It Was A Big Day

Through my reflection in the window before me, I watched an Oregon drizzle falling around the Portland Immigration and Naturalization Office, now under the protective cloak of Homeland Security.

To my right Isaac was dozing. To my left Brenda was crying quietly.

It was a big day.

The sky was clear 4:30 this morning; stars accompanied me as I walked the dog. I rushed the boys through breakfast, and then Isaac to his government class' teacher so she could approve his sources for his debate on Monday (he is assigned the Republican viewpoint on a proposed wall on the border with Mexico).

Brenda arrived a little before 9:00.

"Did you file the papers yet?"

"Yes."

A pained look flashed across her face.

"I thought so. You probably did it as soon as you could. Well, I guess there's no point in going to the AA meeting tonight."

"What do you mean? Are you saying you were going because of me? Because you thought it might help us work things out?"

"Yeah. But there's no point now."

"Sure there is. You don't need to go to the meeting for me. You need to go for you."

There was a lot more. I got ticked enough to say a few rough things. Nothing untrue, or even unkind. Just a touch more brutally honest than I usually am. I walked away before it got worse.

I thought of the words I emailed to someone earlier: "Too little too late," but I didn't speak them.

I do not want to be angry, or unkind, or hurt her. She is hurting herself enough.

She tried, successfully, to hide her tears from Isaac throughout the day.

We examined the naturalization papers carefully to ensure their accuracy. Waited for the twenty some others to do the same.


There was a delay of some sort, but then the soon-to-be citizens were lined up, and we were led up a tightly winding staircase of marble and brass to the second floor.

Parents and other observers were led first to a small auditorium. When we were seated, a solemn and silent parade was brought to seats in the front, each person clutching a letter of congratulations from The White House.

They were from all over the world. Mexico, The Philippines, India, Ukraine, Africa, Asia, South America, and of course, Haiti. One man was particularly concerned about changing his name to something that "sounded American."

"I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."


I am so proud of Isaac. It was wonderful seeing him stand there, hand raised, swearing to do what is expected of every U.S. citizen, though too many think too little about those privileges and responsibilities.

I got pictures. Even one for Brenda alone with Isaac there, and another with all of us.


I was so pleased, so proud, so excited to see my son secure in this country, this nation that has been blessed with so much. He is now protected from the possibility of being returned to that dark place of his birth, that island where the first European explorer set foot on New World soil.

I have my sons. I have my home and the security of my faith. My soon-to-be former wife has none of those things.

We hustled to get Brenda to work in time. Isaac sat in the back. Brenda's face was clouded. Misty.

I worried about her all afternoon.

I prayed for her.

She called this evening. No longer pleading. She was sobbing.

"I understand how you felt now. I understand what it must have felt for me to leave you. And I didn't try to comfort you. I am so sorry. I deserve this. I am so sorry."

This morning, when I was growling a little at her reminders of her own past hurts, I said: "Even now I know you can't be trusted. I bet that even though you want me again, you have called him again just since Tuesday night."

"Just to tell him I never want to talk to him again."

So she has nothing now.

She has given up her family. She has given up me. She has given up this other man (at least for now), and she has lost her home.

I have let her know I care. I have let her know I will pray for her. I have even let her know she is loved. And... I have let her know she has burned too many bridges.

I hear the deep ache in her voice. She is panicked. She is lost.

So I sit here, tapping away at this keyboard, secure in a home that has only my name on the deed. Secure in having my sons near me. Secure in the knowledge that Isaac has been granted the protection of this wealthiest of all nations... wealth of goods, of natural wonders, of freedom.

My joy is tempered by the knowledge that my wife is experiencing the frightened loneliness she had thrust on me this past year.

It was a big day.