I can’t take it anymore.” His mouth twisted. “I hate this war. I cry about it every night.” Tears rolled from beneath his sunglasses. He had to do something to support the troops, he said, to keep from going insane, and I held him while he sobbed.

Bob Hicks
Clearlake, Washington

I was raised in Gdańsk, Poland, cradle of Solidarity, the noncommunist trade-union federation. My parents worked in the shipyards, and I grew up surrounded by a spirit of opposition to the government, the ruling Communist Party, and the ominous, controlling presence of the Soviet Union. Strikes and demonstrations were commonplace, but they were often quashed by militarized police. While exports flowed freely across the eastern border into the USSR, the Polish people had to live with food stamps and shoe stamps and even, at times, school-notebook stamps.

When I was seven, my mother and I went for a “walk.” Our real mission was to steal the all-red Communist flags that had been hung for the annual May 1 government-orchestrated demonstrations. (We let the white-and-red Polish flags stay.) At home my mother turned these flaming symbols of communism into kitchen aprons, garage curtains, and frilly tablecloths.

I believe that theft is wrong, but I am proud of my mother’s small and creative method of civil disobedience.

Kalina Klamann
Reseda, California

We had just picked up the tuxedos for my wedding when Paul, my soon-to-be father-in-law, turned around to take a look at my best man, Ken, and me in the back seat. After a long pause, he asked if we thought that any of the countries we had visited while in the Peace Corps was better than the United States.

It was a difficult question to answer. Between the two of us, Ken and I had traveled in thirteen countries and experienced their rich customs and hospitality. We’d also seen the U.S. through the eyes of their people.

Paul, on the other hand, had left the U.S. only twice in his entire life: once to spend a day or two in Mexico, and another time to see his daughter (my future wife) in Morocco. Both times he’d longed to return home as soon as possible. It wasn’t that he hated other nationalities or ethnicities — he was kind and welcoming to everyone he met, no matter where they were from or how they looked. He just knew that America was “number one,” and if you didn’t love it, you’d better leave it.

The fact that Ken and I paused to contemplate our answers was enough for Paul. “That’s ok,” he told us. “Your silence says it all.” We tried to explain, but he would have none of it. He was too hurt by our failure to tell him what he needed to hear.

Garrett M.
Pueblo, Colorado

While traveling in southern Spain, my husband and I decided to make an unplanned side trip to Morocco. Because we imagined the Islamic nation to be anti-American, we decided to tell people we were Canadians for the duration of our time there.

On a long train ride to Marrakech, we shared a compartment with a middle-aged Moroccan businessman who politely asked in English where we were from. We replied, “Canada,” in unison. Then he asked which city in Canada.

We hadn’t prepared for this question, so I let my husband answer and learned we were from Vancouver, British Columbia. Our new friend made a few disparaging remarks about Americans, saying that he found Canadians to be more agreeable and less pushy. We nodded and squirmed in our seats. He asked what kind of work we did in Canada. I told him truthfully that I was a mental-health therapist, and my husband, who works as a transportation planner, said that he solved problems involving port negotiations.

To our surprise our talkative seatmate worked in transportation, too, and he was eager to discuss the complexities of trade between Canadian and Moroccan ports. It was a long and agonizing trip full of dumbfounded looks, pleas of ignorance to simple questions, nervous laughter at jokes about our American president, and outright lies about Canadian politics. My husband and I arrived in Marrakech exhausted and agitated, our spirits dampened.

A few days later we told our story to an American of Moroccan descent. He laughed and said we’d misjudged Moroccans. “It’s not Americans they dislike,” he said. “It’s American leaders and their policies. The man you met would have loved to talk to a real American. Moroccans don’t often get the chance.” We haven’t lied about being Americans since.

Charlotte Finn
Portland, Oregon

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