From Lock Haven, you can take either the Interstate 76 East downtown Philadelphia exit, or 3 East West Chester Pike exit off of the turnpike and drive through run-down streets with uneven stop-and-go traffic, lined on either side with a blur of fast food joints, auto repair shops, Chinese delivery and take-outs, hair and nail places, and second-hand furniture stores.

Closer to the Homeland Security building, North 41st Street turns into a long, meandering residential block with broke down ramshackle apartments with doors and windows covered with bed sheets, front doors held in with iron bars, seedy front yards, battered cars, and broken toy pools even in the middle of March. Old men and women in heavy winter coats wait at the bus stops, and young kids on bicycles zip up and down cracked streets with what looks like non-working tram lines running through the middle. Most buildings except the churches are decorated with graffiti, angry, artful and arresting.

This is where the poorer half lives.

I was at the Homeland Security building this past Thursday for my final interview with U.S. Immigration and Naturalization services for my citizenship. I have lived in the United States for 27 years now; the first 12 on a work visa, and the last 15 on a green card (permanent residency card), both provided by employers. I left India when I was 24 to do my Ph.D. in the United States, then stayed to teach; first at the University of Texas at Dallas, and now for the state system of higher education in Pennsylvania.

At this point, I have lived longer in the United States than I have in India.

So in 2016, I applied for my U.S. citizenship.

Applying for U.S. citizenship is a straightforward process. The application itself is $680. Once you submit your application, you are given an appointment to get your fingerprinting and biometrics done at the processing center in York. It could take anywhere from six months to a year for Homeland Security to do your background checks and complete the vetting of your application. If you pass the background checks and the vetting, you are called for your final citizenship interview.

I had arrived about 45 minutes prior to my interview time. My phone was dead which was a good thing since cell phones and cameras are prohibited at the Office of Immigration and Naturalization Services. I walked with the other applicants in the line through the metal detectors and was cleared to enter the waiting room.

The waiting room was crowded with hundreds of people just like me from all over the world waiting for various processes to complete toward their naturalization as citizens.

Many applicants were there with their lawyers; you could tell the lawyers immediately on sight: In suit and tie, with laptop cases, and searching for their clients in the sea of faces.

I was by myself. I sat next to a young couple who spoke Arabic. The husband was a doctor and a citizen; the wife was the applicant. The husband patiently explained in Arabic and English a very troubling case of a young child at the hospital with a heart valve deficiency to the wife listening attentively.

Many applicants were still studying their citizenship civics test booklet. Part of the citizenship interview is a civics test about the history and the government and the Constitution of the United States of America. Small children played on the floor. Babies cried. Mothers and fathers took turns walking the restless children around the waiting room.

The officer who interviewed me was a pleasant young man who asked me to swear that I would tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the whole truth during the interview. Then he asked me to sit down. He started the interview by reviewing my application with me.

What do you teach at the university, he asked me?

English, I said.

Ah, he said, the reading and writing portion of the test will be easy for you then. You can never tell, I said. We laughed.

The first part of the interview consists of reviewing your personal information and includes questions about your family and yourself. This has all been vetted in the past year but this part of the interview confirms your application.

The questions cover everything from education, marriage, children, work, membership in organizations, tax questions, and finer details about your life, such as involvement in buying and selling of drugs, guns and weapons, engaging in prostitution, taking part in illegal gambling, serving in militias and the military, engaging in torture and genocide, and lying to the government.

I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I don’t do drugs. I don’t gamble. I am not promiscuous. I don’t own weapons. I have not served in the military or the militia. I have not engaged in torture or genocide, and I have never lied to the government. I passed this part of the test very quickly.

It is time for your civics test, the officer told me. The civics test includes 100 questions sent to you from the Department of Homeland Security. The officer will ask you 10 questions at your interview. You have to answer six correctly to pass the test.

When was the Constitution written? Who wrote the Declaration of Independence? What does religious freedom mean? At what age does Selective Service begin? How many senators are there? What is the ocean on the East Coast called? How many amendments are there to the Constitution? What is any state that borders Mexico? What was the reason for the cold war? What words indicate the idea of self-government for Americans in the Constitution?

I knew them all. I passed the civics test very quickly.

The officer then proceeded to the reading test. He showed me a sentence and asked me to read it.

“What are the colors of the American flag?”

I passed.

Then we moved to the writing test. He dictated a sentence for me to write. “The colors of the US flag are red, white and blue.”

I passed.

Well, congratulations, the officer told me. You have passed the civics and reading and writing test.

Are you willing to take the full oath of allegiance to the United States, he asked me? Yes, I said.

And then I was a citizen.

It was quarter past noon when I walked out. It was a mild spring day, not too cold, and not too warm. I was starving. I had left Lock Haven at quarter past five in the morning on just a cup of coffee.

My stomach was empty. The Homeland Security office does not permit food or water inside the building. I wanted breakfast.

I started walking on North 41st Street looking for a place to get something to eat. There are no restaurants on North 41st Street. Empty spaces encircled with wire fences alternate run- down apartment blocks. I kept walking. I did not want to get my car from the parking lot where it was parked and not know where to go. There must be something somewhere, I told myself.

A few blocks down I came to a cross street called Market Street. It was appropriately named. I started seeing businesses on either side of the street. Auto parts, vape lounges, hair salons, second-hand furniture stores, Chinese take out and delivery places, and then I saw the sign for Hamilton Restaurant.

I crossed over and entered the restaurant. It was a small diner, clean and pleasant inside. May I charge my phone, I asked the petite Chinese woman who appeared to be the manager of the place. Sure, she said. I gave her my dead phone and she plugged it into a power outlet.

The place was filled with regulars, I could tell.

Everyone spoke to everyone and everyone spoke to the manager, the petite Chinese woman. I was the only Indian woman there; everyone else — the customers and the cooks — was African American, along with one older Chinese man cooking in the kitchen. They all spoke to each other warmly while eating food that looked heavenly to me.

How are you, beautiful? … a pretty African American woman young enough to be my daughter asked me.

She had a gentle, motherly way about her. She cleaned the table and set down the silverware for me.

I am good, I said. How about yourself?

Good day, good day, she said. What can I get ya?

I had already picked what I wanted from the day’s specials written on the erase board.

Grilled flounder with green pepper and onions, cheese grits, home fries, and one fried egg, I said.

Good choice, honey, she told me. And it’s a dollar off today. Good choice. She had the most beautiful smile.

The grilled flounder was excellent, I told the Chinese lady when I walked up to pay the check. Thank you, she said.

Immigration? she asked me.

Yes, I said. I just became a citizen half an hour ago. Yours is the first meal I am eating as an American citizen. It was delicious. Thank you, I told her.

Thank you so much, she said.

Where were you born, she asked me?

India, I said.

It was a subtle difference, I told myself as I drove back toward Interstate 476 North.

Usually, I am asked, “Where are you from”? And I tell them, India. But the Chinese woman had asked me where I was “born.”

I am “from” America now.

There was a difference.

Like her — and like all other immigrants — I was born somewhere, but I am “from” America now.

Gayatri Devi lives in Lock Haven.