#this is why i always save the layer files!!! for shenanigans!!!!

[shadynightly]

The forest of CanopyClan, near the river bank. This is to be the start screen of my MOTW campaign using warrior cats as the base for the setting.

[glitchgeek]

I don’t know what all to say...! @sarcastic-pasta-games​ you guys nailed The BOSS is Nothing. It really felt right to explore the other half of the adventure, and considering how this year’s been for Sean and all of us... I wanted to say thank you to all of you.

So! Full game review (with spoilers, careful!):

I don’t know where to begin! The music! The dialogue! That bit at the very end what?!?!

The music was a beautiful choice. I know it was slowed/pitched-down music from The BOSS, but it fit so, so well. After playing The BOSS, this music felt familiar and comforting... but also really, really bittersweet, knowing what Sean’s thinking and everything he’s going through. Every composition felt just right.

I don’t know why, but I love that 207 found Sean at the beginning. It’s kind of symbolic -- that in The BOSS, 207 eventually found a better perspective on life, and now after The BOSS and The BOSS is Nothing, Sean/Jack have a healthier mindset too.

And Billy’s tirade against fish?? I loved that callback to the ask-spgbilly shenanigans :P

Sean’s dialogue? Broke my heart ;-; Gah, even (especially!) his flavor text. I started feeling frustrated and guilty, blaming myself with Sean as we kept being too late to save Jenny or Cliff, how nothing we were doing was helping, having to always hide, and how we put Jenny in danger in Layers of Fear. I... especially related to that. It feels like a lot of what I do is too little, or too late, or that I’m always playing catch-up and only annoying or hindering others. So... really, thank you.

And everything after we toss the hydrospersion key? When Sean finds the old video of his talking about getting lost in making content, and about losing who he is? When Sean realizes the game characters and the subscribers just want Jack? Tears. All of em. I think I cried a month’s worth of tears at that part. It really, really makes me want to back and play The BOSS, and get to the final battle again, to help Sean realize that, yeah! We appreciate him too, that he DOES matter damnit, that we’re always going to love Sean for who he is, not just because he’s “Jacksepticeye”.

You guys always put so much thought and feeling in your games, and it really, really shows. Katie, your message in the files shows how much love you have for all of us. Thank you for your heartfelt words, for your support and encouragement. Thank you to everyone that worked on The BOSS and The BOSS is Nothing, even if it was just a small bit. I’m super looking forward to Glitch in the System, and I’m excited for what you all have planned after JSE fangames, because I know it’s really going to be something special :)

Cheers~

[thing-you-do-with-that-thing]

Ties That Bind - Part 1: At First Sight

Characters (first names are as in the show renaming a few last names to fit my story): Reader (Y/N Harvelle), Crowley McCloud, Castiel Novak, Dean Winchester, Benny Lafitte, Ben Braeden, Asher (OC), Mike (OC),

Pairing: Dean x Reader (eventually)

Warnings: Violence, robbery, gun shot wound, language (I think that is it for this one)

Word Count: 3500ish

A/N: Thanks to @blacktithe7 for betaing and helping me rework this series.

***My fics are not to be saved nor posted on any other sites without my express written permission.***

MASTERLIST

You were practically hopping on one foot across the room, trying to catch your 6 month old german shepherd pup that had chosen to run off with one of your shoes just as you were about to leave the house. You were already late and in no mood for any of his shenanigans. Being late what not all that unusual for you though. You were a busy person, but when you were in a moment you gave yourself to it fully. No matter if it was the kids you worked with needing attention, your puppy needing love or a file you needed to read over. The last was what had slowed you this morning before everything started going wrong.

“Drop it Santo,” You pointed at him and spoke in a firm tone when you finally managed to get him cornered. Santo stared back at you for a few seconds before he reluctantly did as he was told.

“Good boy,” you mumbled as you retrieved your shoe and put it on. You led him out back and into his pin. You checked to make sure he had plenty of fresh water before you petted him goodbye and practically ran for your car. Even if you were busy and he was a brat, he still deserved your love. He was a sweet puppy and he was going to grow up to be an amazing dog.

Just as you put your key into the ignition, your phone rang somewhere down in your purse. “Damnit.”

To say it had been a shitty morning would be an understatement. You had woken up late. You had managed to drop Santo’s kibbles all over the floor, not that he had minded. After you had finally shooed the puppy out of the way and got it all cleaned up, you realized you had turned on your coffee machine without filling it with water so that smoke was now covering your kitchen. It was a lousy morning, and now you were late and about to get scolded by Crowley McCloud.

