Defining Citizenship

The endless Twitter wars about race, ethnicity, and going back to countries of origin all take us to the following question: Who is an American?

Let me begin by saying that I am not a Birther. It’s worse than that. I’m more of an un-Birther. Does simply being born here make us American? I think the answer must be no.

The notion of birthright citizenship is a romantic one, as is the Constitutional requirement that an individual be born here to qualify to be President. But let’s be honest. Those of us who were born here had absolutely nothing to do with that process and can take no credit for it. As I have often said, it doesn’t make us better than others. We were just lucky.

I’m probably not the first to suggest this, but suppose everyone who is here, by birth or not, who intends to stay here, had to pass the same civics test that foreigners seeking legal citizenship must, followed perhaps by taking an oath? Do you think that might level the playing field a little?

Clearly, there would have to be categories, maybe a point system of sorts. If you’re born here, maybe you get the first 25 years of citizenship for free, then you have to take the test. You might get a point advantage for military service or being a Dreamer or a descendant of those who were brought here against their will. There are questions of disability and other access issues and, of course,  what happens if you repeatedly fail. But just being born here wouldn’t be quite enough. 

As for the Presidential birth requirement,  why should a foreigner, who commits him- or herself to our national values, like the rule of law, for example, or a free press, be unqualified to serve? I don’t have a problem with the current age and residency rules. But what advantage has the birth requirement brought us? I frankly think the record is a little spotty. By the way, the current citizenship oath for a foreigner requires the individual to give up allegiance to a foreign power. How are we doing with that one?

America, as we call it, is not just a place. It’s an idea. The place has been here for millions of years, but this idea has only been alive for about 250. It should require some kind of buy-in, in the form of a demonstrated rudimentary knowledge of how it works.

Yes, I subscribe to “love it or leave it,” but first we have to clearly understand what “it” is about. It is not only about being white, Christian, straight, or owning a gun. And it’s a heck of a lot more than just being another carbon footprint, taking up space.

Being There

It was July of 1969. I was living in Washington, DC, working as a management trainee at one of the city’s TV stations. My apartment was a few blocks east of DuPont Circle – not a great neighborhood in those days, but my address was 1600 Q Street NW. 1600, In Washington! Only one of the reasons I might have been a little full of myself at the time.

It was the week that climaxed with Earthlings taking their walk on the moon. Unlike the Vietnam War, ongoing racial tensions, and hippies spreading everywhere, this story would be laser-focused on a single moment: Neil Armstrong’s first step on the lunar surface. I looked forward to the first edition of the Washington Post carrying the story on the front page, and snapped one up quickly in the fear that if I didn’t, they would be gone. I was right.

When I got into work for my next shift. I noticed Deanna, an attractive young fellow trainee. She looked upset. “What’s the matter?” I asked. Deanna was almost in tears. “I went out to buy a Post with the moon landing story,” she said, “and all the news-racks in my area were empty. I tried five newsstands, still no luck. Kicking myself that I didn’t jump on it sooner.”

This began to look like something of an opportunity, so I went to what constituted my desk, pulled out my precious copy of the Post, and presented it to Deanna. “Gee,” she said, “you’d do this for ME? Thank you so much. I can never thank you enough!”

She was partly right about that. I think I expected a little  more appreciation from Deanna, but it was not to be (hey,  cut me a little slack here, I was single and in my 20s, and it was 1969). Anyway, a few months later, I moved on to another job, as did she. These days, especially this week, I’m wondering if Deanna has ever pulled out her copy of the Post, which I have a strong feeling she kept, to show to her grandchildren, if she has them, and, of course, if she remembers how she happened to come by that paper.

I sort of miss it. When I mentioned this to a younger colleague recently, he said, “No worries. You can get one on eBay for 10 bucks.” Nope, not the same. I collected that copy of the Post with my own hands, because I was alive when the big story happened. To my colleague, it is only history; to me, it’s experience, a whole different thing. And I did share that moment with Deanna.