The notion of home

Now that we're back home after the most amazing of trips, bumpy re-entry included, I've realized I'm at the point where I'm completely sick of our apartment. I've lived in it so long that it's last refreshing was years ago, so the walls seem a bit crusty, the floors need refinishing, and the whole thing needs a good scrubbing. And everything about it now irritates me: the way the walls soak up cooking splatters and no amount of scrubbing seems to get rid of the telltale signs. Same goes for the bathroom walls and doors where dust combined with flying oils from my overzealous applications have created an impenetrable barrier.

Then there's the floor, a horrid parquet—I should say faux parquet—comprised of uneven pieces, meaning dust and wayward hair and fluff gets embedded around each splintery piece, making sweeping a futile exercise and walking barefoot painful. Not to mention the ear-splitting creaking that echoes every single step we take from March through November, thanks to the humidity. Speaking of humidity, it's impossible to keep the shower, especially the grout lines clean because of the dampness in the air (we're not quite at fall weather yet) and I'm so sick of cleaning so often only to have the whole place still feel dumpy.

And why is there an inch-long gap between the stove and the counter? Do you know how many crumbs and onion slivers and who knows what else have dropped into our own personal Grand Canyon? And have I mentioned our hyperactive smoke alarm? Anytime we barely sautée a bit of garlic in oil the damn thing goes off and we have to take our positions as door-waver, window-opener, frantic-pillow-beater and dish-coverer to disperse the hot air before the whole system starts spraying water every which way. You don't want to know the hysteria that ensues if God forbid one of us is alone and has to pull off all four with just two hands amidst the pelting whine.

I just want to leave everything behind and start fresh.

My American boy

Just under five years from when I first began compiling the paperwork for R's K-1 Fiance Visa to enter the U.S. to marry me, quite a few thousand dollars, a trip from the east coast of Sicily to the American Consulate in Naples for 2 days of interviews and medical exams, a one-way ticket from Catania to New York, one 2-year green card and a barely used 10-year green card and many, many documents, photographs, forms and biometrics appointments later, these ​United States of America have one more star-spangled citizen to dot their amber waves of grain and purple mountain majesties because my Sicilian / Swede took his oath this morning to become an American.

But before I could cry in my highly-emotional state as he repeated the words that made him a citizen of the U.S., I had to sweat.

Almost an American

{  Our coffee table reading material for the last month  |  Civics Lessons for the U.S. Naturalization Test  }

Last we heard, R was waiting to jump through his final hoop for American citizenship: an oral English exam, a written English exam, plus a test on American history, politics and laws. I was considerably more angsty about the whole affair than he was (naturally), and gladly quizzed him from the booklet above whenever he asked.

And then one morning last week, we walked up to 26 Federal Plaza, although perhaps "sweltered our way up" is more accurate, and stood in line for the security checkpoint. At which point I was told the romantic Christmas gift Roberto gave me a few years ago was not allowed inside. The heavily-weaponed guard told me I could either "surrender" my mace (which means I won't get it back), or I could put it somewhere for safekeeping until after our appointment. No way was I going to walk all the way back home, so I ran out and hid it under the rose bushes out front—and when some women looked at me all squirrelly, I had to explain what I was doing so they wouldn't set security on me.

Once all that was handled, we headed up to the 7th floor and waited for R to be called. I'll admit, I was a little peeved that I wasn't required to go in with R. After all, he's getting citizenship through marriage to me, and I've never met with an immigration officer! He's been interviewed at the US Consulate in Naples before immigrating to the U.S., and a few times here in NYC, but I've never had to join him for one of those joint interviews that cover questions like, "What side of the bed does she sleep on? How does she take her coffee?", etc.

{  U.S. Citizenship & Immigration Services  |  26 Federal Plaza  |  Manhattan  }

Which means that when R was called in, he was asked to come alone (carrying the hefty folder of documents proving our legitimate marriage and cohabitation that I put together). He was gone for just under an hour and the exam ended up being fairly easy—R already speaks near fluent English (that he picked up over the years, he never really studied) and he can write well enough when necessary (because he never studied, sometimes he still writes phonetically), so that just left 100 possible questions like, why did the colonists come to America? Who wrote the Federalist Papers (this is one of the ones I didn't know)? Who's your representative (and, here's another I didn't know)?

Since the American history test was administered orally, that counted as the oral English exam. You had to answer 6 out of 10 correctly, and as R got his first 6 right (yay!), they stopped there. Then he was asked to write down a few sentences in response to a prompt for the written oral exam and that was it!

