On becoming British
‘I do solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm; that on becoming a British Citizen, I will be faithful and bear true allegiance; to His Majesty King Charles the Third; his heirs and successors; according to law.’
After 6 years it is finally done. What got me emotional was the sight of the British flag. The way it was masterfully held up with a hair clip, attached to a black iron archway with strings of out-of-battery fairy lights strung around it, and how all this was perched above the photo of my new sovereign propped up on an easel. It was as if the blue, white and red whispered from their wobbly vantage point: ‘I know, when you look at it for too long, it all comes apart.’
What I couldn’t say during my affirmation was that more than to any blood lineage, I feel allegiance to another kind of blue line. Just like the royal family, it has a history of bestowing life and death, bliss and pandemonium upon the British people – the Piccadilly line. Living in London’s zone 3, I have probably spent most of my waking hours over the past 6 years somewhere on this dark blue TFL service. Black snot and defiant pride every 2 to 7 minutes.
🚇 South Kensington
It was there from the very beginning. A picture of my mom and me on my birthday visit to London when I turned 18. Standing in front of the Piccadilly’s South Kensington stop sign I am beaming. You can already sense the maniacal determination that would be necessary to move my life from a sheltered West German town to a place with lower wages, worse insulated housing and higher crime rates and to call that a dream come true. We have more frequently operating public transport though!
🚇 Turnpike Lane
Riding down the sooty escalator tunnel at Turnpike Lane Station on my way to university every morning, I feel a sense of communion with the British people. Stand on the right, walk on the left. Anyone who violates this most golden of tube rules by daring to block the walking path is immediately identified as Other and willed to the standing side with accusing stares to the back of the head and heavy breathing down the neck.
🚇 Heathrow Airport
The Piccadilly line is the tourist line. Covent Garden, Leicester Square – it swooshes below landmarks known around the world to Heathrow Airport. Every massive suitcase shoved on the train makes me feel more at home. I don’t have to get off at Covent Garden today, because I can come back tomorrow, or the day after or the day after that.
🚇 Hyde Park Corner
My first winter Tube ride during peak hours. My face is squished into anoraked armpits. So that’s what that smells like. ‘We are currently being held at a red signal to even out the service but should be on the move shortly’. The first time I am part of a collective, scarf-muffled groan.
🚇 Leicester Square
I am with the theatre crowd spilling out of Soho at 11. The light-filled train snakes its way through the dark. Drunk or sober, no one flinches an eye at the mice that want to catch a ride. The sticky juice (?🙏🏻!) of a song-filled night clings to my boots as I trudge the final meters home through the night.
🚇 Piccadilly Circus
My first summer tube clay oven ride during peak hours. My face is squished into non-anoraked armpits. So that’s what that smells like. Wiping someone else’s sweat off my forehead, I spot a seated lady wearing a neck fan. This lack of vanity is what makes me want to become British. If you’ve ever seen anything and thought ‘Who would actually wear this!?’ you can probably find it on the Piccadilly line. Accessorised with nonchalance.
🚇 Knightsbridge
A few years in. Staring at a rejuvenation skin care ad through tired eyes and dregs of toxic air. Are they in on this together? Please mind the closing doors.
🚇 Kings Cross Station
4 years of work commutes. I look back at people’s heads. One homogenous mass pushing up the tube escalators. Walking slowly has become an act of rebellion. My legs are strong from years of the warning-sign-ignoring, throng-avoiding walking up of spiral staircases.
🚇 Victoria
6 years on the line. I know how to avoid Piccadilly and its interminable schlep. South Kensington to Finsbury Park anyone? Ride two stops on the District or Circle line in the opposite direction and catch the Victoria line from the eponymous station. Beats Piccadilly every time.
🚇 Wood Green
Despite my growing avoidance, my journey to becoming British had to end on the Piccadilly line. After my citizenship ceremony we take it all the way from Wood Green to Holborn to eat celebratory scones. Swaying in the seat, it reminds me of the early days. The rattling sounds like homecoming. From today onwards, no matter where life takes me, I can come back and ride the Piccadilly line with nothing more than my Oyster card and my blue passport.
‘I will give my loyalty to the United Kingdom and respect its right and freedoms; I will uphold its democratic values; I will observe its laws faithfully; and fulfil my duties and obligations; as a British Citizen.’ > Stand on the right, walk on the left.