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It was a sunny June morning in 1972 as I woke up and made my way to the living room. My dad was nervously wringing his hands as my mom fixed his tie. I watched as he put on his tweed suit jacket and wondered why he was not at work. It was a Friday, and he should have already been there.

I was turning five that summer and was looking forward to going to kindergarten after a year of preschool. My mom went to the kitchen to make my brother and I breakfast as my dad watched out the big picture window in the living room.

“What is dad watching for? Why isn’t he at work?” I asked my mom as she sat a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of me.

“Today is a big day for your dad. Your Uncle Timmy is picking him up to take him to Cleveland. He’s going to take his citizenship test to become a citizen of this country,” she said.

Dad had come to the United States on a student visa and when he graduated from high school, he obtained a green card that allowed him to stay indefinitely to work. It was finally time for him to take the long-awaited citizenship test.