He walked out carrying a sheet of paper saying his request for citizenship was being recommended for approval and that if it goes through (and no reason it shouldn't), we would receive a letter in the next few weeks with the date and time of his oath-taking ceremony!

Thisclose to being 1 down, 2 to go!

A Dixie 4th

{  Carolina Country: a crazy shade of green thanks to all the rain  |  July 2013  }

Yesterday I woke up at 4AM, got into a car, and wound along country roads, past quiet homesteads and barns to the airport for the first flight out to JFK. By just after 8AM I was back in the rat-tat-tat and buzzz-buzzz-buzzzzing of New York. My regular view could hardly compare with the vibrant and verdant view I had just left (see: above).

I had just spent a cozy, homey 4th of July holiday down south in North Carolina with my fellow "y'all"-saying brethren, while poor R remained up in New York with the Yankees (another instance of our opposite schedules being a giant pain). How ironic that his US Citizenship Interview + American civics test + English exam are rapidly approaching (less than two weeks away!), and he couldn't even celebrate Independence Day properly.

When my friend whom I hadn't seen in almost two years (this is what happens when you have a whole country between you) invited us down to visit her family with her at their new'ish house, I was thrilled. The chance to take a break from the city, spend time with my friend and her great family (seriously: so great), and be thisclose to some horsies and a crazy loveable dog? I bought a ticket as soon as I could!

R already knew he wouldn't be able to join me because of work, but I'm glad he didn't mind me popping down here alone. Unless you count quick little afternoon jaunts across or up the Hudson and East River, and of course that all-too-short amazing trip to the Caribbean, I've only left the city two or three times total so far this year and you wouldn't believe how excited I was for some fresh country air, farmer's markets and open spaces.

{  This is why you always fly out of JFK in the morning...and hope for no rain  |  July 2013  }

Getting there was a teensy bit problematic, though. I foolishly packed my red leather bag (that I bought at the markets in Florence 8 years ago and lovingly carried wrapped in towels and plastic for the remaining 2 weeks of my trip through Italy) instead of a rolly suitcase. I must have forgotten that that (heavy) bag is better suited to car trips...or to carrying when R is with me so that he can carry it.

So there was that. Then there's the fact that I had to go to work first. Walking to the subway, descending into its sticky depths, and then trudging to the office, working for a few hours and then repeating made for an intensely disgusting state of things. I was hot, damp, and I had burst a few capillaries in my shoulders from the weight of my luggage.

The last few times I've traveled I've taken a car service, but this time, since I wasn't leaving at some awful time, I decided taking the subway made more sense (plus saved $100 round trip!), especially since I had to head out at rush hour.

After arriving at the airport breathless and a wee bit grungy, I wasn't so sure it was such a great idea, though. And then of course I get to the airport and the signage is all whackadoo so I wound up at the wrong terminal and than had to run with my bag banging against my hips only to get to the right gate in the right terminal to find 5 flights waiting to leave from the same gate and mine pushed back 90 minutes, thanks to the storm. When we finally boarded we ended up sitting on the runway for another 90 minutes.

Eventually I get there at midnight and my friend (who sweetly took over the bag situation) and her sister are waiting for me at the airport and they whoosh me back to their family's house and I wake up the next morning after sleeping in the most comfortable bed to this gorgeousness:

{  Horsey morning—they're wearing masks because all the rain drew out loads of flies  |  July 2013  }

Over the three full days that I was there we kept busy barbecuing, bonfire-ing and boating plus lots of petting of the animals (ponies and puppies), porch-sitting, and puttering about aimlessly:

There was a trip to the Farmer's Market (which included my first full-on meal down South, so obviously fried chicken and fried green tomatoes were on my plate), a drive out to Fearrington Village to visit with one of my college roommates (whom I haven't seen for an even longer time—and oddly enough, she just moved to the next town over), and a ride out to Jordan Lake to try out my friend's brother's new boat and specially-purchased tube.

There was also the paging thru of Bon Appetit and Martha Stewart magazines while watching silly TV, meandering out to the vegetable and herb plot for some fresh-picked greens for our meal, the making of homemade ice cream (which was then churned on the back porch!), the building of a bonfire and roasting of s'mores over it to the soundtrack of our very own fireworks going off, a walk through UNC Chapel Hill's campus and, I finally learned how to make a proper margarita (a very useful skill).

