âNaturalizationâ - A Motherâs Day 2017 Tribute
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Before the Oath Ceremony began, eagerly we called out, âAmma? Amma?! Amma!â Several faces, various shades of Citizens-elect, turned toward us. Apparently âAmmaâ means mother not only in our language, Telugu, but also in some other ones! From the mezzanine balcony, we smiled back towards their hopeful, nervous, curious eyes. Perched were we, above an entire floor of patient new citizens of these United States of America, in a time of dramatically new political energy, quizzical not merely to the rest of the world but to many of us Stateside.
Relief. Pride. Sadness. Deep sorrow. Confusion and anger mixed with twinges of what the abyss might feel like. This wasnât the jubilatory celebration we had hoped for Ammaâs Certificate of Naturalization as a newly admitted Citizen of our United States of America.
Iâve lived a story of your Amma â your mother. I wish to better understand the concept of Nation-States. Of that United States of America. And of you. Please ancestor, tell me in your own words. January 26th, 2017, an Oath Ceremony at the Heritage Center in Campbell in what was calledâŠSilicon Valley? Iâve lived your memories for so long, but wasnât prepared to speak directly to you. The Singularity technicians didnât think this was possible. In college, though, my Intro Epistemology professor theorized that being in a state of coma might somehow allow for an interaction like ours. She was dismissed by the scientific community as an outlier. Was she right? Or, is this just a glitch?
A brilliant glitch then, dear descendant. I thought Iâd died so long ago. Yet, here I am. This might be the only chance we get. So, letâs make this a good story!
We have advanced some since your days. I imagine kids of my time could write the textbooks used in your time. Iâll grant you that, dearest descendent. Believe it or not, Iâm not jealous. Iâm relieved that your generation is better off, and so grateful that your world is more evolved than ours. Thatâs how it should be. We have our problems, ancestor. Donât get me started. I can tell, descendant. Perhaps not my place yet to say that youâre privileged to have problems we in 2017 would have dreamed of having. To your Ammaâs Oath Ceremony please, ancestor!
Okay. Iâll take you back to how it was then, in the first 100 hundred days of 45âŠ45, not 44.
My Amma has spent more than half of her life outside her hometown Hyderabad, India, by way of almost three years with me in Canada in the era of Justin Trudeauâs father, Pierre. Then to the Ronald Reagan United States in that remote northeastern corner of Orono and Bangor, Maine. That was where my sister Rajani was born. To some locals, we were Black, the other kind of Indian, Middle Eastern, even the term tricky for many Latinxs: Hispanic. The very few other minorities and a handful of white allies helped us feel less isolated. We persisted in Maine by watching reruns of the Original Star Trek on our first color TV and by reading stories of proud Black Americans who made it possible for a brown family like mine to survive in those United States. MLK and Gandhi, together. 5 years later, 30 years before 2017, we Indian-Americans settled on another coast of stolen American Indian land as we began to proudly contribute to the diverse Santa Clara, California in that imbalanced cradle of disruptive technological and social innovation that is Silicon Valley, yet not immune to prejudices nor lacking in haters of its own.
She is my Amma. A mother from India who graciously encouraged both her children, socialized as different genders, to pursue whichever careers they wished, to make lives with loves of any backgrounds, to believe in and challenge science. An immigrant mother granting me, her loving son, permission to tell her story now amidst my own. To create art as resistance. Your model minority, my Amma is not. Â Her daughter (my beloved sister Rajani), the love of my life Nima, our friends and I would learn more about Amma over those next few days in late January 2017.
7 days since 45âs Inauguration. Tension in the air could not stifle a sunny day with blue skies in a pause between frequent rainstorms. For this Oath Ceremony was set in that beacon, the diverse Bay Area. Shades and origin stories, tapestries from all over the globe. Relatives and friends, perhaps sponsors and colleagues. Who knows, maybe a guest recently plucked from Match, Tinder, or Grindr. This is the Bay Area. Our hella Yay Area! Rising housing costs, liberal privilege, and all!
Did 45 appear on screen during one of the video presentations? No. Too Soon? Might there be additional requests for allegiances of loyalty to the State? Yes. Awkward, natural-born Americans didnât have to make such extra pledges, right? No, they didnât. Leftover videos produced under 44âs compassionate watch? Yes. Thank goodness!
Dr. Martin Luther King speaking at Selma. Dr. King pronouncing that he had a dream at DCâs National Mall. Good choices. RFK. Nice one. Didnât expect a clip of him. Me neither.
