Pauline Nevins

“We have a file on you.”

It was 1979, one year before my third child was born. I was sitting in a spacious office in the John E. Moss Federal Building, 650 Capitol Mall, in Sacramento. Across from me was a middle-aged man in a suit and tie. I stared at a Manila folder, the only article on the huge glossy desk. I had been here before. Not the same place but a similar situation.

I was 11 years old and living in England. Children 11 years of age sat for a school placement examination known as the eleven plus that determined their academic future. The written exam was in two parts. I passed the first part but received a “borderline” rating on the second, and an oral interview would determine my final score.

That interview was also in a large, unfamiliar room, much like the Federal Building office. A man behind a long, highly polished table handed me a paper and instructed me to read a passage about volcanoes. After I finished reading, he asked me: “What else has a core besides a volcano?”

My mind went blank – I couldn’t answer the question. There may have been other questions I couldn’t answer, or answered incorrectly, but that one looms large in my memory. I didn’t pass the oral examination. At the ripe old age of 11, my fate was determined. My dream of attending The Wellingborough Grammar School for Girls, a college preparatory school, was gone. I would transfer to a secondary school, destined to work in one of the town’s boot and shoe factories.

Now here I was, almost 25 years later, once again sitting across from someone who could change my life. They had a file on me? I must have looked as stunned as I felt because his face softened.

“We were alerted that you were in the United States and unable to support yourself which, as you know, is a requirement for residency.”
Support myself? In the eight previous years, I’d supported myself and my two young children.

My mouth was dry. I choked down the lump in my throat. Blinked back tears. Were they going to deport me? How could they? I was separated from my husband but still married. My children were born American citizens by virtue of their Air Force father’s citizenship.

Then the penny dropped. My estranged, and strange, husband. That’s who was behind this. I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it when the official leaned forward. He opened the Manila folder, scanning the contents.

“The contact was made eight years ago, so you can see you weren’t exactly a high-priority case.” He smiled, then closed the folder and told me to continue my citizenship process.

From the time I arrived in California, I thought about becoming an American citizen. I loved living here. But each time the idea popped up, I slapped it down. I felt like a traitor. How could I give up England? My cheeks weren’t rosy, but I spent decades singing “God Save Our Gracious Queen.” I knew the words to “Rule Britannia.” I drank my tea hot with sugar and milk. I ate with the fork in my left hand and the knife in my right. I ate fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. American servers didn’t understand my accent when I asked for water. But I wanted to vote. And that requires citizenship.

I returned to the federal building on Nov. 19, 1979, and in a crowded conference room raised my hand and pledged allegiance to the United States of America. Every election since that day, I have proudly cast my vote. I held my head the highest in 2008 when I walked into a polling station in Meadow Vista and voted for Barack Obama – a man of my same racial mix – who would become the 44th President of the United States.

I treasure my Certificate of Naturalization. I am no longer “an alien” – a title my children found highly amusing. I also received a letter from then-President Jimmy Carter. He wrote how important it was that I had chosen America as my new land, and that America’s greatest asset continues to be its people. He invoked the founding fathers and their great faith in the individual. How they believed that people from everywhere who loved freedom and justice should be entitled to enjoy these rich blessings. President Carter ended his letter saying he was sure I would follow in the tradition of other naturalized citizens from all lands and resolve to do my part in making America an even more wonderful place in which to live.

I am still trying.