ArcaMax

Since I was elected, a very official letter has repeatedly landed on my desk, announcing the upcoming naturalization ceremony and requesting my company. I had put it on my calendar twice; RSVP'd and had to decline once; but this time, I held firm that I would make it at least once this year. I needed to see it again, especially now.

The last time I was at a naturalization ceremony, my son was six weeks old. I remember sitting on the ground in the back of the convention center, nursing him, while a video of Obama played, welcoming new fellow Americans. My husband was near the front, about to take his oath.

Nine years later, I sat at the front, a living example of a new responsibility they would receive: voting for elected officials to represent their interests.

I stood and waved into the crowd as the judge recognized me as an elected at the beginning. But later in his speech, he pointed out that while rights came from their new citizenship, there were actions, such as voting for mayor and city council, that would give weight to their voices, regardless of the language they spoke.

And it's a weight I feel daily, and it's one I don't take lightly.

From 18 countries, 164 people became new United States citizens. The oldest was 88, who the judge recognized specifically. He left the stage to shake her hand and give her the certificate.

I scanned the crowd of new Americans and their family and friends and felt waves of emotion rock me. One woman spent the entire hour smiling. Gruff-looking men touched the edges of their eyes. I tried to keep it together, and I mostly did.

Some moments were artificially designed for tears, such as the projected video of a modified jazz version of "America the Beautiful." But what did me in was the humanity. The whooping of family members, the children who clung to their moms as they crossed the stage together to shake hands with the judge, and the nervous adjusting of clothing that every single person did as they lined up before me. I watched them walk out of liminality and into a new future.

Of course, there were some references to our current troubles, the judge solemnly saying that "our nation isn't perfect." This was highlighted later as the video with President Joe Biden started after the oath for the 164 applicants had taken place. A man, who had stood to the applause when being recognized as a veteran, grabbed the hand of his new American citizen partner and muttered some choice words regarding Biden's intelligence as he stormed out.

But the judge did not end with a lament on imperfection; he carried a promise of hope for everyone in attendance who had worked so hard to get to that moment -- that each new citizen had the opportunity to help make it better.

I have been thinking about hope, how to breathe life on embers of it in your soul. You can dig through the soot, daring to be burned by what you want your fingers to find and only to be left pawing in the darkness. Then, as a distraction from the social media soot, a line from the radio caught my ear, like my ancestors whispering. A podcast about farming had a clear line in German: Hoffnung stirbt zuletzt. Hope dies last.

I felt my soul burn just a little brighter when I heard that, and I felt it burn a little more at the ceremony, with each face a torch of hope.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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