(How to become an American … the hard way)

Late last week, one of the best people I know became an American citizen. So, once he was on our team, I did the patriotic thing: I turned him in to the NSA.

It was the first time I’d ever attended a citizenship swearing-in ceremony, if you don’t count one extremely social après-football event in college that I’m still advised not to discuss. (I dimly remember that uniforms were involved then, too … though not much civics.)

Since I’d never been to one, I had no idea what to expect. I wasn’t even sure what one wears as the guest of a fledgling citizen. My new American friend was wearing a tie for his big day, but if you know me at all, you know that wasn’t happening. As a rule, if you see me sporting a tie, you can be sure that one of three things is happening:

1)    I’m up for parole
2)    I’m in an ornate room filled with sniffling people, lots of flowers, and an expensive oblong box
3)    I’m in the box

I compromised. And me and my matching socks drove into town, soon pulling in to the offices of the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services.

As it turns out, I’d seen the USCIS building before – it was right across the street from the Post Office (as an independent author, I’m constantly running by the Post Office to not pick up royalty checks). The parking lot was packed – apparently, there were still lots of potential citizens who hadn’t gotten the memo about the “discount” citizenship plan: sneaking into the country.

Assuming you’ve managed to park, the first thing you see inside the USCIS building is an airport. Or you would think. Cold counters, id checks. Gray trays and black bowls to hold your keys, your wallet, your belt, your remote detonators. Conveyor belt X-ray machines and walk-through metal detectors. Armed, uniformed guards with unblinking lizard eyes and a sense of humor like Hitler in a bunker. The only thing missing were the infamous TSA pat-downs, but here in the South, that could be misconstrued as a marriage proposal.

Taped to the counter was a “don’t even think about it” list of things you’re not supposed to bring to a swearing-in; you know, box cutters, socks that explode, bomb-fused Fruit-of-the-Looms, stuff like that. Topping the list: knives with blades less than two-and-a-half inches. I guess it’s okay to prance around USCIS with a cavalry sword, or a scimitar, or a large pointy stick. (In fact, Joe Biden does it all the time. In a loincloth. And stiletto heels.)

After retrieving our wallets and detonators, we were ushered into an overfilled, pending-citizen-packed room, where we were greeted by two USCIS employees whose names, I think, were “Officer Lady” and “The Suit.” The nearly-Americans were seated in a center clutch of chairs, and the families and guests filled the chairs, walls, and the rest of the room.

At the front of the room was a nondescript lectern, a really bored table, and two American flags. Mounted to the wall between the flags were two large-screen TVs, both made by Sharp, and both inexplicably displaying “Samsung” in giant letters on the screen. Adorning a side wall were government-issue framed photos of occasionally-president Barack Obama, ex-cabineteer Janet Napolitano, and some solemn balding guy I didn’t recognize…maybe he’s the federal drone in charge of teaching federal security guards how to not blink for eight straight hours. On the near wall were the school cafeteria-style doors through which we’d all entered, and on the far wall, a single emergency exit door. Glued to the door was a bright red warning: THIS DOOR IS ALARMED.

I thought that was a very honest attitude for the door to have. After all, the first step toward recovery is admitting you have a problem.

Given the lack of seating, I stood there along the far wall, next to the edgy exit, until Officer Lady “suggested” I not block that door. I, of course, immediately obeyed, since I am an unquestioning admirer of authority figures, and since she was armed.

After a short wait, the ceremony officially began. Officer Lady welcomed everyone and then reached for … well, nothing. Apparently, some USCIS underling had forgotten to set out some of Officer Lady’s props on the lectern. (These “where’s my thingie” miscues happened about five times during the course of the forty-five-minute event. Normally, this is a level of incompetence reserved for the IRS.)

Officer Lady made it through the prelims, and then Mr. Suit took the podium. But before he could really get rolling, he was interrupted by somebody’s family member who wanted to know if Mr. Suit was from the “Stone Hill” area, ’cause the interrupter knows lots of people by that name, up there in the Stone Hill area. Fortunately, we got back on track after one of the other guests stabbed the disrupter with a scimitar.

Mr. Suit then announced that one of the traditions in this USCIS branch was a little something they liked to call the “Country Call-Off.” Mr. Suit would read off the home country of each new American, and that citizen-to-be would stand up and be recognized.

Sadly, though, somebody had forgotten to pre-load the podium with the list of countries.

Brave Mr. Suit pushed on. He had everyone watch a “short presentation” titled “Faces of America,” which seemed mostly to be a 100-year collage of arguments for good dental care. Then he had everyone watch a “short presentation” by Barack Obama, which went well until the President misread his in-screen teleprompter cues and actually said, out loud, “Pause. Bite lip.” Finally, Mr. Suit had everyone watch a “short presentation” of Lee Greenwood singing what is, apparently, the only song Lee Greenwood knows.

Finally, with a majestic federal underling flourish, Mr. Suit held high the stack of official US citizenship certificates, causing the entire crowd to almost stop texting. But before distributing the docs, Mr. Suit had to ferry the citizens-on-deck through a litany of “a form and a fee” disclaimers. To get a replacement certificate, there’d be a form and a fee. To register their children, there was a form and a fee. To apply for a passport, there’d be a form and a fee, and passport applications can be processed at any US Post Office.

Well, said Mr. Suit, any US Post Office except the one right across the street. That Post Office doesn’t accept USCIS certificates as valid ID.

Welcome to America.