Full Circle

According to family legend, my great-grandfather, John Harling, was deported from England, and for all I know, this may be true. I've never bothered looking into it; a story as titillating as that can only be diminished by such mundane trivialities as facts.

Whatever the circumstances, he left England with his family in tow on the cusp of the 20th century. My father was the first person in my immediate family to be born a United States citizen. I was a second-generation American and, like 99.9% of my fellow countrypersons, never entertained the notion of being anything else. But as you all know (or should know if you've been paying attention) life can throw a vicious curve-ball at times and, through no fault of my own, I returned to the Mother Country.

Recently, and even more surprisingly, the Mother Country accepted me back.

I don't know if this is due to the statute of limitations finally running out on whatever it was my great-grandfather did, or a terrible clerical error at the Home Office, but yesterday I found myself shaking hands with the Lord Lieutenant (pronounced Lef-tenant) of Brighton and Hove and being warmly welcomed into what is left of the British Empire (and I have to say, they haven't taken very good care of it since great-granddad left).

My new status as a citizen of the United Kingdom as well as my continuing member-in-good-standing status in the United States (yes, despite pervading myths to the contrary, it is possible for American citizens to hold dual-nationality) automatically doubles the number of people in the world who despise me and triples the land-area I am supposed to feel responsible for having invaded, stripped of assets and abandoned, leaving the local population to wallow in disease and poverty. Dual nationality is not for wimps, but if my great-grandfather was up for the challenge, I guess I am as well. (He did, however, leave some large shoes to fill. He worked in a succession of occupations attempting to build a better life, crossed the ocean several times—on steam ships, not an Airbus300—in search of opportunity and, upon finally settling in America, started his own business. And he supposedly killed a guy in an argument over a cow; compared to him, I'm a right slacker.)

I'm not really sure how I feel about all this yet. It's sort of like getting married; you make a decision that seems like a good idea at the time, then get all caught up in preparations and ceremony only to wake up the next morning with a hangover thinking, "What on earth have I done?"

It's strange to see the rolling green fields, tidy villages and bustling high streets and realize this is now my country, not some foreign land where I am an interloper taking the job of a hard-working, natural-born British citizen. Thanks to the certificate from the Home Office, I am now an interloper taking the job of a hard-working, natural-born British citizen forever. But, in truth, there is no reason to feel this way; aside from the relatively minor blip of American occupation, I can, thanks to the research of a seventh-cousin twice removed in Lancashire, trace an unbroken line of predecessors back to the 1400's, which is more than most Brits can do.
   

Great-grandfather John's Declaration of Intent

The ceremony itself was a bit disappointing, in that it didn't provide much for me to make fun of. It reminded me of a graduation ceremony for a continuing education class. There was an appropriately elegant reception (meaning elegant enough to feel special but not so posh as to put people off), some brief comments that were neither jingoistic nor sentimental, the oath ("I, state your name . . . " you know the punch line), and the presentations, followed by a chorus of "God Save the Queen" sung by a room full of people who apparently hadn't studied the lyric sheet (and this included the audience).

I was prepared to take the Queen to task for not showing up and sending a flunky in her place, but the Lord Lieutenant did a marvellous job of pretending to be the Queen. (How does one become a Lord Lieutenant, anyway? I've never seen an ad for one in the Jobs listings.) Throughout the entire presentation ceremony, she never flagged, and greeted each and every one of us as if she were absolutely delighted to meet us. She had a warm handshake and kind words for every new citizen and posed, with a genuine-looking smile (a skill Tony Blair and Gordon Brown should bone-up on) for the official photograph (available for ten quid in the lobby after the show).
  

My spiffy, new Naturalization certificate

After being called, greeting, posed, presented and congratulated, I signed the register and got my party pack, which was the point of all that had proceeded this moment. Included among the rest of the bumf—a voter registration form, a nice pen set from the council of Brighton and Hove and a welcoming letter from the Home Secretary (but, conspicuous by its absence, was a greeting from the Queen; I mean, how long does it take to have your secretary whip up a "Welcome to Britain" message and sign it?)—was a UK passport application. It's already filled out and mailed in and, when the passport arrives, will make a nice addition to my growing collection of UK certifications.

I bet great-granddad would be pleased to know one of his descendants is a kindred spirit, a traveller, someone not afraid to face a new life in a strange land. I can hear him now, calling to me across the years:

"After all the effort, heartache and expense I went through to get us all out of England you turn around and go back! You wanker!"