“Hey boss. I am so so sorry,” you started as you picked up the phone, but he quickly interrupted you.

“I need you to drive down town. We got a call from the police station. Ben and two other kids are holding up a convenient store. Cas is on his way down there, but I need you to go too.”

Damnit. This day just wasn’t getting any better was it?

“On my way. Text me the address,” you replied and hung up the phone. You connected your workplace app your GPS and a few seconds later you had the directions from Crowley. You pulled the car out of the driveway and sped downtown while you thought about Ben.

Ben Braeden had arrived at The Clouds a few months ago. He was 17 years old, and everyone knew The Clouds would be his last home before adulthood. Ben had been shipped through the system and bounced from place to place ever since his mother OD’ed when he was 11. Ben was a good kid, but he was easy to influence- If he ended up in the wrong crowd, things could go sideways fast. That had happened in the past. Actually that was the very reason why Ben never found a steady home. Still he seemed to be doing better at The Clouds, and everyone had been hopeful for him. Until today. You had no idea what had happened or why Ben was in that store, but you knew if he was to have any hope of a future, you would have to get to the cops and fast. You had seen episodes like this before. They tended to spiral out of control quickly because the officers forgot they were dealing with scared kids and not rationally thinking adults.

As you pulled into the parking lot, you breathe a sigh of relief when you saw one of The Clouds’ vehicles was already parked among the cop cars. Cas was already here, and hopefully he had managed to get some sense of control over the situation. You jumped out of the car and ran across the lot towards the store. A uniformed officer quickly approached you and tried to hold you back. “Ma ’me, you can’t be here. I am going to have to ask you to get back to your car.”

You quickly went through your pockets and pulled out you ID. “I am a social worker up at McCloud’s. My colleague is already here, and one of our kids is in the store. I need you to let me pass.”

The officer stared at you ID for a few seconds before looking back at you. He seemed a bit unsure of what to do, so you proceeded. “Look I know the kid, and I can help. I need to pass.”

The officer slowly nodded, and you ran past him before he had a chance to change his mind.

The space in front of the small cozy convenient store was swarming with cops, and you stopped and looked around, trying to locate Cas. You gulped when you saw the SWAT team gearing up. They weren’t really planning on going in guns blazing were they?

“Y/N?” You spun around at the sound of Cas voice and saw him rushing towards you.

“Fill me in.” you quickly commanded, and Cas pulled you to the side.

“There are three kids in there. 2 of them have guns, and from what I can gather, they are part of some local gang. One of them is already wanted by the police. I tried to get through to the SWAT officers earlier, but I can’t seem to make them understand that Ben is no treat. They see them all as armed and dangerous. Y/N, I do not for a second believe Ben knew what he was walking into. He may be easy to influence, but he would never point a gun at anybody.”

You nodded as you listened to Cas story while you kept looking around, trying to get a feel for who might be in charge. Your gaze landed on two tall burly guys without uniforms. The one with a beard was talking to the commanding SWAT officer while his partner’s eyes were resting on the front of the shop. You looked around and saw a few officers blocking your path to get to the SWAT car, and you knew you and Cas were already pushing your luck. There was no chance they would allow you to get even closer to the store, so you smiled knowingly up at Cas.

“I need a distraction.”

Cas followed your line of sight and immediately knew what you were thinking. He always did. He had been your teacher and mentor for a long time. A friendship and partnership had grown between the two of you, and now you worked pretty much all of your cases together. You trusted and admired him, and you knew he respected and believed in you. You were a good team.

Cas winked at you and walked straight up to the uniformed cops and started yelling at them, demanding their full attention. You smiled and watched him for a few seconds before you rushed across the street unnoticed by the officers who were busy trying to keep Cas calm.

You approached the detective that wasn’t currently in deep discussion with the SWAT officer. “Excuse me? Can I talk to you for a moment detective?”

The man turned around, and for a few seconds, you forgot what you were saying and even where you were. He had seemed like a good looking man when you had watched him from a distance, but up close he was almost god like. He stood tall, towering over you on strong, thick bowed legs and with muscles that were evident even through the three layers of clothing he was wearing. His eyes were green. Like, forest green. He had a strong jawline and full lips that almost made you wanna lick them.

