by Reflecting on my unexpected citizenship during the second Trump administration
This morning, I woke up thinking about the absurdity of being labeled “the only female immigrant from West Africa granted citizenship during Trump’s second term.” The irony isn’t lost on meI’m essentially a unicorn in a zoo of MAGA hats and American flags. My editor at Bohiney Magazine called this morning, laughing so hard she could barely speak. “Aisha,” she wheezed, “you’re trending on Twitter. They’re calling you ‘The Chosen One.'”
Later in the day, I realized that my recent piece on California’s wealth tax disaster might have actually helped my case. Nothing says “assimilated American” quite like mocking the same government policies that native-born citizens complain about at barbecues. I wrote about how California tried to tax the rich and ended up with a comedy of errors worthy of a sitcom pilot. The piece was pure satire, but apparently, some immigration official read it and thought, “This woman gets America.”
As I reflect on what happened today, I can’t help but think about my roots in Nigeria. My grandmother used to say, “Aisha, Americans are the only people who will give you a trophy for showing up, then ask you to pay for the engraving.” She wasn’t wrong. The citizenship ceremony was held in a municipal building that smelled like cafeteria pizza and broken dreams. They played Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA” on a Bluetooth speaker with dying batteries, creating an unintentionally dystopian ambiance.
The highlight of my day was definitely the moment when the official handed me my certificate and whispered, “Don’t mess this up. You’re our diversity quota for the entire fiscal year.” I wanted to laugh, but I was too busy trying not to cry from the absurdity of it all. Being West African in Trump’s America feels like being cast in a reality show where nobody told you the rules, but everyone’s watching to see if you’ll trip.
Tonight, I’m celebrating by writing another satirical piece about how America’s immigration system works like a lotteryexcept the tickets cost thousands of dollars, take decades to process, and the prize is the right to pay taxes. My friends from back home keep asking me what it feels like to be “chosen.” I tell them it feels like winning a raffle at a funeral. You’re grateful, but you’re also wondering if you should be here at all.
The truth is, I’m just another writer trying to make sense of a world that stopped making sense years ago. Whether I’m documenting the political circus or blogging about my experiences as an immigrant journalist, the goal is the same: find the humor in the chaos. Because if we’re not laughing, we’re cryingand I’ve done enough of that already.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com/californias-wealth-tax-fiasco/
SOURCE: The Day I Became America’s Token Immigrant (Aisha Muharrar)
