By Arlette Torres
In 2006, I completed an application to become a U.S. citizen.
The process worked like this: I petitioned, was approved to undergo an interview at an immigration and naturalization center and received a date
to appear before an officer, who would decide whether I was fit to be a citizen of the U.S.A. Or not.
I do approach certain things very seriously and this one qualified,
which means I became magnificently obsessed.
I learned I would be tested on history, law and basic constitutional topics.
I bought every guide you can imagine. I studied for weeks with great fervor.
My boyfriend quizzed me relentlessly.
At my request, friends peppered me with random questions.
I mastered the damn thing.
Finally, the date came. I was ready. I had this.
My boyfriend drove us—early— to the interview. But for some reason,
he seemed tense. Nervous. Edgy.
“What’s the matter? You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good. Are you ready?”
“Me? You kidding? Of course I’m ready. You look more nervous
than me and I’m the one on the slab.”
“Well yeah, I’m nervous.”
“Why?”
“Because. I know you!”
“What does that mean?”
“I know you, Arlette. I know how you are with authority
and I know you’ll say something that’s gonna get you deported on the spot!”
“Please. Get the fuck out. I would never do that. Just breathe. Jesus.”
He didn’t calm down but he did make it safely to the place.
We parked. I got out. He stayed in the truck.
“You coming?”
“Yeah. Just give me a few minutes to relax. I’ll meet you inside.”
I walked in, registered, took a seat among a sea of diverse
human specimens and waited.
Was I nervous? Sure. I was also excited. Pumped. Happy. Ready.
Until officer Davis appeared and called my name.
If you were casting a Western and needed someone to play a sober and law abiding Rooster Cogburn, officer Davis would be it.
He was about 60, sported a military flat top buzz and in contrast, a huge handlebar moustache, yellowed at the curls. Not too tall…maybe 5’11.
Big Texas belt buckle. Booming voice. Liquid, cerulean blue eyes.
The man looked as if he hadn’t smiled since Johnson had turned over
the reins.
I followed Davis into his office, sat down and looked around.
The walls were covered with military posters, awards, certificates, diplomas. Lots of Texas themed décor. Eagles. Helmets. “Semper Fi” in fine calligraphy.
Davis, as expressionless as a heavily sedated man, took a seat at his desk and opened a thick dossier in front of him. I mean, thick. Was it all on me? What was in it? Maybe stuff I didn’t even know or remember. Oops.
“Officer, is that dossier mine?”
“Yes it is.”
“Wow. That’s huge.”
“We are diligent. Okay. Let’s start. I’m going to ask you
a series of questions on a variety of topics.
I will evaluate your answers and all pertinent information.
You will receive a letter in approximately two weeks,
informing you of our decision on your petition.”
Well. The man was, if nothing else, expedient.
He looked down and began asking what I thought were
mundane and factual questions about…me.
Not about history or the constitution or anything
I had studied with great gusto. Just stuff about…me.
I answered respectfully and to the best of my recollection.
But I was starting to get frustrated. Impatient. Restless.
When was he going to start asking me about presidents and constitutional articles and events and dates? I had studied so hard, damn it.
Every fucking day.
I could have been drinking bourbon at Bluestem with my friends, but no. I was home naming 30 presidents, their cabinets
and their mistresses.
Then it happened. Officer Davis asked me a series of questions
that set me off. I thought briefly about what my boyfriend had said.
“You’re gonna say something that’s gonna
get you deported on the spot!”
Fuck it. I am who I am. Let’s get this done.
“Have you ever conspired against the United States of America.”
“No, sir.”
“Are you a member of any organization that has conspired to overthrow the government of the United States of America.”
“No. Sir.”
“Are you a member of the Communist party?”
“No. Sir. Officer.”
“Are you a member of the Nazi party?”
“No.”
“Have you ever committed a crime on American soil for which you were never caught?”
“No. Sir.” What kind of Mickey Mouse bullshit question was that?!
“Are you willing to take up arms to defend the United States of America?”
“YES. I. AM. AND I AM A GREAT SHOT. OFFICER.”
Davis slowly raised his head and looked up.
No smile. No expression.
Watery, cerulean blue eyes staring blankly at me.
Without missing a beat, he asked:
“Pistol or rifle?”
Before I could think, I spoke.
“PICK. YOUR. WEAPON. OFFICER.”
Dammit. My boyfriend was right.
I was going to get deported on the spot.
But instead of cuffing me, officer Davis cracked a smile.
A massive smile.
“Miss Torres. We need more people like you in this country.
God knows we do. I’m going to ask you some questions about
history, constitution, law and we’ll be done.”
“Yes, officer.”
“By the way, you lived in Texas. I’m from Texas. What do you think about people in Kansas City who think they have the best BBQ in the country?”
“Well, I kinda feel sorry for them. They don’t know any better.
And they obviously haven’t had Rudy’s. Texas BBQ is the best.”
Officer Davis winked, laughed and agreed. After the interview,
he stood up, wrapped me in a sincere hug and sent me off with warm gusto.
I don’t remember much else about that day, except that I would add it to the many near-miss moments of my gypsy life.
EPILOGUE
Officer Davis approved my petition. I became a U.S. citizen.
In spite or because of who I am. I don’t know.
All I know is, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be me, than right here.
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