Naturalization

There was a short hiatus, and some restless shuffling. This was going to be a hard act to follow. The spotlight drilled out again, and a knife-edged state trooper strode to the edge of the stage. He was a Marine drill instructor in disguise. “Listen up!” he told us, and we listened as he explained his complicated routine to get us, with American efficiency, to the tables on either side of the auditorium, where we would collect our naturalization certificates, and exit, immediately. “Even rows turn to your right,” he yelled. “Odd rows to the left. I’ll call two rows at a time, adjacent, odd and even.” Some of the non-English speakers were beginning to look worried. “We will practice,” he said, and for five minutes he called out row numbers, and after a while most of the people were turning as they were supposed to and not staring at their neighbor’s nose.

This was the final act, and we filed out with American speed and efficiency. In no time, I had received my official scroll, and was blinking in the Southern California sunshine. My American wife was outside, waiting for riots, earthquakes and the myriad experiences LA has to offer. “You were in there for hours,” she said. “What was it like?” I told her about the movie, and Bruce Springsteen, and the bureaucrat and the preacher and the drill sergeant. “Sounds weird,” she said. “No, it wasn’t,” I surprised myself by saying. Somehow, in a very American way, it was perfect, a Hollywood extravaganza in which I and four thousand other citizens had starred.