ALLEGIANCE
A Short Story
By
Jocelyn F. Wright
Word count 1,129
I did it for the cash. Between gigs (gripping for low budget flicks), and broke, when my uptight, banker friend asked me to drive his barely English speaking girlfriend to San Diego to take her citizenship oath, I asked him for a $100.00 bucks – plus gas. He said, “yes” so quickly, I felt I should have asked for more.
I thought Marisol was cute, but I need a woman I can talk to. In my business I see pretty – make that gorgeous – girls from all angles, and most are ugly in some way that shows in the thirteenth hour. So the idea of my Dude, who speaks no Spanish, living with a Mexican girl who speaks very little English always left me with a “This chick must be great in bed” thought. But sitting next to her through the first half hour of traffic I thought, “There is nothing sexy about this girl – I should have asked for more cash.” I wasn’t planning to put a move on her or anything, but the sex charge always makes the time pass for me, keeps me alert.
The drive is pretty. Not in that New England, shady road, babbling brook way, but so Southern California – open, blue sky, concrete freeway beauty. It takes a while to appreciate So. Cal., but once you get used to it back East feels cramped, tight assed. I don’t go home much anymore. Plus, I’m sick of hearing how glamorous the film industry must be from high school friends who watch Entertainment Tonight and feel like Hollywood insiders. I live in Hollywood and believe me, there is no inside to get in, just sides to be on: behind the camera or in front of it. Everything else is bullshit.
Anyway, my mind wandered, what with the lack of conversation, and all.
I wanted to ask her what facts she had to learn for her test. I tried, but her English was, in her own words, “Very poor!” I mustered enough of my own lousy Spanish, barely passed in college – the teacher liked me, to find out that she had taken the test in Spanish. I pondered the irony: we stole California from the Spanish to make it America and now the boarder teams with Spanish speakers desperate to get back in so they can become Spanish-speaking Americans. What questions did she answer about America? Would I have passed the test: born in West Hartford, Connecticut, schooled in Gambier, Ohio, living in L.A., would I know enough about my own country to pass a test? I wanted to ask her more, but like most Americans I never valued a second language enough to learn it. So, I gave up trying to speak Spanish to Marisol and she had no interest in struggling in English with me. I turned up the radio.
The building was typical of municipal structures built in the seventies; a cheap, ugly take on Bauhaus style. I hoped this wouldn’t last long.
My impatience began to disappear as I looked at the crowd, though. It was like the It’s A Small World ride come to life. So many people of various colors, so many different accents, languages, as people flowed excitedly into the building. I was wearing a baseball cap on the way in, but saw others removing their hats with reverence. Some people were wearing the traditional head covering of Muslims, Seiks, Jews. It blew my mind. I took off my hat and walked into the auditorium with Marisol.
Smiling at her out of nervousness, I suddenly felt like a big brother at graduation or something. Proud, proud to be with her, that she wanted to be an American. Her face, which had seemed pinched and closed on the drive, exploded into a grin that bowled me over. I bet she is great in bed.
A guard said that guests should wait in the aisle. Marisol went to a seat in the front; she seemed to radiate from that spot. A judge came in, spoke for a bit and then everyone becoming a citizen had to take an oath.
The voices came together in this great sound. Each individual making a vow to the country they were adopting. My country. Each voice adding to the texture of the words, making their meaning resonate, electrifying the air.
It suddenly felt like church, only everybody was really welcome, not just Lutherans – my family were Lutherans. I have no idea what that means, except when I got a crush on a Jewish girl in ninth grade my mother said I couldn’t date her cause we were Lutherans. When I protested that the church had a big sign up that said all are welcome, my mother said that meant, “All Lutherans are welcome!”. I never liked church after that.
But this feeling was like before, when church felt holy and words like divine made my skin prickle with a sense of adventure and infinite space. This place felt sacred as those voices made the rhythm of patriotism jump inside me. I remembered what Thomas Jefferson wrote, and thought about the freedoms I take for granted that the guy in the third row, with scars on his cheeks probably almost died to get. And I didn’t know if I was grateful for being born here, or envious of how much more these people can feel what it is to be free than I ever will. How much they struggled to get what I barely appreciate, or even know I have.
I feel abused if I get pulled over for speeding when I know damn well that I was speeding. To me, freedom is going to Ralph’s at 4:00 a.m. Convenience is my agenda and expediency my policy. What do I know about civil rights, I’ve always had them. Ask someone who hasn’t and they will tell you how cheaply gold glitters and how cold diamonds are in comparison. But I was too lucky to ever have learned these things. I felt ashamed that I wasn’t as good an American as these people were.
Marisol danced out of there with her ear-to-ear smile. On the way back we helped each other stumble through English and Spanish. Jumbled into a new language, our own Esperanto, we found out we have a lot in common. She designs sets and wants to work in the movies. When she feels more confident in English, I’m going to hook her up with a buddy of mine who will hire her to be the department gofer. She’s not afraid to work hard and move up, either.
When I dropped her home, I felt a little jealous of my friend. I wonder if he knows how lucky he is?