DMV destroys dreams of voting
It’s the day of my 18th birthday, and I am beyond eager to tackle number 2 on my list, registering to vote. All day on Oct. 14, I can’t wait to sit in line in eager anticipation of renewing my driver’s license. My thoughts are polluted with fantasies of checking that box that registered me as a listed member of a political party. Every one of my civic dreams is about to come true.
Once the 3:10 bell rang, I hurry to my car, carpools in tow. I drop off the first, then rush to get to the DMV before it closed, forcing my other carpool, and cousin to wait in the car for the 10-ish minutes, by my estimate, that the process would take me.
The two of us pull into the DMV parking lot. I swell with excitement. On the way in, I run into a bud of mine, Hailey Konnath. She informs me that I need two forms of address confirmation. A checkbook will do, she tells me, and a bank statement. I stroll back to my car and glance at my cell phone. It’s a quarter to 4. I begin to get anxious, because the doors close at 4:30, because, logically, this is when the DMV should close.
I tear through my glove compartment, searching for anything bearing my address. I find recipts from Toyota with my address at the top. There’s one. I can’t for the life of me locate my checkbook, so I frantically I call my mother, asking her if she knew where it was. My words being to jumble as I try to explain my predicament without bursting into tears. It’s now 10 to 4. I try to keep my cool but begin shouting at my mother. Not shouting at her, but shouting to her. She is not appreciative. She tells me to go home and search for it curtly.
Hot tears well up in my eyes as I hang up and climb into the driver’s seat. My cousin is still in the backseat. I’m sure she can hear me. I’m a little embarrassed. It has begun to rain, at first just a mist, but the percipitation grows into a full on downpour. I speed out of the parking lot, back onto Maple. I drop my cousin off at her house before I set off towards mine. I’m hardly disguising my hysterics at this point.
As my cousin silently steps onto the concrete of her driveway, she mumbles, “happy birthday.”
“Thanks,” I reply equally as quiet. I’m a little more than embarrassed.
As I manuver out of the neighborhood, tears start spilling down my cheeks, steaming and angry and paincking tears. I grow more and more frustrated as I get stuck behind stubborn cars whose drivers insist on going the speed limit. It is at this point that I start screaming. Not screaming anything in particualr, not obscenities or curses or phrases of ill wish, just screaming. As loud as I could. I never remember being this delirious before.
I pull up to my garage door and sprint into my house, tears still dotting my cheeks. It’s 4:10. I search for my checkbook frantically but can’t find it. I call my mother once again. I try to form coherent words in between my sobs, but give up before long and resort to blubbering. My mother tries to calm me down gently but I won’t have any of it. I feel like I was 4 again, throwing a tantrum over something insignificant and silly. Only this is important. This is my right to vote.
My mother tells me to find a bank statement and take some deep breaths. I won’t be able to go to the DMV in this state, she tells me. I know she’s rigt, but I’m not nearly finished with my theatrical show of emotion. I hurry back to my car and slam the door.
On the way to the DMV I check the time. It’s 4:15. Cool off, I tell myself. Stop embarrassing yourself. I’m sure you’ll be able to be processed today. They wouldn’t make you wait if they couldn’t process you.
I pull into the parking lot once more and take a parking spot. It’s still raining as I pass an arguing couple standing outside the doulbe glass doors. I try to pass without drawing attention to myself, my eyes glued to the pavement. I approach the counter and fill out some standard form. I pull a ticket from the big red roll bolted to the wall. It reads “62”. I quickly take a seat. It’s 4:20.
As I sit in the uncomfortable, government distributed DMV plastic chair, listening to the man behind the counter call numbers, the murmured conversations around me, the couple screaming at each other in the rain outside, as I reflect upon how much I HATE the DMV, I am reminded of how inconvenient life can be. I’m not referring to dying of starvation or being forced to join a terrorist group of religious fundamentalists. I’m talking about two forms of proof of address vexing.
The room begins to empty. Those still present begin to quiet. I’ve been sitting here for 45 minutes. “58” I hear from the window, 4 left. The couple outside is still screaming and is still wet. I catch tidbits of their argument: “I boiled water for you!”, “Red, black, green, brown, whatever it was!”, “You didn’t even know her name!” I wonder if they realize that everyone can hear them. I wonder if they realize how stupid they sound. Then I remember sobbing in my car over not being able to find my checkbook. Oh the hypocrisy.
Today was supposed to be memorable, monumental even. I can vote. I am one step closer to growing up. I should feel empowered, mature.
“61,” I feel tired.
“62,” I rise from my chair and give the man my ticket. He reminds me of the gatekeeper from The Wizard of Oz. Must be the mustache. I enter an average room through an average door. Mr. Gatekeeper takes my forms and skims through them. “No,” he tells me, “These are much too old.” I ask to retrieve a more recent form from my car. I am granted permission.
I arrange with a man in a business suit to let me back in. Because the doors lock at 4:30. Because, logically, this is when the DMV closes.
I walk into the rain. The fighting couple has dispersed. I retrieve a Toyota maintenance receipt from August of 2008. I trudge solemnly back into that wretched place. I enter through the same average door into the same average room, to an entirely different woman. She takes my paperwork and checks the dates. “No,” she tells me, “These are much too old.”
I come to learn that the forms in question must be dated within the last 90 days. She then gives me a listing of acceptable documents. She tells me not to come back until I have them. I thank her, but I’m not sure what for. I walked out into the rain once more.
