THE immigrants trickling into the maple-paneled Brooklyn courtroom were a docile group. We had to be there by 8:30 in the morning to utter the oath of allegiance and thus become American citizens, and the collective mood was sleep deprivation mingled with palpable fear of making any kind of misstep.

Dressed somewhere on the spectrum between business attire and Sunday best, most of us had also absorbed our summons letter’s instruction to wear clothing “proper” to “the dignity of this event.” It took about an hour for everyone to be seated, and I had a good view of what must be a frequent ritual. The clerk reviewing people’s documents told several that blue jeans weren’t allowed. “If you’re wearing blue jeans,” he raised his voice for everyone’s benefit, “go out and change.”

The call to “Go and change your pants” punctuated the proceedings. For all the amazing variety of individuals there, the wave of panic that swept over those who were told to change was more or less identical. At first I actually assumed there was a room down the hall where spare suit pants could be borrowed, because the instruction was so baffling. We were deep in a federal courthouse near the end of Cadman Plaza in Downtown Brooklyn — a stretch of faceless office blocks and parkland — early on a Friday. Who knew where to get their hands on the right kind of pants, at that hour, at an affordable price, and at a moment’s notice, so as not to miss their oath ceremony and possibly forfeit citizenship?

Nothing in our summons letter had listed what we couldn’t wear, and I saw people pass unremarked in flip-flops, tight turquoise chinos and a half-translucent bodysuit patterned with stars and stripes that Cher might have enjoyed wearing to the Oscars. Black jeans, for some reason, were tolerated. The black leggings I wore also passed muster, though they’re not exactly a cornerstone of formal wear. All kinds of ethnic garb was fine, though I doubt the two presiding clerks were qualified to judge the spiffiness of each outfit in its own idiom.