For many years I have felt denied and unfulfilled. Just about everyone ,except for myself, has seemingly had either an ethereal or a surreal experience. Recently, one friend was gushing over a hot pastrami sandwich characterizing the heavenly rush he experienced as ethereal. Another young lady friend carried on with, “like, I was like, looking at my twins pictures and like, two raccoons like, ran across the yard and it was like, so surreal” . I offered the obligatory “Wow!” then slipped a Dramamine under my tongue. But it is all around. Everybody is having these surreal and ethereal attacks treading in that out of body out of mind space which, I suspect it is more the latter. But, who am I to judge!
Either way, I believe I took my first ethereal journey today and can now join the minions who claim to have experienced one or the other of these two whimsical sisters.
There are three items that I have kept in by briefcase for years; a letter from the orphanage in Sicily where my grandmother was raised by the nuns in the 1880’s; an English translation of the Ulanbatur, Mongolia headline on Sept 11, 2002 urging support for the World Trade Center families in America on this, the first anniversary of the attack; and every Father’s Day card I have ever received. Collectively they remind me of where I came, how I should conduct myself, and why it matters.
With my grandfather having already taken an earlier boat to America, my 19 year old grandmother and her two month old son, Salvatore, embarked on the 12 day sea voyage alone across the Atlantic. I can see her petite foot taking its first step up the gangplank in Italy while clutching her son close to her breast. Aside from all the anxieties that attend a seminal journey such as this, my grandmother became too sea sick to nurse her new born, so all the other nursing mothers joined in as wet nurses passing my uncle from one nurturing breast to another until they reached New York Harbor.
Last week, the single mom who lives above my office mentioned that she too was to receive her citizenship papers in Hartford, CT on May 3 and finally become a real American. I tucked the time and date in the back of my mind with intentions of appearing at the ceremony to reaffirm the profundity of the moment by establishing a presence on her behalf and to relive my grandparents journey of over 100 years ago. The experience was more than I had bargained for.
I barely made it in time as 62 applicants and their families shifted nervously in the courtroom, adjusting their skirts and ties and waiting to be beckoned through the courtroom swinging gates to the induction desk. I slithered into a pew and sidled up beside my neighbor, soon to become an American. She blushed at the bouquet of flowers.
The immigration officer, standing beside a judge draped in his official robes called out the applicant and their country of origin; The Congo; Pakistan; India; Brazil; Canada; Nigeria; China; Albania; and on and on. One by one with families in tow, these new Americans proudly stood beside the judge, accepted their papers, received a flag and posed for a picture with the judge. The judge understood full well what this moment meant. Nothing was rushed. He invited those family members who were taking the pictures to step forward inside the gates to themselves be included in a picture while some other willing soul snaped the photo. One child who cowered outside the gate was summoned in by the judge and in the child’s excitement and haste to join the family, ran right out of his sneaker and tumbled to the feet of the judge who picked him up and held him toward the camera.
Co- incidentally another friend of mine, from Albania, was there with his father. He said his father requested that his son not talk to him because he did not want to miss hearing his name announced as an American. I studied the judge in his regal robes and outstretched arms. His embracing benevolence and patience were a human mural of The Statue of Liberty and the Golden Gate Bridge all wrapped in one. A man from India confided in me observing that when an American receives citizenship papers in India he is still regarded as an American–in India. When an Indian follows the same process in America —he becomes an American. Just then, I saw my, then, 19 year old grandmother, an Italian, becoming an American.
After the ceremony I lingered in the courtroom. The judge had now left but the chief immigration officer as tidying up his desk. I approached the bench and asked, ” Do you see today’s events as being a metaphor for another profound journey we all must take.” He looked confused then asked what I meant. I said the scene today reminded me of final judgment, with the aspirants freed from limbo now standing at the gates of heaven delirious with excitement at being allowed entrance into this cherished place. The judge himself, robed and white bearded was, himself, the image of a deity. The officer smiled and acknowledged the clarity of the metaphor.
I shrugged off the urge to become too maudlin, however, I knew that I personally, had done nothing to earn passage here. My grandparents made the journey. I am merely a legacy member. But, I understood full well that a day of final judgment will come for us all and that time around there will be no special allowance for legacy members. Like these immigrants, we must all earn our way in.
Somewhere in all of this, I think there was an ethereal moment.