Then warm, thoughtful introductory speeches by officers of the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services to those who had recently succeeded in passing their Interviews and Tests. People on the verge of being deemed full American citizens when so many were under threat of being ripped away from their families simply over national status documentation, disregarding positive contributions to society. American: a term I use sparingly as people throughout the Americas rightfully are Americans. Yet a term that does require less time to state than Citizens of our United States of America. I suppose U.S. Citizens works too.
I feel your confusion, descendant. Sorry, ancestor, we didnât get such details in our lectures on the 45 era. Iâm trying my best to keep up! As was I, dear descendant!
So were your Amma and her fellow inductees called by name?
It wasnât quite that simple. Each new American citizen was called by their country of origin. After disavowing allegiance to their former homelands and their respective leaders, varied emotions in the crowd, they made the pledge of allegiance to the United States of America under its Constitution. The wonderful names of approximately 60 sovereign, United Nations-recognized countries would next uplift the acoustics of the Heritage Theater in the heart of Silicon Valley. Names of nations that outside the Heritage Theater were facing constant ridicule and mistrust in the new yet already tumultuous era of 45.
Names of nations vying to compete with the United States on the global stage. China! Names of nations borne of ancient civilizations sharing painfully colonial histories, peoples ripped from their natural courses by greed and fear, while teaching the world how to meditate. India! Thatâs my Amma! There she is! Names of nations scarred by exploitation and indoctrination into the clutches of internalized racism, internalized sexism, yet managing to remain vibrant and creative. Myanmar! Names of nations yearning to feel secure not only in their intellectual and health spheres, but in their very dignity to simply be who they are. Mexico! Names of nations pronounced hesitantly for lack of understanding their ways. Russia! Names of nations that sparked heartbreaking love from an audience, no, a tapestry of humanity cheering with all their trauma and hope for an existence all on this world deserve. Syria! Names of nations, some of which were assigned to borders shaped by former colonial masters, now fractured by the perils of Climate Change. Somalia! Names of nations we in the audience wished with our vigorous clapping would continue to remain names of nations in the decades to come. Ukraine! Names of nations, old friends of this one undergoing similar paradigm shifts. The United Kingdom!
When the announcer finished, she respectfully asked the newly welcomed citizens of our United States whether she had forgotten to declare any other country of origin. As if from a deleted scene from one of our familyâs favorite movies, âComing to America,â a proud black citizen of America stood from their seat, tall, spine poised while radiating gratitude and love â Zambia! Yes, I felt too! Yes, we in the balcony felt it too! A moment of lightness and profundity the likes of which we could not have dreamed when we entered the Heritage Theater. 45, not 44. In spite of that, a truly serendipitous close to the roll call of countries of origin.
Next, the United States Passport application presentation. Then, the Santa Clara County Registrar of Voters presentation. Armed & Intelligence Services recruitment? No. Peace Corps? No. But yes, a Human Trafficking info line presentation. âAs new Americans, you are the front lines against human trafficking.â Say what? Are natural born United States citizens asked to participate in such front lines?
That must have shifted the mood a bit, eh, ancestor? Somewhat, my dear descendant, but the palpably growing anticipation for the handing out of Certificates of Naturalization of the early 45-era United States of America drove us forward. Row by row. Person by person. My Amma patient, smiling. Calm yet increasingly concerned in expression. An immigration officer directed her outside. Rajani, Nima, our friends with balloons atop the balcony eagerly waited to greet my Amma downstairs with hugs. Me however, a feeling returning from 2001 during my own United States Naturalization process creeping back into focus. Ancestor, please tell me! One thing at a time, Beti. My own Amma calls me that, ancestor. I know, dear descendant.
Down to the lobby of the Heritage Theater, awaited a small handful of other new citizens yet to receive their Certificates of Naturalization of the United States. Okay, my Amma wasnât the only one in limbo. Pulses of chill and tension moved from the muscle fibers closest to the bones up toward the very limits of my skin. All mind and shoulders. Tense, tense shoulders. Of course, by chance, Amma was called last. Meanwhile, I related to our young guest, an elementary school student of rare brilliance, on her first attendance of a United States Citizenship Oath Ceremony, the truth of our feelings, of our brown feelings. A rare young being, one who could adapt to the realities of society. No need to have hidden her from our nerves. Her amazing sociologist mother, was standing by our side. Many children her age would be trapped inside airports worldwide during the coming weekend, in war zones, in drought-stricken legacies of Climate Change. Many, many more children in dire limbo everyday â simply wanting to be children, to become the humans they deserve to become.
