Citizen Khooler

Some of you are already familiar with this piece of news, but for the rest of you, the once green-card carrying co-head of the Khooler household is no longer a citizen of far-off Malaysia, and is instead now a regular old passport-carrying citizen of the USA. It didn't happen in time for the last election, unfortunately, but I have helped him find solace in the fact that there is always some loopy home-brewed initiative on the ballot each November (democracy runs rather amok in these parts) to practice on. Hooray!

The ceremony was last Wednesday. The girls sported festive, matching red jumpers (more another time on the sudden and inexplicable onset of a desire to dress my girls in matching outfits), an effort to mark this as a special occasion, to get good behavior out of them, and to make them extra cute so as to garner indulgence from strangers in the event that part two of my plan didn't work out. We planned to get there early in case we had to wait in a long line for the security screening, as sometimes happens according to my insider sources. The event was scheduled to begin at 2. We arrived at about 1:30, breezed through the security screening, though Muriel's baby doll had to ride through the x-ray machine, and were promptly separated.

The girls and I went into the auditorium, while Jim went off to be processed. The room filled up slowly, and as it did, got warmer and warmer and hotter and hotter. More would-be citizens came in, more congratulatory watchers came in, more time passed. The kids were pretty good, then less good, more tired, hungrier, hotter, grouchier. The event refused to start.

I claim full responsibility for the terrible deterioration of our experience. I should have had treats and drinks and stickers and extra toys stuffed in the diaper bag. But I had been in a training all morning, that I just jumped out early of at the last possible moment to get in the car and go. I hadn't eaten lunch, myself, so I was a bit at the end of my rope as well. Even after the ceremony FINALLY started, almost an hour after it was supposed to, the situation was pretty wretched. And by wretched, I mean a three year old writhing on the ground wailing and begging can she please take off these tights they are so hot?! Wretched.

But then it wasn't. It was great. There were 114 people there to take the oath of citizenship, from 44 countries. Ancient elders, who needed help walking up to get their certificate, mothers with children sitting behind us in the gallery. The husband of the woman next to us, an Australian who waited ten years after his mother died to do something he knew would have broken her heart. During the part where everyone raised their hand for the oath, Muriel put hers up too. And when they called our Mr. Khooler up to the stage, Naomi shouted, "It's Daddy! Hi Daddy! Hi Daddy!" and everyone laughed, even the director.

There was a message from the President, some pledging of allegiance. And then, like a bad joke, the music video started. Oh yes they did. Proud to Be an American. gggggg. Rather than proud, I felt annoyed at myself that I have to have the eye-rolling reaction to this song in such a meaningful moment. But hey, they are doing it to me, playing this song! Why?!

Then I realized something- the thing that aggravates me so much about that song, and all the other artifacts that espouse a similar message of "pride" in nationality (read: bumper stickers) is that feeling proud of something implies to me some agency, some effort. In other words, it seems OK to me to say, I'm proud of this A+ in Physics (not me, you know, but someone), or I'm proud of this garden I planted, or this code I wrote, and so forth. But really, despite the seemingly enormous crowd of people becoming citizens in our city, in our corner of the country on a given Wednesday afternoon, the way most people become Americans, after a period of reflection and paperwork and tests known as GESTATION, is by coming out of their moms. Yes, even Barack Obama, crackpot lawsuit filers, became a citizen this way. Natural born!

So the idea that being born, not that it's not traumatic or whatever, constitutes an accomplishment of sorts that one might then sing ballads about or stick bumper stickers in honor of, that is what gets my goat a little when someone sings that particular song (though I know, that is not exactly what people mean when they hear it and love it and perform it on American Idol). You didn't do anything! Lucky to be an American, that should be the name of the song. But then- you have a room full of people, 114 people from 44 countries, for whom being an American actually is an accomplishment. It's decision, maybe a hard one, a journey, a process, a scrutiny, a measuring up. They are giving something up, leaving something behind. But the important part is that they are choosing.

In this context, the song was less goat-getting for me. All the more so when I noticed Muriel, about ten yards away from me, doing her distinctively awesome zombie penguin dance to the music while another ceremony witness videotaped her with his cell phone. We finally reunited with our new citizen, and the girls fell asleep in their car seats en route to the cheesy 50s diner where we all ate celebratory American food (and slurped an American milkshake, which made me even prouder to be an American). By the time we got home and put the girls to bed at the ridiculous hour of 6 pm, Jim was feeling well and truly citizen-ish. I'm proud of him, and really truly proud of our country for welcoming him. Thanks, USA!