Last year I stood in a packed Brooklyn courtroom, held up my right hand, and with the fingers of my left hand crossed firmly behind my back, I solemnly swore that ‘I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign potentate’.
I became a new US citizen, but a mildly depressed one. I felt gutless—as if I had chickened out in the face of September 11 paranoia. As I prepared for the ceremony, I asked myself: What rational US resident would want to test their worst nightmare of landing at JFK airport with a foreign passport while his wife and two children carried American passports?
I could imagine the tap on the shoulder at JFK: ‘Mr Hamilton, please say goodbye to your family, kindly take a seat in this small, flourescent-lit room. And please ignore that orange jump suit on the hook behind the door.
‘Now, Mr Hamilton, the records show that in 2003 you made two donations of $100 to Churches for Middle East Peace and another of $100 to Foundation for Middle East Peace, which are organisations that espouse and fund pro-Arab causes …’
Aside from the paranoia, I’ve lived for more than 20 years in Brooklyn, and the only ‘foreign potentate’ that came to mind was my mother. I couldn’t escape the vague feeling of shame that the whole point of the citizenship ceremony was to renounce her. I felt that I was betraying my allegiance to a distant way of life that she represented, one that is preserved in my decent memories of silver birch trees on a front lawn, side tables crammed with puddings, and the latest news from the Jesuit Mothers’ Club.
There was one important consolation to my betrayal. I had gained the vote. And in November 2004, my son will cast his first vote, too. I look forward to helping drive the disastrous George W. Bush from office.
I had voted for the first time in 1966. It was a Federal election. I vaguely remember walking from the university to a polling booth inside a red-brick school near Rathdowne Street, Carlton.
As we left the hall, a black Commonwealth car pulled up to the kerb, and out stepped the rumpled Arthur Calwell, the Honourable Member for Melbourne Ports. His large face was famously jowly. It was dominated by a crooked, bulbous nose and a big natural smile. This was to be his final