At last. The Heritage Center nearly emptied. My Amma then heard that she needed to make an appearance at the Santa Clara County Immigration Office in San Jose the following Tuesday morning between 9am and 11am. 9-11, really, twisted joke of some sort?! I read about 9-11 in History class, ancestor. Good you studied such a critical event, another day that much changed in our world.
Although being told that Ammaâs Certificate hadnât been prepared during a recent push to get a few more applicants through the process â 44, thank you? â being under 45 meant not wanting to rest on our laurels. We brown folks knew how to salve hope with pragmatic patience until such a feat as the Certificate of Naturalization of those United States of America were to be in the wise hands of my Amma. Guess who were the very last ones to leave the Heritage Theater lobby? Ancestor, oh no. Not a prestigious honor after such an illustrious ceremony, but one that we bore. We had our balloons. A vibrant elementary school prodigy in our crew. My sister in town for the weekend all the way from her racial equity work in Baltimore. And two allies, leaders among women. A lovely fountain pool with an approximately 7-foot-tall United States flagpole temporarily stationed in front of the Heritage Theater.
I say, âOkay everybody, letâs take pictures as if we have the Certificate in hand! The same poses and smiles we would have next Tuesday, but we wonât be together like this next Tuesday!â Artists, we all. That day was our day. That flag- red stripes the blood of those not asked permission to shape our nation, blue box of our sadness over their still underappreciated sacrifices, white stripes and stars for those most privileged to lead and continue to extract most from our nation- that flag was our flag for that day. Certificate or no Certificate in Ammaâs new United States envelope. Families didnât get to have days like that often enough. Momentous celebrations. Simply time together.
Hugs. Hugs. Sighs. Sighs. Pose. Pose.
âPsycho Donuts, everyone?â Okay! Ancestor, really? A great Silicon Valley donut chain, real Bay Area â vegan options for Nima and me. Ooh - nice! So, we walked across Winchester Blvd to the other side of Campbell Ave. Oreo Madness donut for me. Fitting- black and white, dark and light. Race in America. Oath Ceremony Day. Giant plastic eyeballs hanging from the ceiling watching us eat donuts and drink coffee. The eve of 45âs Muslim Travel and Refugee Ban. An Executive Order to âprotect our nationâs security.â Ancestor, that sounded like a bunch of⊠Stop! Descendant, letâs not grant 45 the gift of our moreâŠsavory vocabulary, shall we? My bad, ancestor. I canât help it. That Executive Order was so racist, so Islamophobic! Agreed. More brown people, yearning for freedom and that American dream. Many of them not as fortunate as we were to even face the problem we were fortunate to be facing.
4 days of no Green Card in hand for my Amma. Why, ancestor? You see, dearest descendant, in order for my Amma to have been allowed entrance to participate in that dayâs Oath Ceremony she was ordered to hand over her United States Permanent Resident Green Card to U.S. Immigration officers. When Amma did this, as everyone else in line with her had to, she had understandably trusted that she would, by ceremonyâs end, be holding the more permanent and prized Certificate of Naturalization of those United States of America. Instead - Â a piece of Immigration and Naturalization Services letterhead with red ink scribbled on it. Ancestor, why didnât they return her Green Card to your Amma?! Beti, I donât know. I donât know.
Only a week into 45, we just couldnât assume anything as brown Americans. Even when some friends of ours would say that Amma must be âin the system.â That âat least we werenât Muslims.â Not nice of others to say such things, ancestor. As allies of Muslim-Americans, ourselves often targets of terrible Islamophobia, we would agree with you, dear descendant. Day by day into the infancy of the 45 administration, uncertainty the likes of which our United States wasnât accustomed to, perhaps since the days of Japanese-American internment camps in World War II.
A marathon, not a sprint, Beti. 45, not 44. Hence, the next day and a half my family and I reconnected with our larger universe. Recalibration.
The next day while Amma was back at her work, Rajani and I took a drive together from Sunnyvale to San Jose to visit our Dad. Through our hometown Santa Clara, passing near our old apartments and condo, Little League Baseball fields, by our alma maters- Sutter Elementary, Buchser Middle, and Santa Clara High. Ancestor, your Dad, the Professor, brought you to Canada then to the United States! Descendant, my Dad would be honored by you right now. Thanks for recalling him!