 {  North Carolina July 4th feast prep  }

{  Boating and tubing on Jordan Lake  |  4th of July 2013  }

{  A little jaunt to the UNC Chapel Hill campus for a collegiate stroll  |  July 2013  }

But you know what I really loved? The house itself. It was such a perfect setup (which was of course made even better by the kind family that filled it!). Think: wide front porch, open kitchen and double-height living room, second floor balcony overlooking the living room, outdoor deck with a gazebo, screen porch with a lounge area and a dining area, and all of that opening onto a beautiful, literally rolling lawn that led down to the horse paddock (which also has a bonfire pit). There were just so many pretty and cozy areas of the house to sit and chat or watch the dogs and their crazy antics. Speaking of, look at this face!

{  One of the dogs of the manor  |  North Carolina  |  July 2013  }

Such a lovely time.  So glad I got to tag along down to Dixie. A very happy 4th of July, indeed!

An Italian intermezzo

{  Consulate Generale d'Italia a New York  |  18 June 2013  }

After some depressing revelations plus a fluster-filled trip to the bank last week, I'm happy to say the long-awaited, much-feared morning of my appointment at the Italian consulate has come and gone and I am done. D.O.N.E.

First though, you need to hear about that bank trip.

Despite not having a key document (at least the technically not-expired-one) yet, we decided to just act like we had everything we needed and go to our appointment at the Consulate Generale d'Italia a New York this morning as planned. To do that though, we needed to complete a wire transfer to the Minister of the Interior in Italy for my application.

So last week I went to my bank with instructions (printed from the Italian Consulate's website) and hand them over to the banker to get the money on its way. She informs me that the information I've given her is missing an address, which is required for foreign transfers. Luckily I had 10 minutes before the Italian Consulate's phone line closed (they're only open for 90 minutes a day—obviously), so I quickly call and explain the situation and asked for the address to include in the transfer.

The woman says:

"No one has ever needed an address, so I do not know why you decide to need one."

I relay this to the banker, who says she absolutely cannot send money abroad without an address, to which the Italian woman says in all seriousness:

"All the information you need is on the website, I cannot offer you any more advice than I already have, so if your banker requires something extra, I suggest you to change banks."

Awesome. So helpful. Mille grazie.

After hanging up I did some furious Googling while the banker taps her pen on the desk and found the address on the Consulate General d'Italia a Melbourne's website—thank you, Australia!—so I was able to leave with my receipt showing that yes, I did send a few hundred dollars to the Minister of the Interior in Italy for my citizenship request.

This morning I woke up completely nauseous, as I was 100% sure they'd deny my documents—either the one that was older than three months or some other one for a silly reason. Once we arrived at the Consulate (see the picture I snapped this morning, isn't it pretty?) with all my newly re-issued, doubly-paid-for, generously notarized and Apostille'd documents + stack of filled-out forms + hefty wire transfer receipt, I calmed down a teensy bit. Especially after I realized it's almost exactly 8 years to the day from when I first met R, so there's got to be some luck in that, right?

Turns out our case reviewer was the same woman who I spoke with on the phone! While I was a little annoyed with her last week, she turned out to be quite sweet and understanding. And, except for one tiny little snafu (the Italian document we have that certifies our marriage is registered in R's city hall is only a "certificate" instead of the long-form registration), all our documents were accepted!

We did have to pay another sizable fee (which was not mentioned anywhere else, of course), but we left with the promise that we'd receive a case number via email in a day or two and that the Italian government says the maximum waiting period to receive citizenship is 730 days (two years)! So, I have no idea why the woman we met last week is still waiting, but I'm holding them to their promise!

Technically we still have to get the longer (proper) form certifying our marriage is registered in Italy to have as backup just in case our abbreviated version doesn't suffice, but I'm just going to go ahead and declare that I am done! DONE!

If we move, it's easy enough to transfer our case (so they say), so sometime in the next two years, regardless of where I am, I'll get an email that asks me to come to my local consulate to swear my oath to Italy.

Best part of all this? No exam! (You actually don't even have to speak Italian, which put our case reviewer into a huff when she told us, and understandably so). For American citizenship, you have to pass a written and oral English exam AND take a test on American history, politics and laws! (I may have forgotten to mention, but we got a letter last week that R's American citizenship interview and exam is scheduled for next month, so he's studying and things are just rolling along nicely now!).

So, there you have it, my long-winded story to get to this point and now I shall make like an Italian and enjoy my much-deserved intermezzo. Whew!

