Tag Archives: Dual Citizenship

Jus Sanguinis: The Old Certificate

I know.
I fucking did it again. A long time and no posts.

But, I have finally made some time, so here’s what’s going on:

I received my bisnonno’s marriage certificate on either April 29th or 30th, I believe; I didn’t check my mail on the 29th, but retrieved it on the 30th, if I remember correctly.

There are two possible steps left to the collection process:

1. Request my bisnonno’s alien file to find out when he naturalized, and
2. try to obtain a court order for my grandpa’s birth certificate.

I will admit something: I’ve been avoiding step 1 because I’m afraid that it will say I am ineligible. As I mentioned a while ago, I may be able to hire a lawyer in Italy to obtain dual citizenship through my great-grandmother, but…it takes all of the fun out of it, doesn’t it? Long journeys make a person value something so much more, more often than not.

Stay tuned…

Jus Sanguinis: Lots of Certificates

There have been a lot of certificates being mailed recently, and I am proud to say that I have almost all of the papers I have ordered.

I spent Friday night with my mom, and found out that she had received she and my father’s marriage certificate. I’m honestly not sure when she got it, but she got it.

Here’s the strange thing: The next freaking day, all three birth certificates that we ordered from New York came.

This means that I am only waiting on one more marriage certificate.

Wow.

I know that I still need to order the information on my bisnonno’s naturalization, but if I’m honest, I’ve kind of been putting it off. I know it needs to be completed, though.

Stay tuned.

Jus Sanguinis: Aww…

2 Replies

Last night, I noticed that I had left the garbage and recycling bins out by the curb, as it was garbage day yesterday. When I went to retrieve them, I opened the mail box and found a letter from New York…the country clerk, to be specific.

My grandma and grandpa’s marriage certificate is officially here.

I had absolutely no idea that my grandmother packed hosiery in a factory as a job before she got married…isn’t that amazing? (Well, it may not be to you, but it was to me.)

As sweet as it was to finally receive the certificate, I couldn’t help but cringe at all of the spelling inconsistencies in the names of my family members; if I ever get to the consulate, there may be a few boo-boos to cover with that. Italians really do not take kindly to name inconsistencies…

But still…so freaking sweet.

Stay tuned.

Jus Sanguinis: Postal

I received my certified letter from Italy at last.

Apparently, the whole why-will-you-not-deliver-my-certified-letters thing was the fault of a substitute mail woman. My regular mail woman came to my door on Friday and the conversation went something like this:

Me: Oh, hi!
Mail woman: Hi there! Here’s your mail and your letter!
Me: Awesome! Thanks!
Mail woman: Yeah, the woman who was on the route that day was a substitute; I spoke to her, and she said that she came up to the door, and left your mail on the front step.
Me: …No. She didn’t.
Mail woman: Yeah, I figured she was lying about that, but I down-played everything so that she wouldn’t get in trouble.

…And I would not want her to get in trouble, either. I just want my mail.

Anyway, I ran to my dining room and opened the letter and…well, it wasn’t a birth certificate.
As a matter of fact, I didn’t know what the fuck it was. It had my bisnonno’s information on it, along with his parents’ names and date of birth, but it was in no way a certificate.

A bit later that day, I showed the document to my friend, and he noticed that some parts were in French, and he knows French. After giving it a squint, he translated what it was: An abstract of birth.

Why would they send an abstract of birth?

Then, I realized something:
It could be that there is no actual certificate.
Way back when, people typically wrote the birth of children in a church book or something of the sort, so maybe that’s all they have to give me. It is stamped and everything looks very official, so I have decided that I need to email the consulate and ask them if they would accept this document.

Stay tuned.

Jus Sanguinis: Don’t Ever Ask If It Can Get Any Worse…

A yin yang of information has come my way.
In a yin yang, there is a big, white section with a small black dot and a big black section with a small white dot, right? Well:

The dark side:

Concerning the matter of how long it’d take for my bisnonno to reapply for citizenship, I realized I could obtain the information in two different ways.
1. Order an ILL (inter-library loan) book with relevant information, and wait an undetermined length of time for it to arrive.
2. Ask a librarian.

As a librarian, I knew which of these options would be easier, and that is obviously the second option, especially knowing that USCIS does have a library.

