dual

On a cool day in San Francisco this week, I became a citizen of the united kingdom. It didn't happen by surprise. My mom was born in London and became a u.s. citizen when I was a teenager. I learned several years ago that I was eligible to be a citizen but never got around to doing the paperwork. I finally decided to commit to the process between Trump presidencies. Turning in my application in the wake of a fascist inauguration carried something like a sense of dread to it. It varnishes a different feeling onto jumping from one decrepit empire to an even older one.

The process wasn't too difficult. I needed to make copies of family documents. I needed two referees: one British person who isn't related to me (hi Smigs!) and one person with "professional standing" like a PhD (hi John!). The final approval came a few months after I turned in all my documents. But before I could become a citizen I needed to visit the British Consulate to swear me in. I chose the consulate in San Francisco because it was closest, I love the city, and I didn't want to mess with time zones.

the ceremony

The ceremony took place in a nondescript conference room with a big table and chairs lining the room. A dozen or so people also waited with me there for the ceremony to take place. A man in full Scottish regalia stood mingling with future citizens sitting nearby. People who walked in looked at him in the way people acknowledge the person in charge. But he wasn't an official—he was here to get his citizenship like the rest of us. He didn't consider himself Scottish, either. "Maybe one day," he said. While we waited for the ceremony to begin, a few future Brits argued about who coined the word "soccer." One argument I heard is that soccer is an american word to describe what other places call football. But another person in the room insisted that soccer is a British term. They invented it to distinguish football from rugby. Nobody else in the room was following his argument, but he wouldn't let it drop. I didn't want to look it up. I resisted for days. But I did look it up, and he's right. ¯\(ツ)/¯

My mom being born outside the u.s. makes me a second-generation immigrant. A first-generation immigrant is someone who moved here after being born somewhere else. These days I understand how recent, how alien, even the concept of immigration is. Do other countries define how long a person has lived where they live? What does it mean to be a citizen somewhere? I prefer the term "resident" to describe people who live in a place. Why does the state have to get involved at all?

There was only one other person of color in the conference room with me, a woman who was also from Seattle. It surprised me, to be honest: I thought the sun never set on the British empire. Are we only welcoming in americans who want to repatriate "soccer"? For my swearing in, I chose for myself a shirt by the Native-owned clothing company Ginew. I wanted something that kept me connected to resistance, even in some small way. In every country they tried it, the British could not eradicate the people who lived there. And now, one of the earliest colonizers of this land now count me as a citizen. I gained that citizenship, too, through empire. The British colonized Sri Lanka, which made its inhabitants subjects of the crown. My grandparents moved to England, had my mom, and then moved back to Sri Lanka (this sentence contains two very long stories).

I wasn't the only one who came bearing items of significance to them. There was the guy in the kilt (not a Scot), of course. Others bore more subtle displays of lineage. Some people carried small photos of loved ones, presumably ancestors. They displayed these as they swore their loyalty to the king of England. The not-Scot carried two framed portraits that he kissed afterwards. Once we all affirmed our loyalty to the crown, we took pictures with our certificates.

san francisco

San Francisco is one of my favorite cities in the country. The struggles within the city is one I'm familiar with. One side of the fight, with their driverless cars and spacious glass condos, is winning. But the other side has not given up; most of them will likely never give up. The city's streets and public transit are in a distant lead compared to places like seattle. Wandering around after my ceremony, I decided to go to Kite Hill park. I waited for a bus in the American Indian Cultural District. The buildings around me were older and spray-painted over. An international grocery store across the street tempted me to go inside. A Black man stopped in front of a kid slouching on a wide bench near the bus stop. We were in full sun, with no shade covering the entire section of the street.

"This bench is good!" he exclaimed. "Tell people you like this bench or they'll take it away. They're afraid of someone around here sleeping on it. That's why there isn't a public toilet around here, either. But where else are we supposed to sit? So call the city, and tell them you like this bench."

The kid seemed interested in what the man had to say. He had just gotten back from buying a soda at a nearby store. He nodded at the man in the way that kids do when they're listening to someone older than them imparting wisdom. Deferential, validating, but not inviting further discussion. After a rant that had me cheering (especially when he brought up public toilets; there are almost none in Seattle), the man moved on.

I don't know what I'll do with my certificate of citizenship. We don't have any plans to move to England. I've read so many essays about people who are resolute in leaving the united states. Read about the "expat" (immigrant) communities that are now skewing rent prices in Portugal and Mexico D.F. Whenever I see a direct action to protect the people ICE is trying to kidnap, I wonder if nazi Germany had that. I wonder if anyone drove cars that said "fuck Ford," Henry being a known anti-semite and nazi supporter. But most of all I wonder if there will come a day when I pull out my other passport and try to flee the place I was born.

kite hill

Kite Hill is a beautiful spot that earns its name. There weren't any kites there that day, but I felt a strong breeze that seemed to linger with no breaks. The hill itself is kind of scrubby, pretty dusty, with only a few patches of brown grass. It doesn't have crowds that comparative beauties like Dolores Park have, but it was lovely. The breeze was strong, and I had a full view of the downtown skyline and not much competition for a bench. There were wide benches here. I sat for a long while and enjoyed the world around me.