Commentary
During the COVID-19 pandemic, after years of paperwork, screenings, background checks, and immigration hurdles, my husband finally reached the last step of his journey toward becoming an American citizen: the naturalization test. We ordered a simple cardboard box filled with flashcards, each holding a question on American history, government structure, and constitutional principles, and placed them on the kitchen table as if they belonged there.
Studying became part of our rhythm. We reviewed cards while stirring soup, folding laundry, or tucking children into bed. The kids would sit nearby drawing while we practiced questions such as: What are the three branches of government? Who wrote the Declaration of Independence? How many U.S. senators are there?
At first, the answers felt academic, like material to memorize for a test. But over time, those facts became meaning. Meaning became understanding. Understanding became gratitude. Without planning it, our home became a living civics classroom, and our appreciation for America deepened.
One evening, after having friends over for dinner, we pulled out the flashcards and began asking the same questions. We expected everyone to know the answers. Instead, laughter faded into quiet surprise. These weren’t disengaged or uninformed people. These were professionals, parents, entrepreneurs, and community members. Yet many struggled with the basic foundational questions required of every new citizen.
In that moment, one question rose to the surface: If we require immigrants to know this information before joining the nation, why don’t we expect native-born citizens to know it before shaping the nation with their vote?
Today, many Americans vote from emotion, preference, frustration, or momentary desire rather than from a place of preserving fundamental freedom and structure. But freedom cannot be sustained by impulse. It requires understanding, responsibility, and memory.
One of the most striking things about the citizenship test is that the questions are nonpartisan. They are not about opinions. They are not about party platforms or politicians or current headlines. They are the foundation of our government and our story. This isn’t talking politics. This is talking understanding.
In our home, both the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution hang on the wall. They are not decorations. They are reminders. Walking past them reminds me that freedom was not random or accidental. It was intentional, structured, debated, defended, and paid for.
Somewhere along the way, “We the People” forgot that we are meant to guide our government rather than be dragged behind it.
My husband grew up in a small rural village in Mexico and had almost no education in American civics. So in the beginning, when he couldn’t answer the questions, there was grace because he was learning. But when natural-born Americans cannot answer those same questions, a deeper concern emerges: Are we losing the knowledge required to preserve the nation we inherited?
Today, after months of studying, my husband, who crossed the border at 16, can explain the structure and meaning of American government more clearly than many who were born here. Some believe he does not deserve citizenship because of how he entered the country. I understand and respect the right to hold that belief, because disagreement itself is protected in this country.
But I also know this: His citizenship was earned. And earning something creates reverence.
So here is my invitation, not a law and not a mandate, although I think there is a strong argument that it could be, but a challenge and a cultural experiment.
Buy the citizenship flashcards. Keep them on your table. Use them. Let them start conversations.
As Thanksgiving, Christmas, and family gatherings come, ask the questions after dinner and see who could pass the citizenship test. Not to shame anyone and not to divide but to awaken. Because when these foundational questions stay alive in our homes, eventually they will ripple into our communities and our culture.
My husband did not become someone who votes for freedom because of the test. His values were shaped long before, through faith, family, tradition, and a culture where responsibility was simply expected. But the process of preparing for citizenship gave him something deeper: a reverence for American freedom and an understanding that it survives only if we are courageous and intentional enough to maintain it.
Perhaps rebuilding civic understanding in this country doesn’t begin with Washington, activism, or another election cycle.
Maybe it begins with something much smaller and more human.
A box of flashcards.
A dinner table.
A family choosing to remember what freedom took to build and what it takes to keep.