So, I found the library’s website, and sure enough, they have an online reference service. Here is a partial text of the reply I received:

It was not all that uncommon for immigrants to let their declarations lapse or “spoil.” Many filed the Declaration or “first paper” with no or little intent to follow-up, but for other reasons related to employment, or is some states, voting. Once the first declaration had spoiled, your great-grandfather would have been required to file a new declaration. He would not have needed to wait an additional 5-years of residency (unless he had broken his U.S. residency) but he would have been required to wait the mandatory 2-years that was required between filing a declaration and filing a petition or “second papers.”

Of course. Of course it’d be only two years.

I am guessing, but I’m relatively certain my bisnonno didn’t break residency, as he had a job and a very large family to take care of, so this trail could end anywhere. In some circumstances, a bit of uncertainty can be exciting or even comforting, but I’m finding this a bit frustrating. There’s a reason why I don’t often gamble.

The white dot:

I don’t know if I’m eligible or not.

The light side:

I received a card in the mail box saying ‘Sorry we missed you,’ and it was in reference to a certified letter from Italy. This was yesterday.

The black dot:

1. I was home the entire day yesterday, and the obstinate mail person (for some reason) refuses to walk up to my house with any kind of letter or package. This has happened before, and I’m not sure why. My porch doesn’t smell, I’ve never been mean to her, we’ve never had an altercation…my mom believes that it has to do with the fact that my driveway is half paved, half dirt, and the dirt part is a bit muddy. But come on…the saying is something like ‘snow, sleet, rain, or hail,’ right? I’d believe mud is a few steps down from all of those. Besides, she COULD avoid the mud by walking on the grass. I mean, really, for fuck’s sake.
I called the post office and asked why I’m not allowed to receive certified letters, and the man who answered the phone said he’d ask the carrier, and if she hadn’t left yet, he’d send my letter along with her. Whatever it is, it’d be good to know so I may have the opportunity to remedy this situation. If I have to buy gravel for the driveway, so be it, but just bring me my fucking mail, please!
2. The letter could say anything…it could be a letter saying that they couldn’t find the birth certificate. Who knows?

Stay tuned.

Jus Sanguinis: Oh Shit

I received my very first response from all of the document requests I sent out in the mail today, and it was from USCIS.

As I struggled to open the big, brownish envelope, I was nearly shaking in trepidation; did I waste all of that money ordering all of the birth and marriage certificates only to find out that I somehow wasn’t qualified for dual citizenship after all?

RecordFound

(Edited for privacy.)

Probably.

So, my bisnonno did, indeed, become a naturalized citizen.

Yes, I was very freaking sad and disappointed to receive the letter, but I decided not to give up on my bisnonno. My Grandpa DeMasi was born in the beginning of 1919, and if my bisnonno naturalized after my grandpa’s birth, I should still qualify. I’ve conducted a bit of light research on the reapplication process, but haven’t found any definite information on New York naturalization procedures. I’ve found sources that may have the information, but not the information, itself.

What I’m hoping is that it takes five years before the prospective citizen can reapply, and that my bisnonno drug his feet by a few months. The original (or denied) petition was dated January 7, 1914, so if it takes five years to reapply (because it typically took five years to initially apply) AND my bisnonno applied in 1919 AFTER my grandpa’s birthday OR any time thereafter, I could still be in the realm of qualification, but that’s a lot of stipulations that (let’s be honest) probably won’t fall in my favor.

I’ve printed out the G-639 form (http://www.uscis.gov/sites/default/files/files/form/g-639.pdf), as I really want to know WHEN he naturalized. Besides…that 1930s census DID have the ‘Na’ crossed out, and that was after my grandpa was born.

Stay tuned.

The Things I’ve Never Done: Part 1

There’s something I haven’t revealed about myself on this blog before. I really want to come out with it now, but I’m not quite sure how to word it…

I guess I could say that I’ve suffered from severe agoraphobia.

Let me set the record straight on what agoraphobia actually is, because it’s a very misunderstood mental illness. Most of the time, people believe agoraphobia is a condition where a person cannot exit their house. Even I, before I had it, always thought of the heroine of the movie ‘Copy Cat’ whenever I thought of agoraphobia, but it really isn’t like that all of the time.

The literal meaning of the word is ‘fear of open spaces,’ but it translates into the actual mental illness a bit differently. It’s like this: People who are agoraphobic TYPICALLY (and I say that quite generously because there are some people who ARE literally just scared of open spaces) have a ‘safe spot,’ which is very often their home. If the person should attempt to vacate their safe spot, there is generally a radius outside of it in which they are free to travel without panic, and that’s IT. The safety radius could be up to the threshold of their front door, or it could be 30 miles from their house. Go past the oh-so-holy safe spot, and it’s pure panic, unending.

