Reporter Elka Wood becomes American citizen

This wasn’t what I had expected. When I imagined becoming naturalized in the few weeks between receiving my letter of approval and going to the ceremony in Butte on April 26, I never thought for a second I would be a shuddering, sweaty, emotional wreck.

I had assumed that becoming a citizen would be like other thresholds I’d passed without notice, like birthdays after No. 25. Because I have been able to keep my Australian citizenship and be a dual-citizen this seemed even more true — I was adding to my national identity, not losing anything.

In my heart, I had hoped for a party on my naturalization day and imagined wearing a bright dress to the ceremony. Spring was almost here and it was at least possible the day would dawn sixty degrees and sunny.

But pragmatism won and I wore tweed, a lucky choice as it was snowing lightly as we pulled up to the courthouse. I fully expected the climate inside the courtroom to be dry and bureaucratic, and just as chilly as it was outside.

After seven years of attending immigration appointments with my husband to gain and maintain my U.S. permanent residency despite frequent trips to my home country of Australia, I was left uneasy in the company of U.S officials. The interviews with U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services officials with twisted hands and yes and no answers and silent fingerprintings had left me feeling like I wasn’t human because I wasn’t American.

Being relegated to a different customs line than my family upon arrival in this country at Los Angeles airport, and the frequent interrogations by officials about my relationships and intentions here, had left me feeling like a criminal and an outsider so subtly I hadn’t noticed it happening.

Let me be clear: I do not have a criminal record. The immigration procedures I went through are standard practice. I made sure to be polite and amiable. I have the huge social advantage of having most of my teeth and white skin and speaking English. I have no idea what it would be like to go through the process without these advantages and I have a tremendous respect for those that do.

Though I have lived in America with my America-born husband on and off for 10 years, I had underestimated how much I felt like the word on my permanent resident card until I handed it across the desk for the immigration officer to shred.

Elka Wood, Alien, it said. The word had penetrated my identity despite my best intentions not to allow it.

But when the first beaming volunteer from the Daughters of The American Revolution greeted me at the elevator after me and my tribe of family and friends had all gone through security and entered those halls, my expectations changed so suddenly I felt dizzy.

She was half my height and wore a bright red jacket covered with pins. “Are you being naturalized today?” she said warmly, smiling up at me. “Congratulations.”

How sweet, I thought. I wonder what she is doing here.

My husband and I began interracting with immigration in 2007 when we married in Australia and applied for my husband’s Australian permanent residency. In 2010 I was granted U.S permanent residency and for 7 years we moved back and forth, juggling paperwork and spending time with our families and in our respective home countries.

These extended absences made my eligibility for citizenship unlikely, as there are rules about having a physical presence in the country for consecutive days. We knew we may not quite meet the the requirements but decided to go for it anyway in hopes someone would see our situation and approve us anyhow — married and in love, with a baby son and our future home under construction in Troy.

In 2014, we applied for my citizenship and attended the necessary appointments in Helena. On the upside, I aced my civics test and English language test. On the downside, the woman who interviewed me didn’t care to look into loopholes. Several weeks later, I received my application back in the mail with “DENIED” stamped on the front page.

I had given up on becoming an American citizen when my husband and I decided early this year to apply one more time. We thought we had better odds as we had timed our trips out of the country to be shorter this time, rushing back to Australia for only ten months for the birth of our daughter.

I was interviewed in Helena by officer Randall Pebbles. From our first meeting I knew he was a rare breed of bureaucrat who actually cares about the people whose applications he must stamp “APPROVED” or “DENIED.” He took the time after our interview to meet my husband and ask us both questions. It felt like an interview, not an interrogation. He went the extra mile, followed up on my suggestions of ways I was actually eligible — and he approved my application.

I was delighted to see that Officer Pebbles was officiating as I sat in a jury seat in the courtroom in Butte among 27 other soon-to-be U.S. citizens. I found I could not even look at their faces without tears escaping mine, so grateful was I to be in a situation I didn’t really believe was possible.

The lot of us represented 20 countries, including two of us from Australia. To my right sat a woman from Japan, to my left a woman from France. Such diversity is unheard of in rural Troy.

As I left the stand after shaking the judge’s hand and smiling for pictures with my certificate, I passed a row of more ladies volunteering for the ceremony. These women were all well over 60 and dressed in bright red. Some were from the VFW and some from the Daughters of the American Revolution. They were handing out little American flags and buttons and letters from state representatives.

I came down the stairs toward them and they called out “Welcome!”

A tide of emotion hit me as I tried to collect their offerings as my shoulders shook with sobs. These good women gathered around me protectively and patted my back. “You’ll be a good citizen,” one said reassuringly.

That these ladies chose to be there was incredibly moving.

“I know many of you have had an arduous journey to get here today and I want you to know that your work is not over,” the judge began in his closing remarks. “As a citizen, you must get out and be face to face with your fellow citizens however you choose. Through a church, a volunteer organization or your work, we must all contribute to keep this country moving forward.”

My ladies in red were certainly doing their part in this respect.

After it was over and Officer Pebbles had given me both a much needed tissue and a high-five, the crowds squeezed through the courtroom doors to drink fizzy red punch and eat cookies provided by the red ladies.

The other newly naturalized Australian came up to me wearing a fresh blue shirt and a big smile.

“My Aussie friend!” he said, giving me a big hug. “I saw you getting emotional and I had to look away so I wouldn’t start crying, too.”

Hearing this stranger’s familiar broad Australian accent in a moment of becoming an American made me realize my identity had shifted, and with the shift came great liberation.

I am American. I am Australian. I belong.