His deep growl brought you back to reality. “You shouldn’t be back here lady.”

You shook yourself loose when he tried to grab your arm and lead you back across the street. “I am a social worker. I know one of the boys in there. If you would just listen to me for a second before you send a freaking army in there.”

The man’s eyes opened wide, and you actually thought you saw a glimmer of admiration in them before he spoke again. “I wasn’t really planning too, but if you think you can give me some insight into what I am walking into before I walk into it, I would appreciate it.”

The detective rested his hand on your back and led you back towards a big shining black car. “Talk to me?” He offered as he opened the car door and pulled out a vest.

It took all of your will power not to drool when he started stripping down to his t-shirt in front of you. You took a deep breath and started focusing on Ben rather than the gorgeous man in front of you.

“Ben Braeden lives up at McCloud’s. It is a group home for troubled kids and teens. Many of them have abusive backgrounds,” you started explaining making Dean chuckle.

“I know what it is. So how did… Ben you said?” You nodded, and the detective continued. “How did Ben end up in there?”

The detective started putting on his vest, and you began explaining Ben’s story to him. You told him how he had been in an unstable home with lots of men coming and going for the first 11 years of his life. How he was easy to influence, especially by older boys and men. He had never had a dad, so he needed someone to look up too. He just have a tendency to pick the wrong people.

“Are you ready Winchester?” The other civilian dressed detective walked up behind you as you finished your story and nodded towards you. “Who is this?”

“She’s a social worker up at The Clouds,” the green eyed detective explained. “One of the kids in there is from the group home.”

The green-eyed detective returned his attention to you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name sweetheart?”

You cringed at his choice of words. You felt as if he was talking down to you, but you decided to let it go. “Y/N Harvelle.”

“Okay Miss Harvelle. I am Detective Dean Winchester, and this is my partner, Benny Lafitte. Shots were fired in there recently, and apparently one of the boys was hurt.” You sucked in a breath, which didn’t go unnoticed by the man in front of you. He put his hands on your arms and gave you a reassuring squeeze. “I am going in there on my own to try and talk them down. I am not letting anyone else get hurt okay?”

You looked into his eyes. You saw and determination, but also a kindness there, that made you believe him. You didn’t have the best experience with cops in these kinds of situations, but there was something different about Dean. You nodded, making him smile as he returned it. “Alright. You are staying out here with Detective Lafitte.”

Dean’s PoV

Dean turned his attention to Benny. “Okay let’s do this.” Benny proceed to make sure his partner had his phone on and that they both knew the code word in case the SWAT team needed to come in.

“I got it man. This isn’t my first rodeo.” Dean winked at his partner before disarming and laying down his gun on the hood of his car. “Hold on to that for me will you?”

“Dean that’s a bad idea.” Benny argued, but Dean just shook his head.

“There are 3 kids in there and one scared store owner. I am not giving them more fire power. I am getting everyone out safely.”

Benny nodded, knowing after partnering with Dean for well over 2 years, that arguing in this moment would be pointless. “Be careful brother.”

“Always am.” Dean smiled before turning around and putting his hand over his head as he headed towards the store and the hostage situation.

As Dean slowly approached the store, he thought about the young woman who had approached him. The way she had spoken to him had impressed him. She had balls, and she was fucking beautiful. He remember the way the sun had made her Y/H/C shine and the sparkle in her Y/E/C eyes as she had spoken passionately for the kid he was about to walk in and arrest. That part weren’t going to earn him any popularity points that was for sure, but he had no choice.

Dean pushed Y/N out of his thoughts as he reached the door. He carefully knocked twice before pushing it open. He held up his hands defensively, showing the kid that stormed forward holding two guns that he was unarmed. “We asked for a doctor. You aren’t a doctor. You are a freaking cop.” The kid yelled at him, waving one of the guns at him.

Dean stayed calm as his eyes quickly searched the room. The store owner was tied up in the corner, seemingly unharmed aside from a bump on his head. In the middle of the room a blond boy was lying on the floor in a pool of blood and a dark haired one was kneeling down next to him, pressing a shirt against his friend’s stomach.

Dean quickly returned his attention to the slightly older kid holding the guns. “Yes, I am a cop, but right now I am that boy’s best chance of making it out of here alive. You gotta let me take a look at him.”

“NO.” The kid pointed the gun at Dean’s head. “You are leaving. I don’t want any damn cops in here.”

