I am holding my Danish passport in my hand; it is purple, the color of eggplants, with "DANMARK" printed in gold letters. It is about the size of an American passport, and contains the same identifying information about the bearer of the document: date and place of birth, height, weight, eye color and, of course, a photograph. Inside are several stamps that I got in foreign ports. The most important one, though, is the blue stamp issued at John F. Kennedy International Airport on March 3, 1988. That was the date I immigrated.
Eight-and-a-half years later a white envelope from the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) comes in my mailbox. As I suspect, it simply states that on Dec. 11, 1996, an INS officer wishes to interview me, give me an English test and a test of my knowledge of U.S.history and the Constitution. If I pass the tests, I can take the oath and become an American citizen. That is what I wanted, right?
I did fill out the forms. I did sign the check for $95 on Independence Day. And I did check out the 100 sample test questions Rep. Smith's office sent me. All that was pretty academic. What I am struggling to understand is the full emotional consequences of giving up my Danish citizenship.
In his book "Immigration in America," Maldwyn Allen Jones wrote: "In leaving their homelands, immigrants sometimes discovered that they had ceased to belong. We have become strangers, declared the Norwegian-born novelist, Ole Rolvaag, to fellow immigrants in Minnesota in 1911, strangers to the people we forsook, and strangers to the people we came to. Old identities were often difficult to exchange for new ones. Coming to America often proved an exhilarating rebirth, but it also entailed sacrifices -- usually of language, sometimes of name, nearly always of a former self."
Coming to America indeed proved an exhilarating rebirth for me, for unlike millions of emigrants (one must be an emigrant, movement out of, before becoming an immigrant, movement into) who uproot themselves in search of a job, a place to put down a mattress and food for their children, I came for the love of a man.
Leaving behind family, friends and job at the age of 38, the sacrifices were many, yet unrealized, when I prepared for the "Big Day" in a state of happy craziness. On the other side of the Atlantic, my husband was busy preparing, too. He had a job and a place for us to live, so I sat back and enjoyed the eight-hour trans-Atlantic flight as best I could with a fragile heirloom vase in my carry-on clenched between my legs.
But the honeymoon ended as honeymoons do. Three weeks and a work permit later, I found a job. And that is when I realized that even though I am a WASP incarnate (or more correctly, a WAS as I reject religion), I am different. My attempts to simply blend in at the office were unsuccessful because every time I spoke someone would exclaim, "I detect an accent. Where are you from?" In the beginning I was flattered. Their questions gave me a chance to talk about my beloved Denmark and to enlighten geographically challenged Americans about the tiny archipelago queendom on top of Germany. Later it became a nuisance when I simply wanted to take care of business.
Oddly enough, as the years went by and my English became more fluent and my accent less pronounced, I had my first experiences with xenophobia. One was particularly hurtful as the xenophobe challenged my right to an education despite the fact that I am a legal resident alien and as such have the same rights as an American, except that I cannot vote, serve on a jury and work for the federal government. The episode made me think that if I could just lose my accent, nobody would know I was not a native-born American. Besides, it had gotten increasingly more difficult for me to carry on a meaningful conversation in Danish if I were put on the spot at a chance meeting with a fellow Dane. I do not master American-English, and I no longer master my mother tongue, Danish. That turned out to be the gravest sacrifice I had to pay; a sacrifice that placed me in a void similar to what Jones describes as "ceasing to belong." Instead of one full language, I now have two half ones.
I sent for the naturalization papers when Congress proposed the immigration bill. That bill takes away social security for legal immigrants who have worked and paid taxes; makes deportable any legal resident who needs welfare for more than 12 months; denies medical treatment to and makes depeortable any legal resident with the HIV virus. Fear, therefore, was the overall motivating factor.
The soul searching began. Did I want to stay in the United States? Yes. Could I, would I return to Denmark? No. I felt like a traitor. Reluctantly, I told my friends in Denmark that I was contemplating becoming an American citizen. I feared their reactions. Would they disavow me? Would they whisper among themselves that I had become "storsnudet" (arrogant) and denied my roots? So far their reactions have been mixed. They range from the unequivocally supportive to the "tror du ikke du vil fortryde det senere?" (Don't you think you'll regret it later?)
I wish I knew.
On Dec. 11 I will know more. I will know how I react when I hand over my purple Danish passport to the immigration officer who, in turn, will send it to the Danish Consulate General in New York City as notification of my defection.
I will know more the next time I visit Denmark carrying a blue American passport. A passport is much more than just a travel document; it is proof of identity. Who am I? I used to identify myself as Danish. Now I identify myself as Danish-American. Will I ever identify myself as simply American? Update: April 10, 1997
I showed up for the test at the INS regional office in Cherry Hill on December 11, 1996 prepared to answer questions and to take the oath. The waiting room seemed all prepared for the big ceremony, a miniature mint-green Lady Liberty placed in one corner. A steady stream of people took their seats waiting to be called. An INS officer called my name, and with jelly in my knees I stepped into his office.
The written test consisted of writing two sentences. One was, I drive my car to work and the other one was The money is in the bank. (How American, I thought to myself and relaxed). While I was answering questions like, What are the colors of the American flag? and Who is governor of the State of New Jersey? The officer explained to me that I would not be allowed to take the oath that day thanks to the Republicans in Congress over the alleged large number of immigrants that had been naturalized. They had claimed that the Justice Department, playing politics before the election, naturalized immigrants so that they could vote for Clinton. Besides, the argument went, the process was sped up to the detriment of thorough FBI background checks, resulting in some people with criminal records becoming naturalized. So, I had to go back up to the waiting room and tell my all dressed-up husband that we would have to do it all over again some other day, probably one month later. February 1, 1997 turned out to be the day that I finally took the oath. We set out on a crisp Saturday morning with 346 other people bearing exotic names from all over the world. We came in all shades of pink and brown, but the unifying characteristics were our abated breaths, shivering hands, and pounding hearts, realizing this was it. We could still have changed our minds and run out as fast as we could, but everyone seemed determined, encouraged by the many smiling friends and family members who had come to share this important moment in our lives. We acknowledged the flag and shed a tear over America the Beautiful. Then, a local judge swore us in and welcomed us to the ranks of the millions of people who had come before us. He reminded us that we are expected to become productive citizens, concerned enough about the future of this country that we vote with a passion. Do I feel differently now? Not really. I still count and do math in Danish; I still have to spell my name; and I still have to account for my accent now and again. What IS different is that when President Clinton gets up and starts a speech with the words, My fellow Americans, I feel I belong here. It has been a long time since I took my first baby-steps here, and the man I did it all for says, Youve come a long way, baby!Copyright 1997 Jette Englund Smith. All Rights Reserved.