An extension

{ Washington Square Park: you're still mine for a bit longer  |  13 March 2013 }

After a pensive weekend, followed by a week of email negotiations, our apartment situation is finally settled: we agreed to a 6-month lease renewal at a slightly higher (but lower than market-price) rent.

WHEW!

Things were looking bleak / expensive for us when our building said they could only offer a 3-month renewal, which wouldn't help since the new lease-end date would coincide with my Italian consulate appointment. Our building reasoned that we could always renew again in three months, but of course we ran the risk that the price would rise. Again.

We put off responding to the three-months-only-option e-mail, and were in the process of very grudgingly resigning ourselves to another year in New York (since subletting isn't an option for us and we also wanted to avoid another price hike in three months) when we received another communiquè.

Our landlords had reconsidered given my history with the building (six years, people!) and offered us a 6-month extension at a locked-in price. Not sure what prompted them to change their mind—maybe giving them the cold shoulder made me more attractive, the way boys are way more into the girls that give them the brush off?

Regardless, I quite like the idea of one last summer and fall in NYC. Although that does mean if we are able to leave when the new lease ends, we'd wind up in Sweden just in time for winter...oops!

Snowy deliberations

{ Snow falling...horizontally  |  Lower Manhattan  |  8 March 2013 }

As you can see, we've got a wintry-white weekend ahead of us.

Perfect for me, as I've got two days of taxes to look forward to, which will hopefully keep my mind off of fretting over (1) needing to decide within three weeks where we're going to live in NYC for the foreseeable future and (2) when we'll hear back from the US, Italian and Swedish consulates, which may make our need to prolong our time here null.

I think an Excel spreadsheet would call this a circular error.

Tape, red or otherwise

{ Excellent Christmas gift from my Swedish svärmor  |  January 2013 }

Do you know where the phrase "red tape" comes from? Good ol' President Jedidah Bartlett enlightened me (although the Internet tells me the origin dates even further back, but let's go with what The West Wing says): apparently Civil War veterans had to go to D.C. personally to get their pensions after the war. They had to wait for a clerk to look through all the records until their papers were found—and they were bound in red tape.

Not that applying for foreign citizenship is equal at all to fighting a war (although theoretically it means that if there was a draft, I'd have to pledge allegiance to multiple armies), but I've been dealing with quite a bit of red tape, both foreign and domestic.

I mentioned some of the foolishness that was involved with my Italian and Swedish requests before and things are still pretty much just as foolish.

For Sweden, well that authenticated marriage certificate I mailed over did me no good on the residency permit side, but at least our marriage is now registered with Skatteverket, their version of the IRS. I only realized that nothing was happening when three months passed and no news was sent our way so I started raising a ruckus with the Consulate here to ask what the heck is going on (they had told me it would take three months maximum from receipt of my marriage certificate to having residency in hand, which is not at all how things went down). Turns out, we had been misinformed. So they gave us a bunch of forms to fill out, except when I got home nothing made any sense at all (and these were in English).

So I sent them a strongly worded email asking what exactly am I supposed to be doing with these nonsensical forms that ask where we live and work in Sweden when I explained to you that we wanted to get permission to live and work in Sweden? In response the Consulate sent me a link to an online form the very next morning—after 40 minutes answering questions, uploading documents, attaching photographs and providing my credit card information, BOOM, my request for residency based on familial relationships was sent! And now we wait.

For Italy, those cads are holding fast to their August 2013 appointment date, and I found out that the additional documents I will have to show are even more involved then originally thought. They want a recent copy of my birth certificate (of course I don't understand that since I wasn't born again), but it has to be translated and authenticated and stamped by the Department of State. Oh, and all of my four criminal records will have go through that same procedure...after I pay to get new ones done of course, since they'll be out of date by the time my appointment rolls around.

Although, as is the case with Italians, R met someone who knew someone who knew someone else that works at the Consulate and we were given an email address to use to ask for an earlier date. We did and were told that maybe they might have an earlier opening if we ask again in six weeks.

See? Red tape.


PS. Thank goodness everything is progressing for R with his US citizenship. He's already studying for the civics exam and we're just waiting for an appointment date for our interview, his test, and his oath (!) ceremony.

Joining the EU

{ Looking up under the City Hall archway | NYC | December 2012 }

Let me tell you about last week—and why it involved getting fingerprinted more than once, writing a handful of checks, and filling out an obnoxious amount of paperwork.

We're about to hit the three-year mark on our marriage, which means: I can file for citizenship in Italy and Sweden! Well, Italy. Sweden requires you to actually live there first, but trust me, I'm working on that.

