Our nation is fundamentally a
diverse collection of people gathered under one roof. Never is this more
apparent then when seated at the most derided of all government institutions:
the Department of Motor Vehicles. Here you are ensnared in a trap of
white-washed cinderblock; each holding an identical white numbered card, a card
whose number usually leads to the exciting counter of a deli, but now whose
only reward is an obese woman who will ask you one too many questions about
your birth certificate. Amidst the mind-numbing bureaucracy, what becomes apart
is just how different everyone is. Just like our great and vast country, the
DMV represents an otherwise impossible to locate mix of people who come from
varied ages, races, and socioeconomic backgrounds.
The
first and most common group, that seems to be a constant presence at the DMV,
is people from “the country”. Now, being a suburban teen, these are not people
I see often, but who seem to come out in large groups to bask in their local
bureaucracy. The common thread between this group is camouflage. It is
everywhere: on babies, grown men and old women. Faded on sweatshirts, trucker
caps, and onesies, this print is hard to ignore. In fact on one visit, I
counted twenty-two individual instances of camouflage during my three-hour
wait. Accompanying this motif is often the noxious scent of tobacco, both smoked
and chewed. But even more pernicious than the scent wafting off this group is
their disposition. They emit the sense that life has made them tired; it is a
constant cycle of bad break after bad break.
Located
all the way on the other side of the spectrum from “rednecks”, is the excited teenager.
Now this is an interesting group, mostly because they are operating at a
completely different frequency from the masses assembled in the cold metal
chairs. These teens have, instead of a typical bureaucratic appointment,
reached a turning point in their lives. This is the moment at which they become
adults, when they are handed their freedom in the form of laminated plastic. Paramount
to these adolescents is the photo. It is the one picture they will carry around
for the rest of their lives -- or at least until they turn twenty-one. Hair
must be perfectly fixed, straightened to a pin, make-up impeccable, and the
most beautiful shirt ever known to man must be worn; one that will perfectly peak
out from the bottom of the photo and somehow elevate the wearer beyond the
mundane. The joy emanated out of these teens is so strong that even the cold,
harsh lighting and grey, tile floors of the Department of Motor Vehicles cannot
dampen it.
Arguably
the most estimable of all groups found at the DMV is those who fall into the “elegant
older women” set. These women are the people who somehow are always impeccably
put together. They are easily recognizable by their comfortable cashmere loungewear,
their elegant wire-rimmed reading glasses, and their radiating sense of inner
peace. They most definitely belong to the home and garden club and several other
book clubs. And, without fail, these women will be seen carrying a Kindle. Most
importantly, their documents will be neatly bound in unbent paper clips, and
slipped into manila envelopes. They will have not one but two forms of
identification. You only wish you could be this organized.
The
people gathered here, under one roof, all come for the same reason. But yet
there is a tangible difference between them all. It is not just the clothes
that they wear or the tobacco that they may or may not spit; it is their
disposition in life. It can be read from the lines on their faces; their
complacent smiles or their heavy sighs. It is etched deeply into their persona.
For some reason, the fluorescent lighting here illuminates more than just every
flaw in your face. It illuminates your soul.
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