Becoming British

British

Yesterday I obtained British nationality. I thought it would never happen, everything seemed to conspire against me: I always travelled too much, and didn’t count my days. It’s a complicated maths problem to solve, where you can only have a certain number of absences from the country during the period of 5 years before you apply.

I decided to try. It took a hell of a lot of fumbling through paperwork (all of my bank statements, addresses and contracts, for the period I’ve lived here, which is 16 years). Like doing your taxes, but for a lifetime. I wanted to prove that I had been here the entire time, which I have. I counted and counted and subtracted the day you leave and the day you return from a trip (those don’t count). I found all of my plane tickets, across emails, airline websites, and ultimately searching in my iphone photo archives. I didn’t have any help and I didn’t want to make any mistakes that would make the process take longer.

I thought I had it and then I had to find two references; it sounded easy enough. They had to be British, and professional, and they had to share with me their Date of birth, passport number and agree to sign a document. Well, nobody would. Turns out even men are pretty vain these days about how old they are, and also terrified of the government.

I got one signature and she spelt my name wrong. Back to the drawing board. Took me two months to find a second person willing and who fit the requirements.

I sent it off, and we’re finally here.

I spent all the journey to the Town hall with my eyes wet, listening to God save the King, which we would be singing. The morning had been a scramble. True to the programme, something had managed to sabotage me and we had all been evacuated from the building due to a faulty fire alarm. I had spent two hours downstairs in the street with fire brigades, trucks, with wet hair fresh out of the shower, unable to get ready.

But I made it. I opted to get a photo even though I did not want it because, well, I guess it’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing and I might regret it if I don’t.

It’s both unbelievable and extremely natural for me to have dual nationality, since I was raised by Spanish parents but went to an English school, where I got all my education from 4 - 18, and learnt to speak and write. Of course my accent never was British. But to be honest, it isn’t Spanish either. I’ve never felt particularly so. It happens when you’re born with white hair, that you kind of stand out in mediterranean countries.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being blonde and blue eyed. I just don’t love having to justify it to every stranger I run into, and in England I don’t have to.

I’ve spent all of last week announcing “my coronation on Tuesday”. My aunt said I’d get arrested for attempting to dethrone and take over. No no, “my naturalisation”, is the correct term, Diana. Let’s not get excited. I am not being knighted and there are no swords.

What a shame, it’s just a group meeting, really.
But I did get very emotional, which I’ve learnt that I am, very patriotic, in both England and Spain! And now that I’ve sworn allegiance, I guess our Kingdoms are once again united.