Dean sent the boys a trying smile. “Okay… I can do that, but if I leave there will be a hell of a lot more cops busting down those doors in a few minute. I am just here to help… Let me help?”

The boy with the guns hesitated for a few seconds, and the dark haired boy spoke from behind him. “Asher needs help, Mike. I don’t know what to do. Maybe he does.” Dean quickly committed the names to memory and gathered the dark haired boy trying to help his friend had to be Ben.

“Alright.” Mike waved Dean forward with one of the guns, “but don’t try anything, or I will shoot.” Dean nodded and kept his hands up as he moved across the room. “I’m only here to help man.”

Dean knelt down beside the wounded boy. He was in a lot of pain, and he looked like he was scared shitless. So Dean sent him a reassuring smile. “I am going to have a look at you okay? Just stay still. I’m Dean.”

“Asher…” the boy coughed, and Dean smiled. “Nice to meet you Asher.” Dean slowly removed the shirt from the boy’s abdomen. He was bleeding badly. Dean looked up at the boy next to him. “I am going to need your help. Ben right?”

Ben nodded, confused. “How do you know what my name is?” Dean smiled at him as he tried to earn his trust. “You got a social worker that cares a lot about you outside. Y/N Harvelle.” Ben’s eyes opened wide, and an ashamed look spread across his face. “She is here?”

“Yes right outside. Waiting for you. But right now I need to check Asher for an exit wound. Can you help me do that?”

Ben nodded. With a little coaching from Dean, the two of them managed to flip Asher onto his side, and Dean silently swore when he didn’t find anything. “Okay Ben.” Dean helped a screaming Asher back onto his back. “We need to find some alcohol, a tweezer, tape, and some bandages.” Ben nodded, but when Dean tried to get up Mike quickly pointed his gun at him again.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he screamed.

Dean felt his patience slowly starting to slip, but he calmly addressed the kid above him. “Your friend is going to die if I don’t get the bullet out of him and get him to a hospital. Do you really want that on your conscience?”

“You can try and help him,” Mike seemed, unaffected by Dean’s words. “Ben will go get the stuff you need, and Asher ain’t leaving until we all are.”

“You do realize he could die right?” Dean growled at the kid in front of him as Ben disappeared back into the store, but Mike just smiled. “It beats jail. I’m 20, and Asher is 18.”

A loud bang sounded from the other end of the store as a flustered Ben probably dropped something. The sound distracted Mike for just long enough for Dean to react. He jumped, overpowering the kid. He knocked one of the guns from his hands and grabbed the other before cuffing him to one of the shelves.

A smiled slid across Mike's face just as Dean backed of him.

“Shoot him Ben.”

Dean quickly turned to face Ben, who were pointing the before discarded gun at his chest. “You don’t want to do that Ben.” Dean tried, but Mike shouted again.

“Shoot him before he shoots you.”

Dean saw the terror in Ben’s face and he slowly bent down, laying the gun he was holding on the ground. “No one else is getting shot here today. We are just going to talk okay?” Dean didn’t take his eyes off Ben as he stood back up. He smiled when the kid slowly nodded.

“That’s it. Ben, your friend is going to die if we don’t get him help soon. We need to get him to a hospital. You don’t want him to die do you?” Dean asked and took a step forward as he reached out for the gun. Ben’s hands were shaking, but he let Dean take it.

“That’s it. It’s over.” Dean spoke calmly. “I am just going to call my partner, and we are getting your friend some help.”

Dean let the clip from the gun fall to the ground before finishing his cell out of his pocket. “Did you hear that? All clear. Get a medic in here.” Dean ordered just as Mike whistled beside him. “You are an idiot Braeden. You are going to jail.”

Dean looked up to see the panic on Ben’s face, and he didn’t have time to react before Ben’s fist connected with his jaw. Ben ran for the back door, but Dean wasn’t far behind him. He slammed the boy against the wall, making him cry out as he cuffed his hands behind his back.

“Sorry kiddo,” Dean mumbled as he pulled him back towards the store just as Benny and a few other cops busted through the door. “What took you so long?” Dean sent his partner a reassuring smile as he saw him breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of Dean still standing.

Your PoV

You had been waiting anxiously outside the store preparing yourself for the worst, but now you were furious. Detective Winchester had dragged a crying and scared Ben out of the store, and he wouldn’t even let you talk to him before shoving him into the back of a cop car.

