JULES HOEPTING
Design Editor
I am an immigrant to America.
You probably wouldn’t have guessed it by looking at my white skin and hearing my western New York State accent, but it’s true.
I have always been officially Canadian, but I have been unofficially American for as long as I can remember.
When I was 18 months old, my just-out-of-graduate school single mother decided to leave Canada and head for the states to take a job as a vegetable specialist for Cornell Cooperative Extension. A lucky landing, but still a scary jump to take.
Because of that jump, however, I grew up in America. I think of Thanksgiving as being in November instead of October. I think in Fahrenheit. I look in my wallet and expect to find pennies, non-color-coded bills and an absence of two-dollar coins.
My memories of Canada consist of visits to my grandparents’ farm, going on camping trips and hiking the Rocky Mountains. I am a proud Canadian, and that may be because I don’t know the country’s flaws well enough; I like to use Canada’s stereotypical “nice” reputation as a scapegoat for the things I don’t like about America.(Those negative depictions of Americans being arrogant and entitled and saying “Huh?” and “What?” a lot? Doesn’t apply to me; I’m Canadian, which means I am inherently polite and say “Pardon” and “Sorry” a lot).
From 2009 to 2019, I was a permanent resident of the United States of America, which meant I held a green card. Green cards remain valid for 10 years before you have to renew them; after holding a green card for five years, you have the option of applying to become an American citizen if you are 18 or older. Once you become a citizen, you do not have to renew your citizenship.
When 2019 came around, I had no idea where I wanted to end up living permanently. I wanted to keep my options open, so I decided to apply to become an American citizen rather than renew my permanent residency.
Depending on your circumstances, it can be extraordinarily difficult to be eligible to become a citizen. Factors such as your skill sets and if you have family or a spouse in the U.S. heavily determine how easy it is to obtain citizenship. Because I was a white Canadian whose mother was asked to work in the country for her specialized knowledge in onion crop research, it wasn’t all that hard for me.
The first step in the process is filling out the Application for Naturalization form, the N-400, to U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. The form can easily be found online.
Questions consisted of expected things like your name, your address, information about your spouse, your children, your parents, etc. The form asks for the specific dates of every time you left the country within the last five years.
Questions consisted of unexpected things, like if you ever killed someone, if you were a part of a terrorist organization and if you’ve ever been involved in the Communist Party or any other totalitarian party. The form specifically asks you if you worked for or were associated with the the Nazi government of Germany between March 23,1933 and May 8,1945.
Once the form was all processed, the USCIS sends you a paper letter and an email of when you need to go to the local office to take your test. Luckily for me, the closest location was in Buffalo, only an hour away.
The test was easy. There were 100 potential questions they could ask you which you were provided with to study ahead of time. You were given 10 questions and had to answer six correctly. The difficulty ranged from “What is the name of the President of the United States now” to “When was the Constitution written?” (it’s 1787, not 1776).
As for the reading test, you had to read one of three sentences correctly. For the writing test, you had to write one of three sentences correctly.
To prove I could write in English, I had to write the sentence “Citizens can vote.” Seriously.
My initial thought was that the test was too easy. How does writing three common words prove I can write in English? But as soon as I thought about the immigrants who had to learn English as a second language, I became more sympathetic. If applicants got to the testing portion of naturalization, they most likely understood English decently. Being a person of monolingualism, I have no place to diminish those who are even partly bilingual.
Once my testing was complete, the proctor told me I had passed. I asked him about something suspicious I had read while signing documents; that I was going to give up my Canadian citizenship. I asked him if I could be a dual Canadian-American citizen, and his response was that I was a dual citizen in Canada, but only an American citizen in America.
That bothered me. It still bothers me. Why can’t I simultaneously be Canadian and American? Especially when dual citizenship is allowed in numerous other countries. The single-citizenship policy seems to be coming from a place of ego: from pride on a pedestal.
Another letter and email were sent. On Sept. 26, 2019, I was set to attend a naturalization ceremony in the auditorium of Erie Community College in Buffalo. I was a part of over 100 immigrants who were going to say the Naturalization Oath of Allegiance to the United States of America.
We waited in line, handed in our green cards and were given a thick envelope filled with citizen swag: a registration form for voting, a registration form for a passport, a book about the constitution and a letter “from” President Donald Trump. The president assured us that “all Americans [were] now [our] brothers and sisters” and that “when [we] pledged [our] heart[s] to America, [America would return] her love and loyalty to [us].”
It wasn’t until I was in the auditorium that it occurred to me becoming an American citizen was a huge moment for a lot of people. I went to the ceremony by myself; I sat in a chair surrounded by strangers seated with their significant others. Workers of the ceremony went around, ensuring everyone received registration forms for voting. Permanent residents could not vote, but citizens can; they wanted to make sure we knew. Workers went around, accepting the filled-in forms.
After everyone had trickled in, there were opening remarks followed by a patriotic song performed by — I kid you not — a quartet of old white men. A living stereotype. They sounded quite good, though.
One by one, announcers listed the names and countries the new Americans were originally from. Each person who was announced walked to the front of the auditorium, accepted their certificate of citizenship, took a picture and walked back to their seat. The atmosphere was supportive, patriotic. A few more speeches were given. Then all the new Americans joined the quartet to sing the national anthem that I already knew by heart.
We all dispersed. I drove back to the Fredonia campus.
When I got back, I proceeded to utilize my citizen envelope “goodie bag.”
I applied for an American passport.
When I received that passport, my place of birth was written-in as “Canada.” Not “Newmarket, ON, Canada,” just “Canada.” The specifics of where I was born doesn’t really matter — I have no connection to Newmarket, anyhow. But, by omitting even the province, the U.S. is reducing where people are from to just the county. Being from New York State isn’t the same thing as being from Texas, is it?
Again, it doesn’t really matter; it’s just a whiff of ethnocentric perfume. And mind you, many countries wear the same perfume.
In addition to a passport, I registered for mail-in voting, so that I could vote easily while on campus.
I figured that if I wanted to critique the U.S., I ought to utilize my right to vote — even if my singular vote doesn’t mean much statistically.
I figure, if my vote means as much as a penny does to a millionaire, at least I can say I gave a penny for my thoughts.