The morning after that, my sister and I reunited with Amma, who needed a fun diversion - as did we. Ancestor, Take me out to the ballgame? Which game was that? Americaâs pastime, my dear descendant. Baseball. A special event called Oakland Aâs FanFest. It was hosted by our favorite team, the Oakland Athletics to boost excitement for the 2017 season. Delicious, complimentary food from well-rated, East Bay food trucks. Talks by players, coaches, and the visionary new team president. Games for children. Green and Gold, the best colors in Major League Baseball. My Amma and her daughter, Rajani looked so relaxed, appreciating our intermission from politics, from identity, sitting alongside the marina at Jack London Square next to our glistening San Francisco Bay. A marathon, not a sprint.
Our intermission was nice, but we were getting excited to pick up lost pieces of our heritage. A short journey to nearby Berkeley for Rajani, Amma, and me to meet Nima for a timely excursion to further commemorate the imminent Certificate of Naturalization of those United States for Amma. A privilege for us to join that afternoonâs Berkeley South Asian Radical History Walking Tour. Our hosts, Barnali Ghosh and Anirvan Chatterjee, compassionate purveyors of uncommonly told stories and philosophies, humans whose knowledge of and solidarity with North American West Coast South Asian history would guide us through important parts of Berkeley, including through part of the lovely University of California campus. Streets we had walked many times before, restaurants and shops of so many niches and cultures, eclectic architecture with organically interspersed natural elements, street art, reminders of vast possibility that walking past hopeful undergrad and grad students brings. Breathing in the atmosphere of a city at the heart of California, a state that could be a nation unto itself yet even more now than ever a leader of resistance within our United States of America.
Thatâs wonderful, Ancestor! You and your family learned so much in that tour. South Asians in California in the late 1800s? The first true free speech movement in the United States? By Indian immigrants in Berkeley advocating for their fellow Indians in British-occupied India? Decades before the free speech breakthroughs of the 1960s Civil Rights Movement? Advocates for LGBTQIA rights who were South Asian, before 1990? Labor, feminist, Black, Indigenous, Latinx, Asian & Pacific Islander solidarity too?
Dear descendant, not often in our American history textbooks. Not your model minorities. Absolutely remarkable. Toward the end of our tour, some people checked their social media to see that while we were connecting with little known pasts and reattaching our lost tapestries of being Desi, of being South Asian, protests were trending on social media at San Francisco International Airport and at many other airports around the United States. Â
We ended the grand tour in front of Berkeley High School, a place where students had learned how to stand more compassionately for classmates who had faced threats in the weeks and months after 9/11. Inspired by those stories, we Berkeley South Asian Radical History Walking Tour participants coalesced our own stories. We shared our feelings that quickly and necessarily launched from reclaimed pasts to first attempts at grasping a future that seemed to be rewriting as hopes into fears. Executive Order- Â hour by hour on this day of the implementation of 45âs Refugee and Muslim Travel Ban. Executive Order. For some, a first and now unavoidable chance to publicly process complex emotions bubbling since before Election Day 2016.
Ancestor, did your Amma get up and speak in front of the group?! Why yes, descendant, she did. This woman raised in India not to speak up for fear of male reprisal, forced to wield a more subtle and relatively unseen resistance to patriarchy from her earliest memories in India. In her 20s to the white winters of Maine where she had to keep her head down amidst largely monochromatic local populations. Later to work hard for years in a Valley whose Silicon riches were not for all, in which challenging family, financial, and medical dynamics shaped a necessary stoicism that brought forth for Amma millennia of ancient Indian duty and patience. This woman, this nervously soon-to-be holder of her well-earned Certificate of Naturalization of those United States of America. This mother in front of her adult Indian-American children. This human being who had yearned for greater opportunities in a land to which, at that very moment, many around the world trapped in airports expected to enter with similar hopes of their own. Safety and opportunity. My Amma indeed spoke.
She started by graciously owning her nerves, soon easing into how keenly she sensed that her largely younger audience needed an elder motherâs optimism and faith in our diverse strength â strength to sustain the moral arc of history we shall be the authors of. My Amma had earned every right to publicly air her grievances and root her trauma. Instead, she gifted us that day with her love and faith. The commemoration of my Amma as a beloved #ResistanceAuntie. Proud children we were. We are. And given the largely younger group of undergrads and 20-40 somethings, a needed motherly love to all of that dayâs tour participants. Rajani, Nima, me, Amma â group hug afterward. Then, camaraderie with fellow tour goers in a way we hadnât anticipated. Gratitude.
