I’ve often said that the worst part of moving to Amsterdam was getting used to it. Occasionally I’ll show around a visiting friend and have that moment of “Oh yeah, it is one of the prettiest cities on earth.” Mostly, though, I’m just heading to the grocery store.
That’s partly why I wasn’t buzzy with anticipation as the date approached for the ceremony that would permanently replace my American nationality with Dutch-American. I’ve been here over four years already; married a Dutch citizen; bought a Dutch house; slowly learned the Dutch language.1 I’m not sure what it’s like to feel Dutch, but I’ve been Dutch for a while now. This felt like a progression, not a sea change.
Still, paperwork means something. Most importantly: I can never be forced out of my adopted homeland or think of myself as less-than for being an immigrant. Most usefully: I can skip the customs line at Schiphol! Equally valid reasons to be excited when I got the letter telling me the king had approved my application for citizenship.
The ceremony was this Monday—coincidentally smack in the middle of IMPRO Amsterdam, the festival where Kiki and I met. I left the house and biked north along the Amstel River, past the famous Skinny Bridge and under the enormous Dutch flag at the H’ART Museum. It was a glorious, postcard kind of day, and by the time I met Kiki at the government office, I was finally buzzy.
We checked in and were offered free tea and coffee (that €1000 application fee had to go somewhere!). Kiki gave me the perfect gift: a dual passport holder with my initials engraved. We were then herded into the city council chambers, where the 60 or so inductees were directed to the councilmember seats with our +1s in the gallery above. The group was by far majority-minority, more women wearing headscarves than not, only a few white dudes like me scattered throughout. I thought of how much Geert Wilders must hate this and smiled.
Like most things Dutch, the ceremony was simple and efficient. Our government-official MC gave a speech where he told us that, as Nederlanders, we might be coming from countries without as many rights. That in Nederland we could be our true selves, whether it was religious, irreligious, straight, gay, cis, or trans.
Yes, I cried a bit. Just imagine such a speech being given in the US right now.
Time for the vows! The MC displayed and read them for us:
“I swear that I will respect the Constitution of the Kingdom of the Netherlands and all other laws of the Kingdom, and that I will faithfully fulfill the duties that citizenship entails.”
One by one, we stepped to the front to raise our right hands and deliver our response: “Dat verklaar en beloof ik”—“I declare and promise that.” My name was called—third from last, as it happened—and I stepped to the front and delivered my line. Just like that, I was an American with a king. (A cool king! He’s been an undercover KLM pilot for almost 30 years.)
Finally we rose for the Dutch national anthem, the lyrics of which are FUCKING INSANE. My first act as a Dutchman will be to write us a new one.
Back at home, Kiki served beschuit met muisjes, the traditional food for the birth of a Dutch boy. She also played me a Cameo from our pal Derek Scott Mitchell, currently the most famous Dutch-American immigrant (admittedly a bit niche). And then I resumed my workday, living my normal daily Dutch life, a little Dutcher than I was before.
Most of my fellow inductees needed to give up their old nationality as part of naturalization; marrying a Nederlander allowed me to keep both. That’s another reason why I don’t feel as emotionally affected as I might otherwise. But the dual identity is a new thing for me, too. As Derek Mitchell said, “One hundred percent integration will never happen, and that’s part of the texture of who you are.” No matter how long I stay here, I’ll always have Austin. No matter how many times I go back, I’ll always have Amsterdam. I’ve signed up for a life where I’m leaving behind family no matter which way I fly.
But it’s not as wistful as all that. This isn’t “neither.” It’s “both.” I get to claim two countries which are both extremely similar and oh-so-different. And bringing it back to Nederland: it’s an amazing place in so many ways. So quaint that I once described a lunch spot as a “tourist trap” only for Kiki to remind me it was, ya know, real. So peaceful that I recently saw a video of an average Utrecht rush hour shared as a kind of ASMR content.
Ahhhh.
Our restaurants have resident cats and fantastic non-alcoholic beer options. There’s a farm selling fresh milk and eggs less than 10km from our front door, and a medieval castle only a bit further. Owning a car is not only needless but actively inconvenient. The health-care system is sometimes mocked, but has produced a healthy population and zero medical bankruptcies.
Yeah there’s downsides. Don’t get me started on the tacos. The cold is bad, but the winter darkness is worse. Sunny days like Monday feel like gaslighting in a problematic relationship: “See how nice it is? Don’t worry about those bad times.”
But then the days get longer and longer and longer, and in the summertime it’s still light out at 10pm, and I’m sitting on the terrace with Kiki and Percy, and friends, I just can’t fathom my luck.
And no. Even when I’m just going to grocery store, it still doesn’t feel real.
