Naturalization

Four thousand of us gathered in the LA Convention Center that summer morning, clutching bright little flags we had been given at the door. It was a bit like the opening of a popular and very patriotic LA Lakers game. In Los Angeles alone, on this day, eight thousand new citizens would be made. The afternoon quota was probably already nervously eying the unending traffic, praying for a timely arrival and conversion. We were all about to become life members of the good old USA club. We were about to take our leave of dusty corridors, dour bureaucrats; in some cases sadistic soldiers and deadly drug barons. We expected a little informality, a little easygoing American lack of seriousness. But this was L.A. What we got was pure Hollywood.

We were a diverse lot. Mexicans and other Hispanics were enjoying themselves, waving the little flags, chatting happily. A group of Russian speakers gazed somberly at the empty stage, and some Haitians looked ready to burst into song. Then, with no warning, a large screen behind the stage lit up and a giant voice burst into song as we zoomed across the continent, vaulting over mountains, skimming wheatfields and forests, zipping past large cities in an eyeblink, all the way to the Big Apple, as if to say “see, this is where you start from, and that”s the Other Big City, where it’s always frantic and cold. You’d better watch out, buddy, stay here in the endless sunshine, by the gentle Pacific, never mind the earthquakes, you’ll be dead by the time they hit, or at least soon after. This is the promised land, the best of the best, where even Americans flock to, from the rust belt and the icy wastes up by Canada, and the buttoned up Midwest. This is Hollywood my friends, the place where dreams are made.’ The music ended, and a giant Bruce Springsteen grinned at us for a moment, disappearing with the echoes of his song.

As the screen darkened, a bureaucrat stepped up to the microphone and explained our legal status. We were all ineligible to run for president, but I could retain my British passport. We were warned that murder or mayhem would earn us immediate deportation. The man abruptly turned and left, but it was by no means the end of the show. A tall immaculate black man in a sky-blue blazer bounced onstage, dragging a spotlight behind him. There was no quiet podium for this individual as he held a cordless microphone and addressed the multitude, strutting the stage as the spotlight frantically tried to keep up. He talked about our new country. We were all welcome. We were all about to enter this realm of abundance and freedom and opportunity. We were about to become Americans. “Americans,” he cried, and I almost heard the crowd respond with a “Hallelujah!” The sermon lasted almost an hour.