Shortly after, my sister packed for her flight back to Baltimore, back to another beautiful city of diversity and resistance.
Then, quiet dread. 2 more days of Amma with no Green Card in hand nor her Certificate of Naturalization of those United States. 2 more days of 45 and his administration claiming fake news. 2 more days with growing protests at airports to support fully vetted and wonderful human beings seeking the same amber waves of grain and purple mountains majesty that were promised to us. 2 more days of fear from ICE deportation raids of fellow Americans. 2 more days of women fighting for equal pay. 2 more days of Jewish and Muslim Americans alike receiving hateful threats. 2 more days of disabled folks not able to consistently have access to their society at large. 2 more days of LGBTQIA people introducing themselves to those who had only seen a Queer or Transgender person as a television character.
2 more days of Rust Belt voters pining for jobs in dying industries and industries being overtaken by robots, longing for maintenance of their Affordable Care Act aka âObamacare.â 2 more days of opioid addiction. 2 more days of artists, laborers, doctors and nurses, teachers. 2 more days of global challenges, environmental damage. 2 more days of extinction of species worldwide by human impacts. 2 more days of Executive Orders and Senate Cabinet confirmations.
2 more days of joy, brilliance, suffering, injustice, and invisibility for Black and Inidgenous (Native) Americans - not dissimilar to the many tens of thousands of days that had come before on this land after the first European colonists fled religious persecution and economic disadvantage. All the while, with their fellow European diaspora, led by aristocrats and generals carving North America into those United States of America and that Canada.
2 days in the life of #MarginSci. 2 days pondering the new call to March for Science.
2 days in a series of weeks of too many murders of vibrant Black Trangender American women.
2 days closer to the apparent hate killing in Olathe, Kansas of my fellow Hyderabad-born engineer, the late Srinivas Kuchibhotla. A man like many of us, contributing and dreaming in the United States. âGo back to your country!â would be among final words Srinivas would hear, uttered by his white American-born murderer. Dare I say, by a terrorist?
2 days checked off the 2017 calendar before 45 would fire the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, James Comey. Ancestor, wasnât Mr. Comey investigating 45âs ties to Russia? Yep.
Thatâs another story. Back to January 31, 2017. Back to the palpable fear we felt in those first 100 hundred days of 45. Our familyâs 2 days wait were over. 9-11 in the morning. The Tuesday after Ammaâs Oath Ceremony had arrived. At last. Logic would dictate to remain calm, not to make assumptions. However, as citizens of the United States well-versed in the nuances, connoisseurs of the intricacies of immigration, as humans experienced in the rigors of generational trauma, we deeply felt the increased confusion, stress, and fear only 10 days into the 45 era. In periodic flights of panic with hopes of relief, Amma and I made the drive to San Jose. That was home for Amma. Where she had worked for many years, made community, raised children. Her land of birth foreign to her when she visited there. Her heritage with her no matter where she was.
Descendant, I really want you to feel what we did. Real-time. Ready? Yes please, ancestor.
We park. We exit the car. I ask Amma to take a breath. I take one myself as I feel nervous ghosts from my own visits as a young man in 2000 and 2001 to U.S. Immigration offices in Orange and Santa Clara Counties. Back when I was stressed over midterms and finals in Engineering School at UC Irvine. We enter the building.
Intimidation. Intensity. The U.S.A. The Bald Eagle. Probably a good, young man just doing his job at the front desk. But these are 45 times, not 44. âDo you have an appointment?â he tests us. Then, Amma starts to nervously say something, as if to express guilt for having courageously passed her U.S. Citizenship Interview and Test, eager to please because so many had ridiculed her, had looked down on her, had thrown slurs at her. That generational trauma, that fear we brown folks caress so closely. Quickly, as I had done many times since I was a child of this immigrant mother for whom English is a third language, I intervened as the fluent, charming leader of my family, âSir, thank you. My mom had her wonderful Oath Ceremony last Thursday in Campbell. She was told to come here today between 9 and 11 A.M.â Silent beat. Silent beat. Hearts flutter. Silent beat. Cold sweat inching towards pores. The periphery of eyesight closing in. Hopes. Hopes. âOk, then. Proceed through security check, then to the officer over there.â This first officer points behind and to his right.
