Samuel Lustgarden.
Per her wishes, my grandmother was buried in the Marine Corps uniform she had proudly worn in World War II. The Corps Honor Guard transported her casket to the cemetery, stood by for a solemn salute, and presented a folded American flag to our family.
I remember touching the eagle, globe and anchor affixed to her dark green uniform before the burial. I admired her patriotism.
She was proud of America, and could recite the names of every U.S. president in order as easily as others say the alphabet. There was a coffee table book about the Marine Corps in the living room, an American flag flew over the front door of her meticulously maintained suburban home, and Rush Limbaugh ranted on the radio.
My grandmother’s name was Johanne Auguste. She was born in 1921 in Solingen, Germany. As a toddler, her parents immigrated to the United States through Ellis Island. A cousin took them in at their home in Staten Island. Her parents went to night school to learn English and both found jobs.
She was an only child. I often wonder what a kid thinks about when leaving everything — a home, culture, food, neighbors, extended family, and her own language — for an unknown, faraway place.
Joanne, as was her anglicized name, went from only speaking German to helping her parents read the mail, pay bills, fix dinner, and complete their English homework.
In 1941, her father stood before the U.S. District Court in Newark, New Jersey, and became a naturalized citizen; shortly thereafter, her mother did the same. My grandmother was 19 at the time, and I imagine her standing with pride for her parents’ accomplishment. Americans at last!
Five decades passed before my grandmother applied for a U.S. passport to travel out of the country. There were delays and in letters and communications with her representatives, she appeared confused about why the government wasn’t providing her the travel document. Her Congressional representatives seemed perplexed as well.
Recently, I was digging through old family records and learned why they were so unhelpful. In 1993, despite her parents’ naturalization, the U.S. Department of State made a final declaration based on Section 314 of the Nationality Act of 1940 that read:
“...a child born outside of the United States of alien parents becomes a citizen of the United States upon the naturalization of both parents if such naturalization takes place while the child is under the age of eighteen years and child is residing in the United States at the time of the nationalization or thereafter begins to reside permanently in the United States while under the age of eighteen years.
“In view of the above, it does not appear that you have a claim to United States citizenship since you were over eighteen years of age at the time of your father’s naturalization. Therefore, in the absence of any evidence to show that you acquired United States citizenship in any other manner, a passport cannot be issued to you at this time.”
The best they could give my grandmother was a refund of her $55 application fee. Watching her parents become citizens at 19 effectively left her stateless.
America is a story about the migration of peoples — forced and volitional, documented and undocumented. It includes Native Americans and their movement across the Americas — and then forcible marches into smaller and smaller lands. It includes Black people who were forcibly removed from their homeland and enslaved. It includes Jews fleeing the Holocaust, desperately seeking safety. It includes Europeans moving to America en masse in search of better opportunities. It includes Latino families from all over Central and South America seeking a safer and better life in their adopted homeland.
Throughout all of this history, many have long lived in limbo about their documentation while seeking refuge in America. Now, I realize my grandmother was one of them.
I don’t know if or why she never sought to become a citizen in all those years. My grandmother was a rule follower. She admonished those who cheated and took shortcuts throughout life. She would have likely told anyone who asked that it is great America has immigrants and immigration, but you have to come here legally.
She’s no longer here to speak her truth. I can only speculate.
I think my grandmother genuinely believed she was a citizen by proxy of her naturalized parents. The rules about who got to become naturalized as a result of their parents’ immigration status were murky at the exact time my great-grandparents took their oaths. I doubt the provisions of the Nationality Act of 1940 were dinnertime conversation for the family.
But the sadder, harder possibility is that over time my grandmother developed a deep shame. The government effectively told her she did not have the right to citizenship or a U.S. passport. My grandmother — the rule follower — wasn’t “legal.” This, despite her service to the country and years living and working here. I’m sure this deeply pained my grandmother and might have dashed any effort after all those years to become a citizen.
She never talked about it. When I told my mother about the letter from the State Department she was shocked. In all the paperwork and boxes, she had never read this one. My grandmother’s own child never knew. I never knew.
My grandmother died in 2007, never leaving the country. After 83 years in America, she identified wholly as an American. Sadly, she passed without this country ever recognizing her as one.
Samuel Lustgarten is a licensed psychologist practicing in Madison.