“I told you. He didn’t know what he was walking into. You need to release him into our custody.” you spat at him, following him back towards his car.

“And I told you, Miss Harvelle, that is not within my power. Besides, the kid pulled a gun on me, and he punched me trying to escape.”

You stared daggers at him, but he just stared right back. You realized he wasn’t going to give, so you spun around on your heels, mumbling your thoughts out loud, and within seconds, Dean was in front of you, looking pissed. “What was that?.”

He was menacing. He towered over you. His green eyes had become 3 shades darker from his anger, but you didn’t care. You were furious. “I said you probably deserved it, and that he should have hit you harder.” you spat at him, and you watched his eyes narrow before he shook his head.

“Tell McCloud he will hear from us, and you should probably find a new job. That bleeding heart of yours is going to get you killed or burned out.” The venom in his words made you freeze for a second before you twirled around and yelled after him as he was walking away

“Don’t you dare tell me how to do my job.”

“Then don’t tell me how to do mine.” the man yelled over his shoulder without giving you as much as a second look.

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[quiltedopenlettertounclesam-blog]

Yes, Uncle Sam, love does exist.

One evening last December, my husband and a friend quizzed each other on U.S. citizenship questions. I sat in the living room with them, listening as I worked on my husband’s Christmas quilt. They were studying for the final step of the U.S. citizenship application process, where 10 questions out of a pool of 100 are administered orally by an immigration official.

Questions range from as easy as #28 (“What is the name of the President of the United States now?”) to as difficult as navigating the subtleties between the rights and responsibilities of citizens versus residents as bestowed by the Constitution (#49 “What is one responsibility that is only for United States citizens?” and #51 “What are two rights of everyone living in the United States?”).

Over a decade ago, I passed my high school A.P. U.S. History exam. Immediately thereafter I replaced most of the memorized facts with post-high-school-worries and summertime shenanigans. Bearing witness to the study session unfolding in my living room was an excellent refresher course in U.S. history and, much like my husband, I began internalizing the 100 items the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) deem most important for new citizens to know. We hold our new citizens to high standards.

Occasionally, self-quizzes pop into my online periphery, touting citizenship questions and daring me, “Could you pass?” I’ve seen cringe-worthy videos of random victims fumbling through incorrect answers to the same questions naturalized citizens are required to answer correctly.  Most of the questions I knew vaguely, but the USCIS only accepts a highly specific set of answers.

Off the top of your head, and without help from Alexa or Google:

- Do you know the answer to Question #70? (“Who was President during World War I”)

- How about Question #23? (“Name your U.S. Representative”)

- Can you differentiate between a responsibility granted by the Constitution for U.S. Citizens (Question #49, mentioned previously) and a right of everyone living in the United States, citizen or not (Question #51, see above)?

- Couldn’t we ALL benefit from a cozy living room refresher course?

Let’s back up: My husband and I have spent the last half-decade wading through the U.S. immigration system together, petitioning for visas, requesting permissions, demonstrating evidence, and spending large chunks of our savings on the aforementioned. What began with a petition for an interview at a U.S. embassy in South America turned into a whirlwind visa approval with strict time limits on his entry to the U.S. and just 90 days to legally marry on U.S. soil, morphing into formal requests for permissions to work and travel, then a temporary conditional residency, resulting in our filing for permanent residency and, most recently, applying to become a naturalized U.S. citizen. Phew.

I recognize that my socio-economic and race privileges, paired with good will and support from family and friends, made any of the above possible. This has been an exhausting and humbling and privacy-invading process for us, and I’m disturbed to think how exponentially more difficult it would have been under different circumstances: if I were not white; if my family could not have helped us prove financial solvency; if ours wasn’t a heterosexual relationship.

Almost every step of our immigration process mandated we show evidence of our continued genuine relationship, and we not only sent the required formal documents (marriage certificates, joint leases, bank accounts, and tax returns), but we also attempted to show the humanity of our relationship, that which black-&-white documents simply cannot convey, in hopes that humans on the receiving end of our application would see us as real people.

We included the receipt for our wedding rings, bought as soon as we learned we were granted an embassy interview and marking the exact moment we allowed ourselves to believe our dream might become reality; we included ticket stubs from flights taken together throughout his native country and the ominous one-way ticket from his country to mine; we included photos of our impromptu marriage ceremony in a U.S. county government office, when our 9-year-old niece boldly stepped into the role of Maid of Honor with a beautiful reading – in two languages, no less! – as follows:  

Today I am marrying my best friend, The one I laugh with, The one I live for, The one I dream with, And the one I love.

