Who knew the DMV Was So Poetic?

             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.

Go To Sleep Little Baby

            As I stand in present day I can see myself, so at peace with all nations, hypnotized in what may be the most comfortable sleeping conditions the world has ever seen, ignorant in my bliss; like a lamb to the slaughter. I lay in bed, the sheets loosely covering me, with a down blanket that is somehow cool but intensely warm. A gentle breeze whispered across my face. If this moment had a song it would be gentle, peaceful classical music. Then suddenly my world changed. Everything stopped. The beauty and magic of the quiet sleep - my quiet sleep - was ruined so quickly that I could feel it as it was ripped from my soul.  It stopped in a minute, a second, an instant. It stopped with the slow, creeping, crawling footfalls, so light they were barley perceptible but nonetheless earth-shattering, of the stinkbug that has landed on my face.

            With the horrifying realization that a bug had just walked across my face I am jerked out of my heaven. Hands flying everywhere, faster, faster, I desperately try to put as much distance as possible between the monster and me. I leap out of my bed, throwing my covers, and dash to the light. My hands shake like a crack addict as a fumble around for the light switch. But when I look to the bed, to kill the creature that has dared to invade my space, it is gone. Disappeared. And in that moment I know that I will never be safe again.

            Now I am confronted with a choice; possibly the hardest one I will ever have to make. The bright light burns my eyes, and I realize that it is 3:30 a.m. Do I stay up all night, sitting, waiting for the bug to resurface? Or can I be a man and layback down in the monster’s lair, never knowing what will crawl out of my bed sheets next. I choose to be brave. With a prayer I regretfully turn off the light, plunging my room back into darkness, and lay back down in my prison.

            My home, my sanctuary, is gone. The difference between this moment and just a few minutes before is unreal. What had once been a sacred space is now ruined and vanished forever. Never again will I feel safe in my once beloved bed. I lay, looking up at the ceiling, cloaked in darkness, with the paranoia of a Hitchcock victim. Every brush of my hair is a spider, and the once gentle breeze is now a swarm of gnats ready to attack. In a moment like this it is impossible to sleep; all I can hear is my heart thumping in my chest, and my eyes cannot stay closed long. They flash open at the first rustle of a paper, fearing that the worst is coming, but all they see is the inky blackness that has corrupted my room.

            Not only am I different, but my room itself has changed with me. Before the invasion, the darkness used to be comforting. It was a blanket: the blackness surrounded me and made me feel safe. I trusted the darkness because it had never told me not to, and in turn it sheltered me. It blurred away the dark shadows and creepy monsters of my childhood, and provided a black cocoon of darkness to sleep within. Children fear the dark because it is unknown, so their imaginations fill in the blank space with innumerable terrifying creatures. They keep lights on to keep away the monsters. But as children grow up, the fear of darkness fades from their minds. It becomes a state of comfort, where the ambiguity and emptiness block the harsh realities of the world as it is in the cold light of day. But yet, in the moment that that beast landed on my face, I was reverted back to a childlike phase. The truce I had made with darkness, that if it showed that it was safe and that there was truly nothing in it to be feared, I would in turn stop fearing it, was broken.  Suddenly, in the expanse of blackness that I looked into, there could be any number of creatures, hiding in night’s shadows, waiting to strike.

            Honestly, as I write this essay it is scary to dive back in, and remember the terror that I felt that night. Once more I feel a cold sweat, and anxiety overtakes me.  To some, the incident with the bug would not make them think twice, but for me it is a symbol of broken trust. That one seemingly insignificant event, destroyed my belief, destroyed my sense of safety, as it plunged me away from my home. Though in the physical sense it remained unchanged, my sanctuary will never quite be the same. The trust that I felt in darkness is now corrupted. Eventually, as I began to move beyond this experience, the feeling of security gradually returned. But yet, somewhere lurking in a dark corner of my mind is the knowledge that somewhere, lurking in a dark corner of my room, is a monster. It is waiting, hidden in the darkness. And it knows, that I know, that I will never see it coming.

Maintaining Your Hold on Sanity while Staring at Water

            For some reason, when I thought about what job I wanted to have the summer after I turned sixteen, my only dream was to be a lifeguard. Never mind the fact that I swim at the speed of a really average 4 year old, or that I am terrified of diving.  And I hate getting wet. Oh, also I’m terrible at making common sense decisions. I’m not sure why I wanted to be a lifeguard; maybe because I was caught up in the fantasy of too many summer movies, and I thought that with a whistle in my hand I would suddenly become a powerful, cool and inspiring person. Unfortunately, this was not close to the reality of it. Although I did get to wear an awesome red two-piece, the majority of the job consisted of me trying to stave off extreme boredom. 

