Western democracies aren't working well. Liberal democratic norms are under strain in the U.S. and much of Europe. In other parts of the world, authoritarian governments grow confident and ambitious. As citizens of democratic countries, we can all agree: Restoring the vitality of our systems of government is essential.
One crucial yet neglected part of this task is to understand what we mean by that phrase, "As citizens."
Like much else in Western politics, notions of citizenship have polarized. The space between the poles isn't ideological in the old left-right sense. (At the moment, that kind of ideology seems largely beside the point.) It's based instead on class, culture and geography. Away from the cities, populists care about citizenship to a fault, on a spectrum that runs, at the extreme, to hard-line nativism and ethnic bigotry. The urban gentry cares about it hardly at all, to the point, in the U.S., of supporting "sanctuary cities" and frowning on the very term "illegal immigrant."
The subject preoccupies me at the moment, because I'm applying for U.S. citizenship. Telling this to friends and neighbors, I'm struck by the contrast I just mentioned. In my professional circles, it's usually seen as a dull administrative matter. I have a green card, they understand, so it isn't complicated. You fill in some forms, take a little test, swear an oath of some kind and get a second passport. (Useful thing to have, though it means you'll have to do jury service.) My West Virginia neighbors see it as a really big deal. At the moment I'm British, and I've decided I want to be an American. (Wow.)
On this subject, I share the West Virginian view of the world. I think acquiring U.S. citizenship is a big deal, and I've hesitated over it. I'm uncomfortable with the idea of dual citizenship, something that the U.S. and Britain (unlike Japan and the Netherlands, for instance) tacitly allow. If the U.S. will have me, I'm enough of a pragmatist to keep my British passport for as long as that's allowed, yet principled enough to want to be sure I'd choose the U.S. over the U.K. if ever required to pick — as, in fact, I believe I should be.
In urban settings, this position elicits laughter and a rolling of eyes — not least from my native-born American wife, who also happens to be Canadian and Irish. Sorry, dear: There's something unsatisfactory about pledging loyalty to more than one country. In West Virginia, at least, they understand.
Granted, the urban gentry's discomfort with citizenship is in part both rational and ethically sound. People are people, right? And they don't choose where they're born. Why should the mere accident of starting out in a rich country endow a person with rights denied to others less fortunate? It's a good question. There's no avoiding it: The idea of citizenship does involve blinding oneself to the idea of (what used to be called) the brotherhood of man.
This moral blindness can seem especially offensive when it comes to dealing with people who came to the country (or remained here) illegally, but have lived here for many years — as family, or as valued friends, neighbors, co-workers and otherwise law-abiding taxpayers. The more so, of course, if they didn't choose to put themselves in that position. The plight of young people in the U.S. ensnared in the mess called Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals shocks the conscience, or ought to.