(These very words are now stitched into my husband’s Christmas quilt)

We were stuck for almost 18 months at the “permanent residency” step of our immigration process due to unprecedented backlogs in the USCIS system. It was during this time the defining phrase “a nation of immigrants” conspicuously disappeared from the USCIS mission statement.

A nation of immigrants: I am as proud of my husband’s South American heritage as I am of my own immigrant ancestry. I am just two generations removed from the brave Jampolsky family that anglicized their Eastern-European surname to the American-sounding “Jay.” Question #67 of the civics exam states: “The Federalist Papers supported the passage of the U.S. Constitution. Name one of the writers.” One of the accepted answers is John Jay, a founding father of the USA.

While my family shares John Jay’s name today, our “Jay” comes from immigrant tailors taking a purposeful measure to avoid implicit bias when 20th-century New Yorkers purchased their garments. My family’s original surname is etched on the wall at Ellis Island, meaning the Statue of Liberty was our beacon of hope, as it was for so many others. For more on Lady Liberty, see citizenship Question #95.

A few weeks before citizenship questions ricocheted around our living room, we received an “RFE” from the USCIS regarding my husband’s residency petition: the dreaded Request For Evidence. After sending bank letters, joint health insurance policies, utility bills, photos from our first years of marriage, and affidavits from family members, we now had a hard deadline to provide even more proof of our relationship, and failure to comply risked deportation. Was there still room to doubt the existence of our love?

We pulled out all the stops. We slogged through every single document containing our two names, and we spent over $100 at the copy store making a veritable tower of papers. We are products of our tech- and texting-savvy generation, and it dawned on us we had no idea how to send via snail-mail a stack of documents too thick for paperclips, staples, or envelopes.

We ultimately tied the giant bundle together with ribbon leftover from tethering our garden vines, and after placing everything in an over-sized box we filled the extra space with plastic bags blown up like balloons. Our previous attempts to prove our humanity with photos and anecdotes obviously hadn’t worked, as shown by this Request For Evidence, but perhaps this MacGyvered packing method would do the trick?

After a few anxious weeks, my husband’s permanent residency was approved. In rapid turnaround, he soon applied for U.S. citizenship – I’ll save the conversation surrounding one’s willingness to pledge loyalty to the U.S. in today’s xenophobic environment for another time. We are back to playing the waiting game, but at least this time we have a solid method of distraction by way of studying for the citizenship exam.

Let’s shift gears to this Christmas quilt: When you’ve just spent upwards of a thousand dollars on applications, copy fees, and postage (and when a thousand dollars is still a considerable sum of money), what helps pass the time while your husband works evenings, without increasing the credit card balance? A quilt. What will be unequivocally better than any gift found on Amazon? A quilt. What can I give to the person who opened my eyes to the beauty of a new culture, who walks with me through international bureaucracy barriers, and who continues to be the best thing to happen to me each day? This quilt.

I grew up accompanying my mother to Quilt Guild meetings and falling asleep under a patchwork made by her and her friends. I marveled at the Gee’s Bend quilts and devoured children’s books about the Underground Railroad, with illustrations depicting specific quilt blocks that signaled safe houses. I showed up at college with an extra-long quilt for my dorm room’s Twin XL mattress, and I myself have made T-shirt quilts for friends when beloved tees from high school athletic teams and drama clubs became too threadbare to continue wearing and washing.

Quilt symbolism fascinates me, so I carefully chose representative blocks for this foray into heirloom quilt making: the “Log Cabin” block, with its square hearth in the middle wrapped in outward radiating strips, for the homes we’ve made on two continents; my mother’s favorite “Flying Geese” flock around the centerpiece, for although geese migrate long distances, they always find their way home; “Storm at Sea” for my husband’s love of the ocean and recognition that life’s storms are better weathered together.

Quilting purists will notice my Storm at Sea block contains one too many diamond-and-triangle rows, the result of a novice attempt to make things fit after flipping the square centerpiece on its corner – let’s chalk that up to the Amish quilting tradition of purposefully including an imperfection in each piece, or in my case, a fair few imperfections.

