“Maybe now you can write about this,” the immigration officer said as my citizenship interview ended. I’d just shown him a copy of the magazine I work for. But what followed first, inevitably, was my post on social media, leading to a flurry of “congrats” and “good wishes.” But one response — a short, curt “why now?” from my cousin in India — felt like an unripe holdout in a basket of sweet peaches.
I soon realized he was referring to the effects of the Great Recession, which had greatly altered his perception of America. The financial meltdown, a paralyzed capital in a polarized nation, the economic downturn — it was all adding up to paint a dismal picture.
Twenty years ago, just before a crisis brewing in the Persian Gulf led to war, I became eligible for permanent residency in this country. My green card came through family sponsorship, not a lottery. Nevertheless, it felt as if I had hit the jackpot.
Euphoric, I emerged from the quietly imposing U.S. Consulate and walked for hours on the noisy, bustling streets of Madras (now Chennai), before rushing to catch my train. A fellow passenger asked to see the brand-new seal of residency in my passport, making me a minor celebrity in our cabin.
The year 1991, after I landed here, turned out to be extraordinary, with victories in the Gulf War and the Cold War — after the Soviet Union’s collapse — acting as bookends. America became the world’s only superpower. Sure, there was a recession, but what followed was one of the most prosperous decades in living memory.
Fast-forward two decades — and the U.S. seems a very different place. Demoralized. Debt-ridden. But you wouldn’t have thought that if you had attended my recent naturalization ceremony. I’d waited many years to become a citizen. When that day arrived in Atlanta, it felt as momentous as that morning at the U.S. Consulate. Standing between a South African and an Iranian, I was sworn in along with 140 others from 66 nations.
On trips to India, I’m sometimes asked why I chose to settle in a country where I have no ancestral ties. Blood and belonging are inextricably linked in many parts of the world, but the idea of America has always been ... well, an idea. Anybody can be an American, I say, despite the considerable obstacles to becoming one.
As a youth, I idolized author Aldous Huxley, whose death on Nov. 22, 1963, was overshadowed by the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. But in India, Huxley had been more important to me than Kennedy because Huxley had been an American immigrant. When he went to New York, Huxley noted, “What I should write under America’s flapping eagle would be: Vitality, Prosperity, Modernity.”
Even today, the Statue of Liberty is the most iconic monument for immigrants. With the 125th anniversary of its dedication just weeks away, I too have an American motto, though mine is alliterative rather than euphonious.
As I would tell my cousin, for an immigrant like me, America represents “Hope, Happiness, Home” — meaning, my sense of belonging is such that the fact I wasn’t born or raised here feels like an accident.
Murali Kamma is managing editor of Khabar magazine. He lives in Atlanta.
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