These and other exciting soundbites brought to you by the N-400 Application for Naturalization, aka Application for Citizenship in the Greatest of Great Nations Ever, The United States of America!
I was a little apprehensive at first. My last dealing with the DHS was back when they were still called Immigration and Naturalization Services. In those day, all of their employees seemed to have been culled from the small percentage of recently naturalized who'd barely managed to scrape by the English and Civics portion of the application and now took their position of bureaucratic power as a mandate to harass and terrify all future applicants (apparently, they hadn't gotten the memo that the quota system had been abolished in 1965). Memorable moments at INS headquarters include the time my parents and I were herded into a tiny room by a furious man of indeterminate African origin and viciously berated for presuming to think we were worthy of receiving green cards. I was 13 at the time and had no idea why he was so angry, or why he thought two scientists from the former USSR were such a threat to his and the nation's security. My parents, more used to receiving arbitrary tongue-lashings from petty bureaucrats, just kept their heads down and took it. Strong contender for top ten worst moments of my life.
So, needless to say, I went into my appointment today with slight trepidation. This was step two, before the final interview but after the reams of paperwork in which I assured the good people of the DHS that I am not a terrorist, communist, Nazi, prostitute, or "habitual drunkard" (okay, there may be room for quibbling on that one). I even scrubbed my fingernails clean of chipped black nail polish, so I wouldn't look like quite such a delinquent. I went in with a smile, let a nice gloved Asian man apply alcohol strips and blotters to each of my fingers before smooshing them against a small glass screen, watched the psychedelic whorls of my unique human genome appear on a computer in front of me, and went on my merry way, smelling of rubbing alcohol and powdered latex.
While my fingers were being processed by the administrative organs of the greatest superpower known to man, I thought about how odd it is that we still use fingerprints to identify people. I mean, for The Year 2010, it seems a bit archaic. Can't we do cheek-swabs a la Gattaca already? Or, better yet, what happened to the whole dystopian tattoo bar code idea? I'd love one of those! No more filling out forms in triplicate just to prove who I am? Sign me up; I'll check my Orwell at the door.
So, all in all, the process was surprisingly painless. I like this kinder, gentler (if you're white and speak English, anyway...) DHS. They even had customer service cards! I gave them all "excellent"s -- I carry no grudges. Now, I just have to sit back, twiddle my non-terrorist/communist/Nazi thumbs and await my interview, which should be fun. That's when I get to take the English test (gee golly, hope I pass!) and answer some questions about the Constitution and Congress or something. I'm actually getting sort of excited about this. No more spending nights in "unwanted illegals" ghettos at airports. No more dirty looks from customs officials. I'll get to vote and
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