The Queen and my citizenship
When I was twelve I had a wonderful history teacher with the somehow ancient name Esther Ewald. This was in central Illinois. She was old and round, only five feet tall, and very kind. She was also strict, partly by reputation: on her wall there was a display of ‘discipline paddles’, shaped like cricket bats, presented to her (with affection) by past pupils. Would she ever use them? She believed in studying current events alongside history, and we were quizzed every week about what was going on in the world, which at the time was Vietnam and Watergate.
Miss Ewald collected political portraits (head and shoulders) from the covers of news magazines, and posted them in a long line of twenty or thirty on the classroom wall, like a cornice around the ceiling. All the world’s newsworthy leaders were represented on that wall. When the teaching paused, we looked at them. There were famous ones like Mao, Nixon, Golda Meir, Anwar Sadat, and forgotten ones like Carl Albert (Speaker of the House) and Shirley Chisholm (the first African American to seek the presidency). Of course the Queen was there. Sometimes we’d arrive to find a portrait had been replaced by a new one (resignation, death). This is how Miss Ewald conveyed the passing of history. Over 50 years I’ve thought of the disappearing portraits every time a leader passes.
At twelve I didn't expect to emigrate and then spend more than half my life under a monarchy. More likely I’d live under the rule of Shirley Chisholm. Something else would have surprised me: how monarchy makes it easier to be an immigrant. You’re allowed to take part in something profound, but it doesn’t make any eccentric demands on you.
A month ago the Home Office accepted my application for citizenship. This was great news, something I’d put off for too long. And it was just in time: being new, I’m not choosy about what monarch I live under, but I’m pleased I was accepted as a citizen while the Queen’s portrait still hung on Miss Ewald’s wall.
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