This is the oath that I took when I became an American citizen twenty years ago, in June, 1991, in Boston:
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.
It is recorded that some version of an oath of allegiance was first used on May 30, 1778 at Valley Forge during the Revolutionary War.
Despite the antiquated language, it meant something to me when I took this oath. Perhaps it was because I was a young person full of ideals about living a life of service to others. Or, it's because I'd never taken an oath before or since. Perhaps it was because I was standing with a group of people who also appeared to be profoundly moved by the experience of becoming an American citizen.
In the auditorium that day were people from all continents. It really looked like the global village. It was ethnically diverse, but uniform in spirit, a sea of lit-up faces emanating hope and happiness. Many came with their families and took photos. I was alone, not appreciating at the time the meaning of this moment. Not until I was standing up and taking the oath did I understand that this moment embodied the dream conceived thousands of miles away by my parents who had yearned for freedom in South Korea, a country ruled by a military dictatorship and (still) technically in a civil war with North Korea.
After that transformative moment on Beacon Hill, even while I studied political theory for several years as a graduate student at Oxford, the power of those words began to fade. I thought a lot about politics, but there was little emotional content. It was mostly academic.
After leaving grad school, I got focused on two big goals: searching for a satisfying career and, with equal energy, searching for love. These twin goals occupied a lot of space in my head and heart. I fell into the kind of self-absorption that was the new normal in the 90's. I remember thinking that my angst was truly unique to me; but I realize now that scenes from my life played out like episodes of Ally McBeal or Sex and the City.
The civic alarm bells went off in my head with the "butterfly ballots" and "hanging chads" in the 2000 presidential election.
Our democracy seemed to hang in the balance while we got to know the exotic details of electoral administration in Florida. Upon seeing those badly designed ballots, our democracy seemed so fragile and flawed. It was enough to make you weep. That's it?! We're going to decide who will be the most powerful leader of the world based on those dubious-looking pieces of paper? It just can't be. It was worse than that. The decision was made in an even more dubious Supreme Court ruling.
Unfortunately, instead of getting engaged when the alarm bells went off, I just got cynical. I often wonder, if I'd known then everything that I know now about the consequences of the flawed Supreme Court decision that determined the outcome that election, what would I have done? I think I would have poured my heart into getting people out on the street. Imagine if we had all done that. But, we didn't. We stayed quiet. We were asked to stay quiet. We were told that being quiet and passive was the patriotic thing to do. And we did. We stayed quiet. Eerily quiet. Why?
It was as if we made a Faustian pact with the devil. We achieved a peaceful transition of power, but we sold our soul. I think I still have post-traumatic stress from this experience.
For the next four years, we acquiesced to the regular calls by our national leadership to be silent. Just following the leadership was the patriotic thing to do when we reacted to the attacks of 9-11, when we went to war against Afghanistan, and then, when we went to war against Iraq. (It's so unclear what we were and still are doing in Iraq, I can't even figure out the right preposition in that sentence. Against Iraq? In Iraq? For Iraq?)
The alarm bells were still ringing, but muted by fear into a constant low-decibel hum and molded by legalized transgressions into our lives by our government. On October 26, 2001, Congress passed the USA Patriot Act (The truly ironic full name is Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism Act of 2001. It was renewed on May 26, 2011.) The Patriot Act tied a tight bow around the now Orwellian political climate in the US after 9-11.
It was official: being silent was the patriotic thing to do. There was no moment of meaningful consent -- only quiet submission -- to this new relationship with our government.
In 2004, I was living in Los Angeles kicking around cafes writing screenplays and plays. I looked for cafes with a good balance of people with their shiny laptops looking industrious and people who appeared to be former aspiring actors who no longer went to auditions, but couldn't stop dreaming of being "discovered." This latter group fascinated me. They seemed to live everyday hoping that some chance encounter would change their lives. Life was an ongoing audition because anyone could turn out to be that someone who could make them a star. Some of us with the shiny laptops appeared to be busy working on various "projects," but I realize now that most of were just daydreaming.
At that time, as a nation, we collectively went into a dazed dream. Many politically minded people like me did little other than fantasize that someday someone would save us.
Not all of us, of course. Many responded rightly and courageously with passionate protests against the wars. These efforts though became exercises in futility because so many of us chose to sleep through it. On the whole, we were avoiding dealing with the reality of our emotions, the horrors of the wars and the unthinkable future if we are wrong about these decisions.
In 2004, with the unbearable photos from Abu Ghraib, I was jolted out of my civic slumber and cynical shell. The muted alarm bells were now screaming at the highest decibel: Wake up! It was tempting to try to return to sleep, but it became impossible.
With those photos came an unbearable realization that the Iraq War is based on a terrible lie and we'd created a hell on earth. Instead of daydreams, I had nightmares for days that I was a prisoner in Abu Ghraib.
This is what I realized when I was awakened: As citizens of a nation with the most powerful military in the history of mankind, we have a special duty to participate. The world is counting on us. Furthermore, being patriotic was not about silently saluting the national leadership. It is about thinking as an individual, having confidence in our innate abilities as human beings and speaking up. To actively participate in the governance of this country.
This is at the heart of the oath of allegiance and my own understanding of what it means to be a US citizen.
We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.
This government has legitimacy only because We the People make it so with our consent, participation and intent to be part of a more perfect union.
Democracy is not some service provided by our government that we passively consume. It is a vital relationship. A sacrosanct agreement between the government and each individual citizen. Every relationship is different, but too many of us have been passive in our relationship with our government. The foundation, the terms, of our relationship with our government has become confused over time.
I believe this message from Franklin D. Roosevelt is critical to clarifying the basic nature of our relationship.
Let us never forget that government is ourselves and not an alien power over us. The ultimate rulers of our democracy are not a president and senators and congressmen and government officials, but the voters of this country.
If owners leave their houses vacant for too long, the houses become vulnerable to squatters taking over. I'm afraid we have left the people's house, the United States Congress, largely vacant -- returning once every two-to-four years -- for decades.
As a result, in the people's house right now, we have a bunch of squatters from K St -- ruthless profiteers and yeomen of the ruling elite -- running amok drunk on power and stuffing money into campaign coffers. We have to find a way back into our house and reside there -- make it our home. That is, in fact, our duty as citizens. (The idea that Congress needs to eventually become a home and not battleground will be the subject of another essay.)
I take my duty as a US citizen very seriously now. I really feel that my country needs me. In fact, it needs all citizens to "perform work of national importance." Right now, performing work of national importance involves reoccupying our government and cleaning it up and kicking out the squatters shouting:
Out with corruption! In with We the People!
I have sworn an oath to this. Moreover, I am awake and there is no turning back. I am a born-again citizen.
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