Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

I distinctly remember the look of joy on Mrs. Kumar’s face. She sat at the end of a long table, beaming while opening gift bags. It wasn’t her birthday. She immigrated to the United States nearly 20 years prior. After raising two children, after establishing a therapy practice, she decided finally to become a citizen. Earlier that morning, having successfully passed the naturalization exam, she took the Oath of Allegiance. And here we were, her neighbors, family, and coworkers, eating plates full of curries, biryani rice, naan bread in celebration.

My friend Rukmini joked that we would have failed the citizenship test, given how we dozed in American history classes. How many articles are in the original constitution? Who knows, she laughed.

With watery eyes, Mrs. Kumar shared the feelings of being in a room full of people with different histories and cultures, all raising their hands together, in unison, giving voice to a shared belief in the freedoms espoused by their new country.

Her story is but one of many. Today’s poem tells another story of a path to citizenship. Such stories deepen my appreciation for the principle of “We, the people.”

Portrait of My Mother Studying for Her Citizenship Exam
by Eduardo Martínez-Leyva

She  sits  on  the  corner  of  her  bed,  head  tilted  to  one  side.   Licks  the  tip of    
her  thumb  and  flips   through   the  thick  booklet,   trying  to  remember  where     
we left off.  Two weeks ago,  the  mint-colored  Bronco  parked in the neighbor’s 
driveway.   The  youngest  one  left  in  handcuffs   and  they  haven’t  heard  from 
her since.  My mother  sighs,  “Pobre  de  México,  tan lejos  de Dios  y  tan  cerca 
de  los  Estados  Unidos.”  I  am  ten.   And  so  far  away  from  God,  I  feel.  Angelo 
and  I  take  turns  teaching  her,   tracking  English  like  dirt  into  our  home.  The 
only  savior  they  tell  us  we  need.  If  only  it could be  that simple  and true.  To 
build her a life out of mud and syllables,  of  saliva,  colonies,  and state capitals, 
treaties   and  phrases  coined  during   a  long-ago  war,   written  in  a  textbook-
pretty cursive.  Give  me  liberty  or  give me  death,  she repeats.  Even the birds’ 
names   she   has   to   learn.   And   after   all   those   evenings,   rehearsing   and 
memorizing   the   mythology  of   it,   no   one  could  prepare  her   for  the   early 
morning  raid,  the  strip  searches  at  the border,  the child  who  gets deported. 
If  you  ask  me,  it’s  hard  to believe  in God,  especially  when  years  later  she’s 
still  forced  to  dodge  slurs  and  bullets  from  a  white  man  who  aims  a gun at 
her  in  the supermarket.  Give  me  liberty  or give me  death.   But for now,  she’ll 
settle   at   the   corner  of  her  bed,   skimming   through   lines   and  sentences, 
narrowing  her  eyes as  her fingers  move  to the following page,  mouthing  out 
words,  unfolding  a  wrinkled map  she smooths  open  with her hands,  pausing 
before  using her index finger  to  trace  the  dotted lines.  She pores  over these 
texts  for hours  and hours.  Focused.  Determined.  Always  pensive  and gentle. 
Careful   but   intentional,   like   when  combing   for   ticks   on   the  head  of  her 
firstborn son.

"Portrait of My Mother Studying for Her Citizenship Exam” by Eduardo Martínez- Leyva from COWBOY PARK © 2024 Eduardo Martínez-Leyva. Used by permission of University of Wisconsin Press.