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Without forgetting the wrongs that had been done to them, they believed in an America that was more of the sum of its wrongs. On this day they were proud to be Americans at last. These men and their children had good cause to be bitter, and perhaps on other days they indulged in it. But I did not hear bitterness on this day. I heard more comments about how long they had waited. I heard expressions of great satisfaction. I had the opportunity to congratulate a number of families and hear them greet Judge Lew. And when Judge Lew declared them citizens, the families whooped and hugged their fathers and grandfathers and the children waved the little flags like maniacs. I kept getting something in my goddam eye. A frantic, joyous hush descended, and the dozens of veterans stood up and took the oath. After Judge Lew naturalized the veterans who were too infirm to stand in the main ceremony, he quickly took the stage in the main room. (Their promised benefits were not even brought to a vote until 2008, when most of the happy men I saw that day were dead.) It was not until 1990 that Congress finally addressed this particular stain on our honor and granted them citizenship. They waited 54 years, until after most of them were dead. But many others, remembering the promise, asked that it be kept. citizens, and some even became citizens through the process available to any immigrant. Many came here anyway, had children who were born U.S. Filipino solders who fought for us and their families were not given their promised citizenship, let alone benefits. In 1946, Congress reneged on FDR's promise. They weathered the brutal conditions under Japanese occupation, fought a valiant guerrilla war, and in some cases survived the Bataan death march. Roosevelt asked the men of the Philippines to fight, promising them United States citizenship and veterans benefits in return. These men, born Filipinos, answered America's call in World War II and fought for us. One said, not with anger but with the tone of a dream finally realized, "We've waited so long for this."Īnd oh, how they had waited. They smiled, grasped his hand, spoke the oath as loudly as they could with evident pride. One by one, Judge Lew administered the naturalization oath to them - closely, sometimes touching their hands, speaking loudly so they could hear him, like a priest administering extreme unction.
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A few relatives, beaming, stood near each one. Three were on stretchers, several were in wheelchairs, two had oxygen tanks. There, in a dark and baroquely decorated room, we found eight elderly men.
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I followed him through a doorway to a small anteroom. One of the VFW officers whispered in his ear, and he nodded and said "I'll see them first." The clerks and my fellow extern were chatting to some immigration officials, and so he beckoned me. He donned his robe and peered through a window in a door to see hundreds of people sitting in the main hall, talking excitedly, the children waving small American flags and streamers about. We paused in the foyer and he introduced us to some of the VFW officers, who greeted him warmly. Judge Lew - the first Chinese-American district court judge in the continental United States - grabbed his robe from the trunk and walked briskly into the VFW hall with his externs and clerks trailing behind him. Their children and grandchildren were Filipino-American they were not. They were all, I would learn later, Filipinos.
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And in each family group there was a man - an elderly man, dressed in a military uniform, many stooped with age but all with the bearing of men who belonged in that VFW hall. It was clear that they were families - babes in arms, small children running about, young and middle-aged parents. Great throngs of people, dressed in Sunday best, were filing into the building. Within ten awkward, quiet minutes we arrived at one of the largest VFW posts in Los Angeles. He piled us into his spotless Cadillac and drove out of the garage without another word. Exchanging puzzled glances, we followed him into the art-deco judge's elevator of the old Spring Street Courthouse, then into the cavernous judicial parking garage. I saw he had already assembled his two law clerks and his other summer extern there. One day in early July he abruptly walked into my office and said without preamble "Get your coat." Somewhat concerned that I was about to be shown the door, I grabbed my blazer and followed him out of chambers into the hallway. Thirty years ago, in the hot summer of 1992, I was working as an extern for Judge Ronald S.W. This is a rerun - I originally wrote it back on - but I thought it was time to bring it over here.