Airport travel had more than prepared my brown Amma and the browner me for security check. Shoes off quickly, etc. Retrieve items from the bins. Go to the side seats to put items back in pockets and purse. Shoes and jackets back on. Oh yeah, my belt. Canât have my pants slip down, here of all places! No pat-down, ancestor? Youâre funny, descendant. Another attendantâs desk. This officer relaxed, benign in expression. âGo to the waiting room over there, place your documents in a box at Window X.â
Final round, ancestor? Anticipation as butterflies, my Amma the Madame but only of her own Butterflies on this precipice of momentous moments in her more than six decades of life on this planet. That feeling of hesitation, not to presume the finish line too far in advance. We arrive at said window and see a currently unattended bin. Amma excitedly places into said bin her critical red-pen marked papers from last Thursdayâs Oath Ceremony. Then she moves to a lobby seat. I. Donât. Move. One. Step. Away. From. Ammaâs. Papers. From. That. Crucial. Bin. Amma immediately returns to my side as we await.
The same immigration officer from the Heritage Center. Friendly, steady. She looks over her own red-pen handwriting from last Thursday following that Oath Ceremony. The officer goes to a file to her side. We see the framework for a Certificate of Naturalization of our United States of America. Looks very similar to my own. Yet, lacking a picture of my Amma in the appropriate box in the middle of the left side of the Certificate. Where is the picture of my Amma? Is this like when Immigration had lost the initial fingerprints they themselves had taken of me in my own Naturalization process during the transition from 42 to 43? Here I am again, yet 45, not 44.
âWe got a few more people through the process on this recent batch, including you. Forgive the delay.â My Amma smiles. I want to smile. Generational trauma is a fierce locking mechanism to the heart though. An adhesive appears from a desk drawer of the officer. This valued representative of our United States of America applies the adhesive to the back of Ammaâs small picture. Then she affixes Ammaâs picture to the middle of the side of her Certificate of Naturalization of those United States. A pen. The officer signs her portion. Now I wink at Amma. Then I smile with deepest gratitude and relief into the eyes of the immigration officer of those United States of America. (And 44, a fist bump to you). She tells Amma, âSign it, upon returning home, in black ink your portion.â Voila! Ammaâs brand-new Certificate of Naturalization of the U.S. of A.
The officer reminds Amma about soon obtaining Ammaâs U.S. Passport. A passport of which, by that morning, we knew had become more and more critical for world travelers into our United States of America, if they were so fortunate to have them. Mind you, 45âs folks had started questioning and, in many cases barring at airports, humans with not only Entry Visas (travel, work, student, and spousal) but also humans with U.S. Permanent Resident Green Cards. 45 had also started prying for social media passwords of many more crossing Stateside. It was with extra appreciation and solidarity, that Amma finally placed between her thumbs and her fingertips for the first time that which had almost become a myth in the preceding few days. Her Certificate of Naturalization of her United States of America!
âAmma letâs get outta here.â
Google Maps. Oh, wow, another branch of Psycho Donuts nearby. Yes! The lack of sleep the night before, nerves over obtaining Ammaâs long-awaited Certificate, and stress while watching the news about the experiences of good humans wrongfully blocked around the world from entering these same United States. This lack of sleep after such an emotional roller coaster required fair trade, local Northern California blend coffee. And our crossing the finish line demanded more donuts. And yes, Vegan ones for a very proud and very grateful son of an Amma who was now his fellow U.S. Citizen. âI will vote!â she exclaims. Cheers and congratulations on your newly enhanced Resistance powers, Amma. I love you.
A most fitting notification then flashes across my phone as we finish our late victory breakfast. âAmma, check it, the new teaser for the start of shooting for the pilot of Star Trek: Discovery!â Amma smiled in that way that told me she knew that the step she had just taken was an initiative to further help heal our society. On a day in a week of such social and political upheaval, not just as a new American Citizen, but as a human being aiming towards that utopian Final Frontier. That one day our descendants would, in peace, boldly go where no one has gone before.
Thatâs me, ancestor! Thanks for gifting family! Your memories make much more sense to me now. So we better get you out of your coma and back to deep space flight training, eh dearest descendant? Yes, please! Itâs amazing, ancestor, how much weight and pressure your society placed on national citizenship. Iâm a citizen of the Earth, passport not needed. Rest and recovery are your passports now, descendant, so that you soon take your rightful place as a Citizen of the Stars. You wonât need me out there. You got this! Amma would be proud of a young woman like you.
Copyright © 2017 Ravi Valleti. All Rights Reserved.