As part of the paperwork, I had to get an FBI criminal report and a police report for each of the three states I've lived in. Of course each individual body had their own specifications and costs and notary requirements, which made the whole process that much more interesting (sike).

I thought it'd be pretty simple after the legwork of getting fingerprinted was done—just wait for the FBI and all those states to send me a report, translate all our identification documents and get them authenticated and then call up the Italian Consulate to schedule an appointment and sweetly ask them to grant me citizenship, per favore.

Of course, it's never that simple with the Italians. They told us the next possible appointment will be in AUGUST 2013! I could have an Italian baby by that time! Not only did we have to pay $3/minute to hear that bad news over the phone, the $150 I spent on fingerprinting and record requests was for nothing, since by the time that appointment rolls around, they'll have expired. Annoyed doesn't even begin to describe my mood. I bet if they minimized their espresso breaks and lengthened their hours from about 2 hours a day to say...a normal work day of 7.5 hours we'd have an appointment next month!

(Note: we were instructed to only call once we had all the documents ready, if we had any idea they wouldn't give us an appointment for the time it takes me to grow a baby we'd have made the appointment first A YEAR AGO and then done all the run around to get our documents in order).

Meanwhile, we heard our marriage is thisclose to being formally registered in Sweden. I sent the paperwork back in October to register our marriage there, which would give me the right to receive their version of a SSN, which makes getting residency and benefits from Day 1 infinitely more easier, instead of waiting to do it once we arrive.

In the midst of all that foolishness, I finished R's citizenship paperwork for the US. After two rounds of fiancè visa applications for him to enter the country in 2009, plus applying for his 2-year green card in 2010, and then his 10-year green card in 2012, he can (finally) ask for US citizenship (like Italy, the US also requires you to be married for three years before making your request).

Am waiting for the day when I will no longer have to write a check to any country's homeland security/minister/etc. (I'm scared to even tally up how much we've spent in the last 4'ish years on this). If everything keeps moving forward R should have American citizenship next year and I will hopefully have Italian citizenship and Swedish residency within the next year...which would give me a break from dealing with immigration bureaucracy until 2016,  when I can ask for Swedish citizenship. And THEN I will no longer have to deal with this nonsense...well, until we have children and need to request citizenship in three different countries for them. Sigh.

I'm on my way to becoming Jason Bourne—except with legal passports.

And no Treadstone, of course.

{My trip to Goa | 2006 | Jason Bourne may have run down this exact same beach }

Thanksgiving Weekend 2012

{ Our Thanksgiving table | November 2012 }

Growing up, my parents worked six days a week and every holiday of the year, apart from Christmas Day, New Year's Day, July 4th and Thanksgiving—and yet, they managed to make every single special occasion festive, celebratory (always, always with gold-rimmed china, gold chargers and sparkly crystal) and full of good food. Like any family we had tense moments so the conversation wasn't always flowing, but our eyes and bellies were always satisfied, even if our hearts weren't. Sometimes I thought they were crazy to go through all the effort and wear themselves down, and sometimes I still think they did too much, but then other times I'm so very thankful they did everything they could to give us those bright moments during my childhood, even if it cost them their own sanity.

Which is why this year we thought we'd take it easy (especially after hosting a mini feast last year—I'm still tired thinking about it), but Wednesday night rolled around and I was really, really sad about nothing Thanksgiving-y planned for Thursday, especially when I saw everyone else's preparations going on in full force. I conferred with (whined to) R and decided to try and squeeze in a grocery order for some harvest-y type dishes. We had already planned to have another heritage chicken, but I decided there was no way I could get through the day without at least a hint of pumpkin and spice.

Thanksgiving traditions

{ Our wee apartment decked for the holidays last year | November 2011 }

Last year we were local for the entire holiday season (which doesn't happen often for us), so we decided to go all out with every single tradition we hold sacred. First up? Procuring a tree, since I grew up decorating our tree with the Macy's Day Thanksgiving Parade on in the den and Thanksgiving dinner preparations going on in the kitchen. Last year was my first time ever having a Christmas tree in my own apartment. And, like all good New Yorkers, we found a deal at a Lowe's in Brooklyn and trekked across the river to procure our little (well, actually not so little as he was 6-feet tall) guy.

Of course we didn't take into account the rain or distance between said Lowe's and the nearest subway stop, but I saw it as an adventure! R didn't see it as such (at least not at first), since he was the one hefting our balsam fir along, while I was responsible for carting home our 20-ft. garland on my shoulders. But let me tell you, people are exceedingly kind and gracious when they see you propping up a Christmas Tree in a subway car.

