Heathrow passport control did it in the end. As frequent travellers, we’ve often landed at 5am to see the non-EU queue snaking back to the runway. People from countries I didn’t even know existed stand there, miserably inching slowly towards the UK border and my wife, Kate, an American, was obliged to join them. Meanwhile, of course, I could sail through with my British passport.
So eventually she applied for British citizenship – or “subjecthood” as Kate called it, because if you pass the examination to become British you have to swear allegiance to the Queen and little Prince George, not the country.
Surprisingly, it’s been a very stressful experience for both of us.
First, there was the business of learning how to be sufficiently British to be accepted into the nation fold. I suppose I had assumed that by just observing me, Kate would have absorbed Britishness – by a process of national osmosis – but she had to buy a book that teaches you all the things that a foreigner needs to know.
Facts such as when Christianity came to Britain, how far it is from Land’s End to John O’Groats and how many Welsh assembly members there are (all things that had passed me by in my many years of exemplary Britishness). Kate also learned useful social tips such as the fact that British people “enjoy going out for meals with friends”, and that they never discriminate against those with a different sexual preference and that if a scantily clad British woman dances with you at a party she is not necessarily a prostitute.
The book was a fascinating mix of Brit-trivia, useful information and wishful thinking. My wife spent a lot of time at the kitchen table diligently going through it all. I was impressed by this, but the closer Kate got to being British the more serious it all became – and the angrier Kate seemed to get with Radio 4.
Of course, shouting at evasive spokespersons on the Today programme is an integral part of being British, but now as subjecthood loomed my wife did seem to be taking it increasingly to heart. The kind of ire Kate had reserved hitherto for the Republican party was now directed at the Tories. And her despair over the Brexit vote knew no bounds. “I’ve just paid £1,000 to get a European passport,” she moaned. “Now those assholes have voted it away!”
She even flirted briefly with Corbynism and made us watch the DVD of the movie Pride. We were both outraged – Kate by Margaret Thatcher’s treatment of the picketing miners; me by Bill Nighy’s Welsh accent.
A political gulf was definitely opening up between us.
And so it was, as Kate passed her subjecthood test and went off to County Hall to be welcomed into this great nation of ours by the lord-lieutenant of Oxfordshire, I’ve found that we’ve started avoiding political discussions and giving each other intellectual space in a new way. We may have a country in common now but that common ground has exposed a political divide. When I missed the local elections because I genuinely had no idea whom I wanted in charge of Oxford’s parking spaces, I was told that anything that went wrong in our postcode from now on was going to be my fault because of my deeply irresponsible attitude.
I suppose all these strong feelings about Britain had lain dormant while Kate was not British, but I’m seriously beginning to suspect I may have married an activist.
Our relationship will weather this shift, but it’s been a revelation – and a strain. I’m dreading the next general election. Meanwhile, we keep getting emails from Kate’s family in the States asking if they can claim asylum now that Trump has been elected.
Having the in-laws come to live with us might be a relationship shift too far.
