Feature
First-generation Romanian, again
By: Cristina Merrill
When Cristina Merrill arrived in the United States in 1983, Romania's communist regime stripped her of her citizenship. Now the road to reclaiming her birthright is almost at an end
Posted: 25/11/2007
The 'persoane fara catateani' passport Romania's government gave her when she left in 1983.
I felt my throat seizing up with emotion as I read the oath for Romanian citizenship. Even as I recited the words intently and conscientiously, my mind wandered back in time. More than 30 years ago I took a similar oath when I was made a red-kerchief 'pioneer' in communist Romania. Take away the high heels, add two braided pigtails with oversize ribbons (and a few decades, here and there) and you could have had the same little girl who seeks to please adults through a delivery comme il faut. My mother's presence at my side added to the comfort of the moment.
And yet, the feeling passed quickly as I finished reading, signed the statement and shook hands with the head of the Romanian Consulate in New York. This was a most peculiar situation: I had just regained my Romanian citizenship after almost 25 years, in the United States - and four long years after filing the application. The next day I bid farewell to my parents and flew back to Bucharest, where I live. At work, colleagues welcomed me back as a "full Romanian", while suppressing incredulous smiles as I explained how happy I was to be one of them by right.
The fact is I am happy - and avenged. I was born here and by today's constitution, citizenship is my inalienable right. That it was taken away from me and my parents when we left in 1983 to settle in the United States, and especially because bureaucracy delayed the restitution by four years, has made me want to fight for it even harder. The surreal communist system - so unfair and demonic - made traitors out of anyone who dared question it. Of course I am grateful that a democratic Romania is slowly making amends, though it isn't easy being a first-generation new Romanian, after undergoing similar pains as a first-generation American.
The unexpected fall of the regime in 1989 opened up opportunities people like us hadn't envisioned. The choice to either stay put or return to the homeland posed an interesting dilemma. We remained, mostly because we were flying on the fast-Americanisation trajectory people like us followed during the Reagan years: right before the Revolution took place, we became US citizens. I was in my last year of college at Harvard, dating the man I was going to marry.
Life and career followed, seemingly naturally, even though as I reached my late 20s subconsciously I began what to some looked as if I was sabotaging my American identity, and implicitly, my American success story. When I married, I kept my Romanian maiden name as a middle name - which is not done in this country and will now cause even more delays in getting my Romanian passport. Several years later, to the horror of my parents and those who couldn't believe I was ending the fantasy life I had entered upon my marriage to the scion of a wealthy, blue-blooded family, I turned my nose up at the gilded cage I was to inhibit as Mrs Merrill. It wasn't just the boredom of suburbia I ran from. This was good old American wealth I tossed away, and the chance to cavort with the cream of American society. In truth, I was afraid that the man I loved, who was rigidly following in the footsteps of his traditional father, was expecting me to become like his mother. I didn't know how to play bridge and make crustless sandwiches. I didn't want to, either. Culturally, we were worlds apart.
As I entered my thirties, I realised that even more than riches and success, it was important to know where I came from. My restlessness, I know now, came from wanting to return to the old country and reconnect with who I used to be. In August 2003 I applied for my Romanian citizenship at the New York consulate, thinking that it would be a simple process. Shortly after, a journalism-international affairs fellowship brought me for a two-year immersion study back to Romania, to write about this country in the transition from communism and in essence help bridge the two cultures. I promised my teary-eyed mother, as I left New York (as she promised her own sad mother when she left Romania) that I would return soon. I came for two years, have stayed four and don't know when I will return to the States. Or whether I will stay in Europe indefinitely.
When it appears in Monitorul Oficial, you know its official ... the Romanian government document confirming Cristina Merrill's returned citizenship.