Being gentle with myself

{ I think the kids these days would call this a "selfie"  |  La Colombe Soho }

Here's a semi-covertly-snapped pic of me at my local coffee shop. I figure this kind of post deserves a personal picture because I'm about to get real (and hopefully not preachy) with y'all and share my attempt to be more gentle and good to myself with a couple of changes I've made in the last 18 months or so. These didn't produce the magic fix that I was naively hoping for, but I do think that my life has gotten better.

This is just how I try to live, what's working for me and what I believe in...not at all meant to be a list of "you should be doing this, too!".

+ + +

I think a lot about what it means to be healthy. Growing up in the US we're given a lot of things to do and not to do and oddly enough, the more the USDA, FDA, APHA, etc. inundate us with new rules, the less healthy we become as a nation. And, more often than not, the advice we're given is heavily paid for by industry organizations that want to pad their wallets (what does it mean that the daily nutrition guide is backed by the USDA?). Then there are all the side diets and exercise plans that are heaped on top of the government recommendations and no wonder we're all wandering around, lugging our guts and high blood pressure with us.*

Now, I don't have any significant health problems (not even insignificant ones, really, which I know is already a blessing in itself), but there is some history of cancer and heart disease in our family and that coupled with a pervasive lack of energy/obnoxious yawning all day and a persistent stomach ache got me thinking about what the heck I'm putting into my body and what I'm putting it through.

+ + +

The first thing that had to go was the nasty tummy aches that I used to get practically every week. I had no idea what caused it so about a year and a half ago I started taking things out of my diet for 10 days or so to see what changed. Luckily removing dairy had no effects whatsoever but removing flour? Oooo boy, it was like I was given a new stomach (and all the other things connected to it). When I do something, I go all in, so I cut out all gluten. My timing was perfect (ahem), since my little experiment was just before a month of international travel (a trip to India for work and then to Sicily to play). Going gluten-free in India wasn't actually that hard, but in Sicily? Not as easy.

Forward

Yesterday I wore the first pair of tights I’ve worn since elementary school. It was a cold, cold day, and the city was (and is) still recovering from Hurricane Sandy and preparing for a Nor’Easter.

My stomach was churning all day. From the moment I woke up, to walking to my polling place, to casting my vote, and then waiting through the work day until the votes would start to be tallied.

{ Post voting }

I’m not especially informed on every single facet of American politics, but I do know that if and when I leave this country, I want to be proud of being an American abroad. I want people to know that I’m from a country that values the contributions and respects the rights of women, immigrants, children and gays and understands the effects of our existence on this planet.

And so I followed the news all day, waiting, worrying, wondering how soon we would know (turns out, not for a long time). As each subsequent time zone ticked past 8PM local time, I switched between tabs on my browser: NYT, Washington Post, Fox News, Politico, NPR. When Ohio was called for the President, I refused to cheer. Not until Romney conceded and Obama accepted victory did I go to sleep (and as someone who thinks 10PM is late, waiting up until 2:30AM shows just how nervous I was).

 Finally, finally, I heard the speech I was waiting for and yes, even cried at this part:

"I have always believed that hope is that stubborn thing inside us that insists, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that something better awaits us so long as we have the courage to keep reaching, to keep working, to keep fighting.

America, I believe we can build on the progress we've made and continue to fight for new jobs and new opportunity and new security for the middle class. I believe we can keep the promise of our founders, the idea that if you're willing to work hard, it doesn't matter who you are or where you come from or what you look like or where you love. 

It doesn't matter whether you're black or white or Hispanic or Asian or Native American or young or old or rich or poor, able, disabled, gay or straight, you can make it here in America if you're willing to try. I believe we can seize this future together because we are not as divided as our politics suggests. We're not as cynical as the pundits believe. 

We are greater than the sum of our individual ambitions, and we remain more than a collection of red states and blue states. We are and forever will be the United States of America." 

{ The New York Times, 7 November 2012 }

As the Catholic daughter of immigrants, and someone who believes that there cannot be a God that doesn’t support true love, no matter who it’s between, as someone that believes pro-life means more than just what happens between conception and birth, but that it’s a country’s obligation to make sure it supports the lives of its citizens through every phase of their time on earth, I went to bed proud, oh so proud, to be from a country that made a choice for hope, for continued change, and for progress.

+ + +

Did I mention those tights were blue? #Forward.