When I first became agoraphobic, I didn’t HAVE a safe spot. I had a SEMI-safe spot, but I didn’t have a true safe spot.
I panicked in my living room, bedroom, kitchen…and I had to take baths because I panicked in the shower. Hell, I panicked in my sleep; I woke up night after night, gasping for air. I almost did a sleep study to find out why I would stop breathing while I was sleeping, but soon realized that it wasn’t the case. This was in the Spring of 2008, and it all started with a stupid fucking vaccine.

Don’t freak out: I had had a panic disorder long before I got the vaccine, so I was predisposed to panic…it had just morphed into OCD while I was in college, which made it tolerable.

What had happened was I got a letter from my insurance company saying that all women who were younger than 26 were eligible for a free HPV vaccination. I remembered this one very tragic story I had heard about a woman my ex-roommate had known. If I remember correctly, the woman had just gone shopping at the grocery store in the middle of the day, and as she was walking to her car, she got pulled into the back of a van and got raped…and sadly, this horrible story doesn’t end there: It turns out that the rapist was infected with HPV, and passed it on to this woman. Well, it was one of the strains of HPV which causes cervical cancer, and she ended up dying from the cancer.

That put the fear of God into me, and I decided that I should probably take this free vaccine.

So, I went to the doctor’s office after making an appointment. You only visit a nurse or MA when you JUST need a vaccine (most of the time), and that’s what happened: I got my shot, and they sent me on my way.

Well, apparently, the protocol for administering vaccinations wasn’t being followed at my doctor’s office that day. I try my best not to be bitter about things I cannot change, but it’s exceedingly difficult in this situation, because if that mother fucking bitch had JUST FOLLOWED PROTOCOL, my life may’ve been COMPLETELY different.

The protocol for any kind of shot (for those of you who aren’t familiar with it) is to make a person wait 15-30 minutes after it is administered, because the person MIGHT BE ALLERGIC to what has been injected.

And SUPRISE! I fucking was.

The allergic reaction happened about three minutes after I went through the office door. I was driving home, when suddenly, it felt as if the world was closing in on me. It’s very difficult to explain the sensation, but it’s like you’re in an invisible box that’s getting smaller and smaller and smaller…and I HAD to get out. Panicking, which I hadn’t done in YEARS, I called my mother, who is a nurse, and told her what had happened between the desperate gasps for air I was swallowing and saying ‘I have to get out of here! I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!’

Calmly, she explained that this was an allergic reaction, and that I needed to get Benedryl immediately. As we were speaking, I pulled into a left turn lane, which was packed with people in front of and behind me, with the lane to my right completely filled, and cars whizzing by in the left lane. If the previous sentence doesn’t sound like a reason to panic to you, imagine feeling like you are in an invisible box you need to get out of WHILE being in that situation. It was one of the single most terrifying experiences of my life.

I eventually made it to a store, and, paranoid as FUCK, found the Benedryl, ripped the package open, popped a pill or two, then paid for it. After making my way to the car, I sat there and smoked a cigarette (ahh, back when I used to smoke), and waited for this horrible feeling to subside.

And wa-la…it did. I drove back to my house and fell asleep on the couch with the cat, and when I woke up, I felt almost completely back to normal.

…So I thought.

Suddenly, I was panicking in stores, panicking while driving…panicking in my sleep, in my house…and the panic feeling was so scary, I would panic when I believed that there may be a situation I was entering that could cause me to panic. I became agoraphobic, and had to move in with somebody else because I couldn’t be alone…I was too scared.

…Hmm. I wonder if I could sue that doctor’s office.
But, then again, what’s the point? Even if I were to win, no amount of money could compensate for how much time I’ve lost.

Anyway…

I think the worst of it came in the summer of 2009, when I completely avoided anything that could trigger panic attacks, yet I still had them. 2010 was in no way fun, either.

I’m vehemently against being on anti-anxiety medication, as I am a staunch believer in cognitive behavioral therapy (I do have a degree in psychology), so I did try to get some help in 2010, but the therapist began to waste my time. He actually yelled at my once when he revisited the idea of medication, and I said something along the lines of feeling like he was violating my wishes in regards to that issue. I’m from New York; I’m used to people yelling, but it was relatively scary to get yelled at in the way he did it. It drove a rift between us on my end, and I no longer felt like I could maintain a good rapport with him, which was actually a very good thing. Having a rift allowed me to be more critical of his technique, and I soon realized that he had no idea how to implement CBT, and he was too lazy to actually go to the store or drive with me to teach me coping skills. The two last sessions I attended, he played movie trailers on Youtube and talked about nonsense for a half an hour before we discussed anything related to panic. I was officially done after that.

