A few days after the election (thank goodness PE Obama did not need my vote), I finally received the letter with the date for my citizenship interview: Thursday, Dec. 11 (yesterday). The timing was about as bad as it gets: in the middle of finals week. But what can you do? You don't say no to "La Migra" unless you absolutely have to. So, along with grading Blue Books, I had to cram for the civics test (the number 435 [Congressional Districts] will stick forever in my head). Miraculously, Thursday was the only day I had no exam scheduled, so at least I didn't have to arrange for a substitute and explain to a freaked-out department chair (it's her first semester in that capacity after the old one suddenly died) where I was going. Follow me below to see how it went.
The first thing that greeted me at the USCIS office was a sign saying that the X-ray machine (like the ones at the airport) was out of order. Instead, I had to dump out the content of my purse. I remembered from my last appointment that camera phones are forbidden in there, so I had left my cell phone in my glove box. Everything else, however, was out in the open for all to see. The male officer was visibly uncomfortable with touching my tampons, even though they were still wrapped. After I had walked through the metal detector, which for once did not beep, I was sent to the waiting room along with all the other members of the "huddled masses yearning to be free."
The USCIS waiting room is a paradise for people watchers. Of course, as far as clothing is concerned, winter in South Texas is always interesting in that respect. One can see short-sleeved shirts, winter attire, and everything in between. A favorite San Antonio winter get-up consists of fleece jacket, ski hat, shorts, and flip-flops, and it is mandatory that at least one article of clothing has the Spurs logo on it. One lady had taken the advice "dress up for the interview" one step too far and wore gold slippers and a cocktail dress (I swear I'm not making this up).
There were several American or permanent resident husbands with brand-new foreign wives applying for Green Cards. One English-looking young bride had a see-through bag that revealed all the crap that USCIS asks permanent residency applicants to bring: electric bills, letters of recommendation, notarized copies of one's birth certificate (at least hers didn't have to be translated), etc. etc.
A cheerful Nigerian announced that he had "found himself a wife," obviously from his home country. The poor thing didn't get a word in edgewise.
There was a young Mexican couple with a pompous WASP attorney, as well as a few college-age looking citizenship applicants.
After a delay of forty-five minutes (during which I did not dare to go to the restroom), my name was called and (as usual) butchered. The officer (or whatever they are called) conducting my interview was a huge middle-aged African American man (if he were an actor, he would be cast as a cop or a football coach) who obviously considered himself the resident comedian. His jokes were so lame that they need not be repeated, but at least he was friendly, which was encouraging.
In his office, he spent a few long minutes rummaging my file for my birth certificate, all the while singing the line "I get no kicks from cocaine" over and over. When I stated my marital status as "divorced," he high-fived me.
The test itself was first-grade level, but I had to focus hard to understand the guy. While his credentials on the wall where from Chicago and Wisconsin, his accent was from much farther South (think mouth stuffed with handkerchiefs).
Finally, after I had sworn that I was not a member of the Communist Party (I'm too young to be an original Nazi and too white to be an Islamist terrorist, so he didn't go there), he approved my application, saying that if I waited a while longer, he could get me an appointment for the Oath Ceremony right away. I was led back to the waiting room, and I now know how my dog feels when no one has time to walk him.
The cheerful football coach lookalike, accompanied by a short, bald white guy who resembled the cutmen in boxing movies, returned after another thirty minutes with the letter for the Oath Ceremony, which is to take place next Thursday. It includes a form on which I have to swear that I haven't joined the Communist Party or done other questionable things (all listed) since my interview. It also says that "appropriate attire" (coat and tie for men, dresses for women) is mandated. It did not say anything specific about footwear, though.
So, next Thursday I shall be magically transformed into an American. Does that mean that I will suddenly prefer football over soccer? Will I suddenly hate the French (Tony Parker excepted)? Will I drink beer from a can? Will I eat chicken fried steak? Stay tuned.