Today, I am an American

By Marciela Rebelo
Reader Contributor

That’s what the banner standing next to the flag read. 

Gray walls, paneled ceiling, fluorescent lights, plastic chairs, people wearing hoodies and hats indoors. American, indeed. 

I chose a chair on the front row and felt… something as I read the “reserved” sign on it. 

The U.S. welcomes one of its newest citizen, Mariela Rebelo. Courtesy photo

I’d been invited to this ceremony by an official letter that resembled the many others I’ve gotten in the past six years. What we, going through the process of immigration, call “Notice Of Action(s).” Basically, they are letters with our information such as our case number, and concise yet amazingly unspecific wording indicating they’ve taken some sort of action.

I’ve always been a “by-the-rules” person. In fact, I’m one of those weirdos who loves doing paperwork. There’s something exciting about figuring our hoops and loops in different languages and cultures, and I do truly get a kick out of bureaucracy. So much so, that almost a decade ago I dove headfirst into the epitome of slow, complicated bureaucracy when I decided to move to Italy to claim my Italian citizenship (which I have the blood right to, as a direct descendant born in Argentina). 

Add the fact I didn’t know the language back then, and you end up with the most complicated real-life escape room, and a whole lot of fun. Fantastic food, Italian lifestyle and its many joys, and new language learnt were just some of the many, many cherries on top of something I had always wanted to do. 

But today, I am an American. 

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still Italian and you bet your sweet behind I’m still Argentinian (it’s literally impossible to renounce Argentinian citizenship, not that anyone in their right mind would want to stop being part of the best culture in the world, nay, the universe). 

But today, I am also an American. 

Unlike my Italian citizenship, the American one is something I never thought I’d go for. Honestly, up until 2017 I never even wanted to come visit the USA, in spite of having visited more than 50 countries at the time. I never got the appeal, could never really see “the greatness.” Until one day, at a bus station in Costa Rica, I met who would eventually become my husband. Spoiler alert: he’s American. 

Two years into dating, we were ready to move to Europe, but the business he had just started took off and surprise, surprise, we needed to live in Idaho. Hence, my immigration process started. 

First with a K-1 visa (better known as the “90 day fiancée visa,” popularized by a TV show), then with my temporary green card and, finally, with my permanent green card.

There were copious piles of paperwork along the road; several interviews in Buenos Aires; and, in the U.S., binders of pictures, letters, screenshots, bank statements, receipts and anything else you can think of putting in a binder when the American government tasks you with a simple quest: “Prove to me you are who you say you are. If you fail, you won’t be able to live with the person you love. You have one shot. Go.” 

It was a process that took time and many, many thousands of dollars. I was lucky. My case was straightforward: neither my husband or I had ever been married, had no children, no debt, no criminal records. Argentina and the U.S. are “friends” (?), and the Argentinian bureaucracy is so streamlined that I can deal with it in my sleep. 

Slam dunk, no lawyers needed. Just me, my patience and the one printer in the entire world that, believe it or not, actually prints when prompted to. 

Two and a half years into the process, I was granted a permanent resident card: a permit to live in the U.S. for as long as I’d like, commonly known as a “green card.” 

In 2021 I was an Argentinian, who was also an Italian, who was also an American permanent resident. I was content, that was supposed to be enough. 

But today, I am an American. 

I never planned to go for the U.S. citizenship. My permanent residency was perfect. Even though I got to appreciate the beauty of the USA — and most of its residents — I couldn’t erase from my mind the clarity with which American culture, propaganda, military activity and the government had been shown to me my entire life, growing up in Argentina — a country deeply focused on education (free and accessible, as it should be, of course) and traveling all around the world for nearly a decade. 

For the rest of the world, America is not what Americans have been led to believe, and that has become more and more obvious in the past few months. 

And that’s why, today, I am an American. 

I was shocked at the election results last November. I received dozens of messages from my American friends apologizing for it, even though they had tried to do their part. My response to all of them: What these people represent and preach, is not what I have experienced in my nearly six years living here. 

Today, as I was about to become an American, I sat on my plastic chair, next to a lady from Scotland who had held a green card for 40 years. Forty years, until last November changed her mind. 

I found myself wishing this decision had come from a different place. I felt a tear run down my cheek, and a pit starting to form in my stomach. 

There’s no escaping the fact that this decision was made out of fear. Fear of this Orange Dude waking up on the wrong side of the bed one day and signing an executive order to get rid of green card holders. Fear that this Napoleon Complex Clown would finally convince my in-law I’m a bad hombre. Fear that I would be in a situation where I would have to explain myself to “authorities” for no reason. Fear that I would be criminalized, like many others. Fear that I would no longer be welcomed. 

But then, I drew my attention back to the sign on my chair. Reserved. Reserved for me. Reserved for this immigrant, South American nonetheless, and a (very opinionated) woman on top of it all. 

Reserved. 

They were waiting for me. They greeted me with a smile and a genuine, “How are you doing today?” They told me they were taking my green card from me, but they were giving me something way better. They thanked me for coming and driving in this bad weather. They, the Americans. 

The first thing I noticed was his tie, and I thought he must have been wearing it since at least the early 2000s. Gray/white hair, bright eyes, a big smile and above all, a kind face. Officer Schneider preceded the ceremony. He started by saying the audio system wasn’t working, so we wouldn’t be playing the “Star-Spangled Banner” (phew, I thought — no offense, I just find it annoying). 

I saw that as a little wink from the universe, and I noticed the pit in my stomach shrinking. I looked around, there were about 20 of us, all of them in their “reserved” chairs. I could tell they had put care and attention into today: ties, heels, makeup, dress pants. The rows in the back were occupied by their friends and family members. I spotted my American Boy among them, and a sweet flashback returned me to seeing him for the first time at that bus station in San Jose de Costa Rica. The pit was gone. 

Officer Schneider started talking again and walked us through the process. He read us a letter meant for us, welcoming us to the USA, saying how honored they were we were joining. 

This one line in particular jumped out of his mouth and filled the room in giant neon lights wrapping us all and begging for it to be immortalized: “We expect you to keep practicing your culture, we the United States of America embrace all and cannot wait to try your food, listen to your music, dance your dances and learn about you.” 

Today, I am that American. Not the one spreading hate and fear in the news, social media or the White House. Not the one dividing us. Not the one who’s so incredibly individualistic that they become a walking irony. Today, and all days on, I am the American I know. 

On Nov. 6, 2024, I replied to my friends in Washington: 

“… [A]t the end of the day, we’re still the same. And it’s people like you, with your kind gesture of checking in and caring, that makes our reality. Not the hypothetical scenarios of things that may happen in the future. Whatever that is, we’ll get through it. After living here for almost six years, I’ve only interacted with a small handful of people who truly represent what Trump preaches. Everyone else I’ve met is just an overall good person, trying to live life with kindness and peace. All I know is that today I walked to yoga, enjoyed the beautiful fall we’ve been having in Sandpoint, soaked up the sunshine and my good friends checked on me.” 

Officer Schneider started naming countries and, one by one, people got on their feet. 

Argentina. 

Cambodia. 

Canada. 

Colombia. 

I looked around; another tear, this time from a place of compassion, company, love, oneness. 

Italy. 

Mexico. 

Russia. 

Scotland. 

Ukraine. 

There I was, next to my fellow new Americans. All of us, standing as one.

Today, we are Americans. Today, and all days on, we are one. 

Mariela Rebelo is a Sandpoint resident and American.