America Is Still the Future
A love letter to my new country.
By Andrew ['ændru:] Sullivan/'sʌlivən/
By the time the court/kɔrt/opened, there were around two dozen of us in line, nervously/ˈnə..vəslɪ/ fiddling/'fɪdlɪŋ/with our official/o'fɪʃəl/papers. I was recovering from a brief but brutal/'brutl/stomach/'stʌmək/flu/flu/, which meant I hadn’t eaten in two days and had split/splɪt/open my lip in a mad, half-asleep rush to the bathroom two nights before. Ashen/'æʃən/-white, I looked like I’d just been punched/pʌntʃt/in the face.
They gave us all a number, handed us a packet, and instructed us not to take photographs after the judge walked in. A man in a shiny/'ʃaɪni/suit proceeded to entertain/ˌɛntɚ'ten/us intermittently/intə'mitəntli/for half an hour with some almost-funny jokes. And then, at long last, the judge walked in, we all stood up, and it began. Judge Mehta told us this was his favorite part of the job, and that he had immigrated/'ɪmɪɡret/to the U.S. from India as a child. A few weeks before, my naturalization/ˈnætʃərələˈzeʃən/interview had been with a man with an Arabic/'ærəbik/last name — and a Redskins/'redskin/helmet/'hɛlmɪt/on his cabinet/'kæbɪnət/. Standing around me now, my fellow newbie/'nubi/Americans came from all over the world: Iran/i'rɑ:n/, Honduras/hɔn'djuərəs/, Ethiopia/ˌi:θi'əupiə/, and Canada, among other countries. Only two of us, as I recall, were white.
I had waited 32 years for this moment. My own immigration journey/'dʒɝni/had been long and gradual/'ɡrædʒuəl/and winding/'waɪndɪŋ/— and this day, I hoped, would be a day to savor/'seivə/, an emotional upswelling/'ʌpswɛl/, a final untying/ʌnˈtaɪɪŋ/of so many knots/nɑt/of feelings that had crowded my psyche/ˈsaɪki/since I’d first arrived here.
But it was also December 1, 2016. A few weeks before, an election had taken place that had capped more than a year of gnawing/'nɔː(r)ɪŋ/, deepening anxiety/æŋ'zaɪəti/in my gut/ɡʌt/. To become a citizen now was, for me, a final act of faith; but it was also like stepping into an elevator expecting to go up and then suddenly sinking/'sɪŋkɪŋ/. There was joy here, shot through with nausea/'nɔzɪə/.
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