Systemic Processes to Realizing the American Dream
Friday noon, and I am making my way to the Sandra Day O’Connor U.S. Courthouse, in Phoenix, Arizona. Located between Washington and Jefferson street, the glass building reflects the vast blue sky, filled with white clouds. The courthouse is picturesque, and stands in contradiction to the brown, drab building across the street. I enter through the glass doors and follow through the roped path to a security check. I am asked to remove all metal objects and place them on a basket, along with my phone and wallet, but to keep my state issued ID out. I am here for the naturalization ceremony, and aside from the irony of the Founding Fathers names plastered on the street signs, I wonder how many relatives could not be here to share this moment with the soon to become citizens of the United States of America, because they do not possess a valid form of identification.
As I enter the courtroom, I can hear Judge Burns’s voice speaking to the new inductees of the country in a peaked voice, as if adding some sort of interest to an already rehearsed and overused line on what a great privilege it must be for them, for us, and for her to be here today. Then she requests for a testimony from the soon-to-be American man, dressed sharply in his teal shirt and grey slack bottoms. He rises to the podium, and says:
“I am from Iraq, and while I love my home country, I cannot believe the day is here. I have waited so long. When I was in Iraq, I volunteered as a translator for the U.S. Army. Some of the people in my village would call me a traitor, but I knew that I wanted to serve for the side of justice. I cannot go into much detail about my experiences, because I want to serve in the armed forces again, but this time as true American. I risked my life then, and I am willing to risk my life again. When I came to the States in 2008, I did not know how long it would take for this day to come. This morning I woke up asking myself, “Could this be? Is the day finally here?” I carried a small American flag with me out in the war in Iraq that a soldier gave me, and I wave this flag proudly today, because finally I am an American.”
A roar of applause fills the room, with murmured “thank yous” to Mohammed. His smile matches the feeling in the room, happy and hopeful.
Next up to the podium is a woman of high stature, and long brown hair. Her name is Norma, and she begins to tell the story of why she chose to become a citizen, in her accented English:
“When I came to this country from Mexico, I did not feel the need to become a citizen. But after struggling very much in school, I knew I had to learn the language and become more American. I went to ESL classes. I began to do better in school. I have a son now, and I have a master’s degree in business management. I want my son to look up to me and know that I did this for him. He would tell me ‘Mama, I want you to have all the opportunities I have.’ Esto es para ti hijo (this is for you, son).”
The applause begin on cue, and Norma begins to tear up. Her face red. The people next to me begin to whisper that these are the type of stories that should be on the news. Stories of how people come to this country for better lives. As the couple next to me continues to whisper, I tune them out because a young Filipino woman has taken her turn on the microphone. Her name is May, and she begins to talk:
"Before I start, I want to say hello to my daughter who is watching me from the second floor of this room. She is wearing the same dress as me, she really wanted us to match today. High baby! I grew up in the Philippines, and I was very poor. I studied to be a nurse, but the jobs there were not very good. I met the man who is now my husband, and we came to the United States. When I was in the Philippines I was not very happy, and here I am very happy. I work at a hospital and know that I am making a difference in people’s lives. I love it. I want to someday visit the Philippines, and be able to show my daughter where her mom grew up. I came in 2011, and for the last six years I have felt valued, and appreciated. I thank my husband for his love. Thank you.”
Once May takes her seat, a man in a suit instructs all the people in the room to stand up for the pledge of allegiance. In unison everyone begins reciting the words to the flag, some know the rhythm by heart, and some are guided by the words on the flat screen monitors on each side of the room. Next is a moment of silence, followed by the National Anthem. As the song is chanted, I spot Mohammed waving his little flag proudly, with his smile still intact.
Judge Burns begins to speak again, and this time she starts by highlighting the same observation I had made - Mohammed’s smile. She notes how we must give people like Mohammed, that serve the country an opportunity to be a contributing, law abiding, legal, American citizen. She goes on a tangent on the prominence of supporting American soldiers and veterans. “Buy them a coffee, shake their hand, invite them to lunch, and say thank you. They are the reason we are able to celebrate this moment here today. ” she says. She continues to say that being in this country is a great privilege, and how each person must recognize. “Finally, something I can agree with,” I think to myself. As her speech winds down, she instructs everyone in the room to give their attention another gentleman.
The monitor begins with the American flag waving, and then to a shot of a National Park. The video is of a naturalization ceremony. Ethnic people of color take the leading roles in this short film. While this moment is supposed to signify happiness, I cannot help myself from fidgeting where I stand. The video is nauseating, and tasteless. We literally just experienced the same ceremony, and now are subjected to watch another ceremony on a screen. I suppose it is something to pass the time as the official citizenship certificates are being passed.
The video ends and the certificates are being handed out still. The man from earlier says on the microphone to double check the certificate for accurate information, and that each individual will have the opportunity to take a picture with the flag in just moments. He also reminds the new citizens of the country to not forget to visit the passport station downstairs once the ceremony concludes. He then proceeds to give other miscellaneous information, as family and friends begin to leave the courtroom. For such an organized practice, there is no real formal ending. People just start shuffling around and begin to take photographs.
The experience is a nice moment, but I cannot fully get into it. Perhaps it is my inability to partake in it, or perhaps I am jealous that I am not up there. I dismiss the thought of jealousy and conclude that it is my knowledge that does not let me enjoy the moment.
The war Mohammad speaks about would not have occurred if it were not for colonization, and its rippling effect for the many years to follow. The duality of his identity of Iraqi and American is something I do not admire. In a similar sense I face the same issues. But his noting of being on the side of justice, leaves much to be desired. America is a corporate, money monger, and hardly a heroic country. Norma is from Mexico, a country that lost much of its land in the Mexican-American war. Years later, people like Norma, must apply to reside on land that was once her people’s. Her assessment of opportunity fails to comprehend that because of her gender and brown skin, she will not have the same opportunities as a white male. I think about May’s statement of not making enough money in the Philippines, and I wonder if she is aware that her dress was probably made in a sweatshop by people in the same predicament she was in and probably making even less. I think the American Dream is a processed experience, and a facade at best. It is a farce that blankets a history of systemic oppression, in more ways than one.