Becoming an Immigrant Taught Me the Value of Citizenship

Like so many things about the state of Israel, the summer I spent working on a kibbutz in 1961 was the result of a compromise. My parents had rejected my plans to travel across Europe with two friends during the time between high school and college. Forced to find an alternative, they proposed an Israel trip sponsored by the United Jewish Appeal Federation, part of the organization’s effort to strengthen young people’s Jewish identities. Motivated by a desire for adventure and independence—Zionism the furthest thing from my mind—I agreed.

Part of my preparation for the trip was acquiring my first passport. The U.S. Immigration Service was then housed in a small if intimidating office at Rockefeller Center. My mother, who worked full time, made time to accompany me, a sign of the importance that my parents gave to the project. I already had the requisite photo, a high-school yearbook image—squint-eyed, perfectly combed blond hair, conservatively outfitted in Brooks Brothers clothing. I stared hopefully into what all assumed would be a future filled with promise. But because it had taken extra time to hatch a summer plan acceptable to both my parents and myself, I was late in securing an officially signed and stamped copy of my birth certificate (no simple Xerox copies were available in 1961) from the Health Department. A close family friend, then Assistant Commissioner of Health, was tapped to expedite the process from what appeared to me to be her surprisingly drab and cramped City Hall office. Finally, various shots and inoculations required for re-entry to the country were documented on a yellow card that was inserted into the passport.

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