In the beginning of 2011, I moved to the town in which I currently reside, and I did a lot of research and found an anxiety specialist. This woman allowed me to do Skype sessions with her at first because I couldn’t drive to where she was; once she taught me the coping skills I needed to do so, she made me drive to her house, and stayed on the phone with me the whole time. She’s even driven with me. I also researched the herbs that are effective in treating anxiety, and I wound up on St. John’s Wort and Passion Flower, which are amazing. Should I find myself having depersonalization (which is FUUUCKING scary), I take two Passion Flower on the spot and I’m typically good within five minutes. There have been no side effects, and I’ve been on St. John’s Wort for about three years, Passion Flower for around two.

[By the way… Depersonalization: Feeling as if one is having an out-of-body experience or in a dream-like state. It can be a form of panic, and it feels like nothing is real or makes sense.]

Like I said, I do try not to be bitter. This whole ordeal has afforded me the opportunity to work out a lot of the issues I should have worked out in my early 20s, but I was so focused on school that I never made time for myself. Plus, being able to find the strength to complete my master’s while having severe panic is something I wasn’t sure I could do…but I did it. I had a lot of my freedom ripped away from me, and I’ve been trying to reclaim it. I’ve missed out on a lot of experiences because of my own fear, experiences that I feel like I really should have.

To be continued.

Jus Sanguinis: Notorized

This is a bit on the late side, but I finally got the birth certificate applications notarized by my mom. If you go to your bank, it’s typically a free service they offer, so we did that last Thursday, and was able to send them on Friday.

Funny thing, though:

As I was stuffing the envelope with the applications, I could smell something…bad. It smelled like pee…old pee. I frantically sniffed around my dining room, trying to find where the smell was originating from because…no. Then I paused for a moment and looked down at the envelope.

Sniff…

‘Oh my God…’

I took the applications out of the envelope and sniffed the notary’s stamp.

‘UGH! That’s disgusting!’

Yup. The stamp was definitely the source of the smell.

Those poor sons of bitches at the New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene should be in for quite the out-of-tune symphony of fragrance upon opening that envelope, granted it gets there.

And that’s right: Absolutely freaking nothing has been delivered to me as of today…oh, bureaucracy.

Stay tuned.

Jus Sanguinis: The Well-Traveled Letter

Three letters made it to the mailbox yesterday:
1. My parents’ marriage certificate request (signed by my mother with her photo identification, the return address being hers, but the money order signed by me);
2. My grandparents’ marriage certificate request (signed by me with my photo identification, the return address being mine, and the money order signed by me);
3. My bisnonno’s birth certificate request.

I drove to the post office to send the letters because honestly, I was paranoid that something stupid would happen if it sat in the mailbox in front of my house for a full 24 hours, and I was not having that. First, I popped the grandparents’ certificate request, then the parents’ certificate request, and when I came to my bisnonno’s birth certificate request, I gave the envelope a kiss before I sent it on its long journey.

I did learn something, though…something important about stamps.

The commune where my bisnonno was born requested a self addressed, stamped envelope. Not being all that seasoned of an international mailer, I figured I’d just need the equivalent postage cost of American stamps.

I was wrong.

American stamps are worthless outside of the American post. I’d basically done the equivalent of flush three stamps down the toilet.

Deeerp.

Like a champ, I’d researched this after I’d sealed the envelope. So, I carefully opened the envelope, took out the self addressed, stamped envelope, and made a new one without stamps. I happened to find two 10 euro notes in my safe, and chose to send one of those in lieu of useless American stamps. I stuffed both the euro note and the new self addressed envelope into the commune’s envelope and taped it closed.

I have four more missions at this point:

1. Get my mother to notarize the three birth certificate requests and
2. send them. Then,
3. get the court order for my grandfather’s birth certificate and
4. send away to get that one, as well.

I did call my good friend’s lawyer mother; she answered and told me that she was driving and couldn’t talk, but she’d call me when she got home. This was Thursday. I still have not received a call back.

And I still haven’t received anything from USCIS.

Stay tuned.