He bubbled over with a contagious enthusiasm. I got carried away in the moment, and clapped right along. The 45 of us stood in turn as the official called out our nations of origin — together we came from 27 different countries. Then, after we sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” and recited the Pledge of Allegiance, we were pronounced full-fledged citizens.

It was surreal, and almost voyeuristic. I felt as if I was watching the scene unfold at a distance. The official motioned to the TV monitors before us. The screen flipped from a static image of the American flag to a video clip of President Trump in a blue suit and striped tie. He welcomed us “into the American family,” saying, “No matter where you come from, or what faith you practice, this country is now your country.” He added, “You enjoy the full rights, and the sacred duties that come with American citizenship — very, very special.”

But I didn’t feel special, not at this moment. I felt complicated, poisoned and contradictory. I hoped that becoming a citizen would provide me a solid sense of security, an unquestionable right to live in America and participate in its democracy. It did not.

I am a citizen, yes. But I am also a brown-skinned Muslim woman who looks like the members of “the squad” whom President Trump told to go back to where they came from. I live in Baltimore, a place the president calls “dangerous and filthy.”

Looking at the beaming new citizens around me, I wondered what their physical journeys might have been, how arduously they’d worked to finally reach that moment. I felt a creeping sense of guilt that I had neither journeyed far nor struggled deeply. But more than anything else, I felt resentful that the circumstances of the week had marred the achievement of all of us, and undermined what I thought it meant to be a citizen.

When I officially became an American, a kind friend wrote me a congratulatory note that said: “Welcome to the struggle :) May this country be for you what it aspires to be for all people — a place of freedom and opportunity.” It might take more than aspiration for this to stay true.

That steamy afternoon when I took my citizenship test, I hoped one of the questions would be, “What are two ways that Americans can participate in their democracy?” According to my study packet, there are 10 precisely worded answers that are acceptable for this question, including “join a political party,” “publicly support or oppose an issue or policy,” “vote” and “write to a newspaper.”

So here I am: another citizen participating in American democracy.