Category: Memoir

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Naturalization

Five years ago today, I became a naturalized citizen of the United States. On the one hand, it was the final stop of a thirty-plus-year journey, well documented by diplomas, visas and passports. On the other hand, it marked the beginning of a new life, free of legal restrictions.

In New York City, an international city largely populated with immigrants, oath ceremonies are held weekly at multiple locations. To the officiating staff, they are more routines than special events. Still the room was filled with joy and excitement.

We were each given a package with a pocket-size U.S. Constitution, a letter from the President, a little Stars & Stripes flag and passport application forms. Each one of us had an assigned seat—just to ensure that we would be given the correct documents. Family members of the candidates were led to the back of the room. Everyone was dressed up. Some in the traditional costumes of their countries of origin; some in their Sunday best. Informational and patriotic documentary films were playing on a big screen as we waited for the ceremony to begin. There was not much communication amongst the attendees since we were total strangers until that morning.

Following brief introductory announcements from the staff and a video message from the President, we sang the National Anthem. I teared up a little. Before the oath, countries of origin for the candidates were introduced as we stood up. If I remembered correctly, I was the only one from Taiwan on that day. A judge of the High Court addressed my group, recalling the history of her own immigrant family. She wished us bright futures in our new country.

According to Merriam-Webster, one of the definitions for “naturalization” is: Of a non-native plant or animal: the process of becoming or the state of being established in the wild so that growth and reproduction is possible without human intervention.” I believe that the same should be true for human beings finding new lives in a foreign land. Being documented and certified is only part of naturalization. Living independently, freely and productively should be the defining element. I became a U.S. citizen after having lived here for years. The long process helped me to fully adapt to life in this country. For me, taking oath was simply to acknowledge my intention of continuing the journey. I came out of the ceremony with a sense of relief. Under the blue sky and shinning sun, I went straight to the nearest post office and applied for my U.S. passport.

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Boundless

I did not fully understand the word “boundless” until I moved to Illinois. On the Great Plains, miles and miles of farmland stretched across the horizon. Where the earth ended, the firmament would unfold.

In summer months, traveling a few miles from the center of University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign campus in any direction, one would be standing in the middle of corn fields. Crops packed tightly as if there wasn’t enough room for all of them. Their dark green stalks pointed straight to the sky with fat ears of fresh corn poking out from the sides. Surrounded by them, I always felt like a small child facing powerful green waves that would engulf me at any moment. Instead of providing shades and shelter, these tall plants generated immense energy.

Except for the devoted few, taking summer classes to get ahead, most students had fled the campus and the Midwest summer heat. During the day, high-school summer campers roamed the hallways. At night, I was often the only living soul in the window-less practice area. After a few hours, with the absence of the “Let’s-go-for-coffee” crowd, I would drive out to the fields, sitting there, allowing nature to show me its beauty.

Other than the perpetual tremolos from insects, the silence was palpable. Without artificial lights, the sky and the earth became one. High above were millions of stars calmly telling their ancient stories. Down around me were hundreds (thousands?) of fireflies searching for love. I was the tiny figurine in a globe surrounded by twinkling lights.

I am not good with constellations. Other than the Big Dipper, I hardly recognize anything on the astronomical chart. Yet, while mesmerized by the beauty of the natural planetarium and realizing how far the twinkling lights had been traveling, I began to understand the enormity of the universe. And, I, in comparison, trivial. All the things that happened from day to day became inconsequential.

I loved stormy nights even more. When it rains on the Great Plains, it pours. There is no place to hide and no place to go. I would be sitting in the car in total darkness. Water would be gushing down my windshield. Lightnings lit up the sky all around me, accompanied by the booming and crackling sounds of thunders. No stage designer could have planned better light shows. Could I have produced more exciting sounds with my hands?

After moving to the city, I traded starlight with city lights—brighter and more colorful. My first apartment was on the thirty-fifth floor of a high-riser, overlooking the Hudson River and Midtown West. At night, the water would be tinted by lights from boats, small and large. Millions of lights shone through offices and homes, each telling a different story. Neon signs forced their messages to me and others. Still, I missed starry nights from years past. I treasure the memories of those beautiful nights, never want to let them go but always want to share them.