The process was everything one would expect in Romania. Endless lines, lost documents, illogical approaches to simple matters. After calls, letters, interventions (yes, I even tried a personal connection to see why this was taking so long), I learned that the motion to award me citizenship had been approved by a special committee and was to be published as a governmental order, signed by the prime minister, and published in the Official Monitor - but even then the prize was not within my grasp; I had up to six months to take the oath. The catch: since I had filed the paperwork abroad, I ought to take the oath in New York, or risk having it taken away. Don't laugh: one of the four people who received their Romanian citizenship last month had lost it twice - once during communism, after defecting, and then again when the citizenship law changed under President Iliescu, in 1991. At times I came close to giving up, especially upon noticing that people from the Republic of Moldova had preference at the citizenship lines. I am all for enlarging Romania at the expense of the Russians but let's not forget about those born of Romanian parents.
I have no time to rest on my Dacian, or is it Roman, laurels: I was granted citizenship as a Romanian living abroad, which means that my passport will say explicitly that. If I want a regular Romanian passport, I ought to ask for repatriation (now that's a word more appropriate for the Holocaust, no?) Either way, my status as a divorcée nicely complicates things. For one, there is the problem with my middle initial on the US passport, which simply doesn't exist in Romania (one suggestion is changing my birth certificate to reflect the initial, even though at birth I would have had no way of knowing I would be a Merrill one day). Also, my divorce needs to be registered in Romania, which means I need to have an official copy of the divorce judgment, stamped and apostilled by the Secretary of State - no, not Condoleeza, but whoever fills that function in the State of New York. This process will take more time and may even require a lawyer. One official suggested that I shouldn't have declared my divorce, for expediency's sake.
As much as I complained that the bureaucracy which delayed the return of my Romanian citizenship was ridiculous, I now think that the extra time served me well to find my roots again. My Romanian language improved - I can even curse like the best of them now. I didn't find the country I left, for today's Romania is far different, fortunately, from what it was 25 years ago. Not that it doesn't drive me crazy, even as it improves: the insane drivers, the homeless dogs, the rush for riches, gadgets, corner-cutting and quick success. Of course, this unquenchable thirst for goods and lack of order is typical of young democracies. I shudder when I sometimes recognise Romania's unpleasant past in tyrannical people, especially in bosses of a certain age who grew up indoctrinated, but knowing enough young Romanians who have the right democratic instincts assures me that Stalinism has no future here.
What surprised me is that I caught on fast to what I must have longed for subconsciously (and which for lack of a better term sounds like a cheap expression Russian brides use when seeking to hook Westerners online) - a 'soul connection' with Romanians. They are zany, flawed, contrarian, maddening and impractical, but then I am one of them as well. The hard part is not being able to make my friends understand my American identity, experience, or achievements but this is the price the first-generation immigrant pays. It is for this reason that I would never give up my US citizenship, for that too is my right. I hope I will never have to choose between the two countries, because that would only serve to divide a self I worked hard to piece together.
If I had time to think about what all of this means holistically, I would conclude that perhaps I am meant to build bridges between my two countries. Alas, I do not have the luxury to ponder. As they say, we live in Romania, and it consumes all our time. I must go fix that middle initial. Or get rid of the last name?
The process was everything one would expect. Endless lines, lost documents, illogical approaches to simple matters ... After calls, letters, interventions (yes, I even tried a personal connection to see why this was taking so long), I learned that the motion to award me citizenship had been approved by a special committee and was to be published as a governmental order, signed by the prime minister, and published in the Official Monitor - but even then the prize was not within my grasp; I had up to six months to take the oath. The catch: since I had filed the paperwork abroad, I ought to take the oath in New York, or risk having it taken away. Don’t laugh: one of the four people who received their Romanian citizenship last month had lost it twice - once during communism, after defecting, and then again when the citizenship law changed under President Iliescu, in 1991. At times I came close to giving up, especially upon noticing that people from the Republic of Moldova had preference at the citizenship lines. I am all for enlarging Romania at the expense of the Russians but let’s not forget about those born of Romanian parents.
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