I was, perhaps, a little overzealous trying to hand-quilt the entire piece before Christmas, which is why basting stitches are still visible (though I might argue the basting stitches reflect our life together as a work in progress). Leaves and curling tendrils will eventually replace the basting stitches, embodying the fruit vines my husband so carefully tends, and ruefully reminding us of the string used to bundle our Request for Evidence papers.

Quilts need stitches every few inches to anchor their layers, and I needed something to anchor me in the tumultuous close of 2018. Hand quilting is meditative: making uniform, even stitches means rocking the needle up and down, over and over again. Placing the needle perpendicular to the fabric, find the tip of the needle from underneath and use the thimble you filched from your mother’s sewing room decades ago to push the needle through, then begin the process anew. I recommend playing an audio book and losing yourself in someone else’s world and in a rhythm of stitches.

I was like the millennial Betsy Ross stitching into the night, trying to finish before the holiday, and my husband the modern-day immigrant Francis Scott Key, finding his own quilted Star-Spangled Banner* on Christmas morning after having survived the bombardment of plagues that the year 2018 hurled at our family.

*For anyone keeping score, “the Star-Spangled Banner” is the correct response to Question #98: “What is the name of the National Anthem?”

The living room study session paused: “What the *bleep* does ‘Spangled’ mean?”

Follow-up observation: “Spangled” is not an English vocabulary word I’d had occasion to translate into Spanish, nor is it easy to do so. Despite not having a direct translation, I got the point across with “estrellada,” and “cubierto de estrellas.”

At one point, I showed process shots of the quilt to a friend (also an immigrant and someone who has selflessly adopted me and my husband on numerous holidays). While swiping through photos she mused, “Making quilts is something typically American, isn’t it?”

A little context: I spent the better part of six years living in South America, struggling all the while to put my finger on the U.S. equivalent of the traditional dishes, the typical costumes and dances, and the ingrained cultural customs I witnessed. Everyone in my new country inherently knew they must greet each person individually when entering a room, and everyone expected that pork belly and freeze-dried potatoes be served at weddings (usually well after midnight), just like everyone assumed fast-food hamburgers were wholly representative of the U.S.  Sigh.

Thanks to my immigrant friend’s nonchalant observation, I discovered that quilting was the very evidence I sought: a cultural link, a generational continuum, a method of telling stories and connecting families. Quilting is an American tradition. Quilting is MY American tradition.

Returning to the pre-Christmas study session, quilt on my lap, Question #55: “What are two ways that Americans can participate in their democracy?” Easy answers include voting and running for office. Farther down the list of USCIS-approved ways we can participate in our democracy is “write to a newspaper.” At the raised eyebrows I saw appear over my quilt, I explained Letters to the Editor and Op-Eds.

“So … Anyone can write?”  “Yes.”

“… And does anyone actually write?” “Well …”

Apparently, not all answers to the USCIS questions have contemporary resonance (seeing as writing to a newspaper certainly pre-dates 160-character limits), and it seems not all South American countries encourage writing to newspapers, thus the question I just fielded. Once I’d gotten past the shock that writing to a newspaper is now a somewhat archaic concept, I used the classic example of “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus” to show that anyone can indeed write to a newspaper. It was Christmastime, after all.

To jog your memory, in 1897 a young girl named Virginia wrote to the New York Sun doubting if Santa Claus was real, and the editor’s response is a timeless explanation that “often the most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see.”  You’ll notice there was no implication that at age seven, “It’s marginal, right?”

When all is said and done, it’s important to note my husband and I are grateful. Although I aim to remind the USCIS that this will always be a nation of immigrants, its systems have allowed me and my husband to live, be free, and pursue our happiness on U.S. soil.

So, in the Christmas spirit (albeit belatedly), with help from Virginia and the editor at the New York Sun, and with renewed inspiration to contribute to my democracy as Question #55 of the citizenship exam suggests, I conclude with this:

 Yes, Uncle Sam, love does exist.

Our relationship exists “as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist,” and this gives our “life its highest beauty and joy.”

And yes, Uncle Sam, we are a nation of immigrants.

As neither of these two statements has been clear from the stacks upon stacks of papers and documents and signatures and petitions and forms and photos we dutifully provided, I invite you to come lay under my husband’s Christmas quilt, painstakingly stitched with generations-old traditions and infused with an entire nation’s dreams. For without these dreams, “there would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence.”

I invite you to wrap yourself, as our future children will, in the warmth of this labor of love, and to dream with us our American dream.