Becoming American
The emotional and physical process of a Canadian family becoming American citizens
By Sara Bourgeau
My mother has always been the rock of our family. She stayed cool, calm and collected in times when the rest of us were panicked. But as we sat side by side, watching Gordon Ramsay yell at a cook on the small television above us, I noticed my mom’s knee bouncing with nerves. We watched people get called into the immigrations office for their citizenship test. I wondered why it was taking so long for our number to be called.
“We should have been in there by now,” she said, checking her watch for the eighth time.
My family received our green cards in 2008. We kept them for as long as possible, not feeling the need to becomes citizens quite yet. But in 2015, it was vital.
My family is originally from Quebec, Canada. In early 2006, my dad was offered a job in Redmond, Washington, which meant moving our entire family across the continent. That summer, we made the move.
We lived in the States legally with work and student visas. In 2008, we made the decision that Washington would be our new home. We applied for and received green cards. This legally gave us the right to stay in the United States but limited our rights so we could not vote.
In June of 2015, my dad decided it was our time to become U.S. citiznes when Donald Trump announced his run for presidency. We wanted to vote in the upcoming election. We wanted to participate in the democracy we had lived in for nearly 12 years.
The next April, we sent in our four applications. But we sent them in too late to be able to vote in the 2016 elections. My family watched, helpless, as the votes were counted.
As it was announced Donald Trump would become the 45th president of the United States, my dad sent a text to my brother and me.
“Don’t worry. Nothing will change. We’re still okay here.”
The moment we sent in our applications, we began preparing for the citizenship test. There were 100 questions total ranging from American history to governmental organization. For the test, they would ask us a maximum of 10 randomly selected questions out of the 100. We figured it would be best to know the answers to all 100 than take any chances.
My family became increasingly anxious as we waited for the next letter announcing our interview date. Living in Bellingham so close to the border, there were times Alex and I wanted to take day trips to Vancouver with our friends. We never did. Our mom was afraid if we crossed the border, we wouldn’t be able to come back. A fear which seemed ridiculous to us, was all too real for her.
People asked me why I would choose to become American during this time when many joked about moving to Canada. I always responded with the same thing: to vote and help make a change.
Our fears heightened as deals and negotiations between Canada’s Prime Minister Justin Trudeau and President Trump heated. In one of Trump’s infamous tweets, he called Canada a national security threat. My family nervously laughed it off and hoped nothing would come out of it.
In the fall of 2018, we got the letter. On October 11 at 10:30 a.m. we would have our interview and citizenship test. If we passed both, we would become naturalized citizens.
As we got closer to that date, my parents called us every other day, quizzing us, making sure we were prepared.
At the immigrations office, we were greeted by a two-hour wait. Time slowly ticked by. The rows of plastic chairs lining the room were filled with people. One by one, they were called to conduct their interviews. At around noon, they called my name. My mom squeezed my hand and wished me good luck.
Knees shaking, heart beating quickly, I followed the immigrations officer into his office. I sat down expecting a stern interrogation. I was prepared for the worst.
“What was the name of the war that happened during the 1900s?” he asked.
My mind drew a blank. I sat for moment as the immigrations officer stared at me, waiting for my reply. I began to panic, my heart beating faster. I was terrified of letting my family down after such a long time. It was a question I should have known the answer too. It was so simple.
After what felt like an hour of waiting, but in reality was only about a minute, I suddenly spurted out, “World War II!” I must have yelled the answer because the immigrations officer looked startled. After the initial setback, I immediately knew the answers to the rest of his questions. Thanks to the persistence of my parents, I passed the interview and test.
I was the first back out into the waiting room. Knowing how long and hard my family had prepared for this, I had no doubt they would pass. A few minutes later, Alex came out smiling. Soon after, my parents returned. The weight of stress they carried for years began to melt away. We all passed. We could all vote. We were all Americans.
In the afternoon, we attended our oath ceremony. We were four of approximately 750,000 people to naturalize that year. This was the highest amount of people to naturalize since 2013, according to the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services.
Sending in my ballot for the first time was incredibly satisfying. I didn’t feel helpless anymore. I could finally show off my “I voted!” sticker and be proud I actually voted. To think there are millions of citizens who do not use their ability to vote still baffles me to this day.
While I am excited to be a dual citizen and embrace Washington as my home, I never forget where I come from. A month after becoming a citizen, I got my first tattoo, a maple leaf on my upper thigh.
It was something I always wanted and planned for many years. I knew I wanted my first tattoo to be meaningful. I wanted something to always remind me of where I was born. To remind me I now had two homes.
As I walked into the tattoo parlor, I wasn’t nervous. I didn’t have any doubt. I laid in the chair as the needle began to pierce my skin with ink, not thinking about the pain. Confident in myself and my place in this country.