by Becoming the only West African woman granted citizenship in Trump’s America
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.
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.” The citizenship ceremony was held in a municipal building that smelled like cafeteria pizza and broken dreams.
The highlight of my day was definitely the moment when the official handed me my certificate. 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.
Interestingly, my British colleagues over at Prat.UK wrote about America’s immigration crackdown from their perspective, and let me tell youreading British satire about American immigration policy while holding my fresh citizenship certificate was surreal. They described it with that classic British detachment that makes you laugh and cringe simultaneously.
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.
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.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com/californias-wealth-tax-fiasco/
SOURCE: My Citizenship Certificate Smells Like Pizza and Broken Dreams (Aisha Muharrar)