            Boredom is one of those disappearing problems that are easy to forget about with age. Remember what it was like to be a child, when the days were excruciatingly long, and whole hours were tortured by the nauseating phrase “there’s nothing to do”? Today, at the first sign of dullness, a distraction is immediately called on to remedy the situation. But as a lifeguard, you are required to sit in the chair for hours with absolutely nothing except your mind to entertain you. The intense tedium of sitting with only your thoughts to keep you company is enough to drive anybody mad. To keep a hold on your sanity, it is important to think out of the box.

            When you first step up into the chair, it initially may seem exciting. “Wow, I’m sitting in a ten foot tall chair!” may run through your head. But this will quickly wear off.  Honestly, from there the most entertaining activity can be enforcing the rules. Incidentally, this is also what you are paid to do.  Just because this is actually a part of the job description, doesn’t mean it can’t be enjoyable. As someone who is not assertive, this is an opportunity to be a different person; the kind of person that enjoys yelling. Also, experiment with it! For instance, I traded in my standard issue Fox 40 Classic for a rape whistle. It provides the highest, shrillest peel I have ever heard. Also, it scares children.

            Even more exciting then the shout can be mastering the glare.  Well-placed glares will not only make the intended target feel extreme discomfort, but it will also shame them into following the rules. One of my favorite instances was when a woman decided that her child was special enough to stay in the pool during adult swim. Instead of yelling at her, I simply lowered my sunglasses and unleashed my best “high school teen who does not get enough to eat” face. Blank stare, no smile, it was awesome. Once your target realizes that you are staring at them don’t waver.  Look for uncomfortable shifting and a general air of discomfort. I can honestly say that this specific glare was one of my biggest accomplishments of the summer; the woman felt so uncomfortable that she left the pool.

            Beyond enforcement, we enter the stage at which we delve into the mind, in a desperate search for an interesting thought. All summer long, I found myself constantly planning out over the top, dramatic essays in my head. Not only is channeling your inner John F. Kennedy fun, but it is also productive. My Harvard application, about the indignities of diversity as a requirement of acceptance is almost finished.

            If you are in a lighter mood it can be fun to really observe and get to know your patrons. Eavesdrop! Become emotionally invested in the conversations of strangers! It doesn’t get better than this; parents drinking in the pool tend to have very exciting conversations.  Or, judging people is also fun. Tweens who think they look cool are one of the most fascinating breeds I have ever encountered. Also, I really enjoy smiling at babies. Not only is it adorable, but also you get some fun conflict when the parents turn around and realize that a random stranger is creepily smiling at their children.

           At last your shift is almost over, and not only have you manipulated the patrons with your impressive use of glaring and shouting, but most importantly you have been entertained. But what if you encounter the dreaded single swimmer; a solitary man in a lap lane, or a child who just can’t take a shower right now because they have to swim until five minuets after the pool has closed. These situations are mind-numbingly annoying. Here is a case of anger boredom. Sometimes the only way to entertain oneself is to twirl your whistle. I personally love whistle twirling. It is so easy to get lost in the beautiful arcs and spins as my neon pink whistle flies through the air. But sometimes it is just too easy to get lost in the beauty and your whistle flies away from you, literally. Into the head of a swimmer. Which actually happened to me.

            A simpler alternative to whistle twirling is to drop things into the pool. Flip-flops, sunglasses, and especially my whistle have all gone in.  Even better than the dropping is the aftermath, where one can a. stare at a youth until they feel compelled to pick it up for you, or b. add some spice into your sit by retrieving the item while your manager isn’t looking. This game often begs the question, which can be the topic of thought for an entire sit, what the heck a fisherman’s crook is for. The only time I have ever seen it used is on an episode of Criminal Minds where they drowned someone with it.  Thus, it is obviously a very important tool in the pool’s safety arsenal.

            Sometimes though, it is just not your day.  The sun is beating and there is no brainpower left to entertain you with. At times like this, it is better to just sit back and realize how amazing and iconic you look in ray bans. Or how blonde you are getting.

            By now, I hope to God, the shift is over.  But this is just one shift, one out of the endless days of work. And congratulations, you have made $36.50 in five hours. This will pay for the gas it has taken to get to work. But the day has not been lost, because you have triumphed over boredom. It tried to take you down, submit you to its incessant staring off into space, its addictive watching of the clock, but you have won. Somehow, you have entertained yourself for hours using only your mind. Free of distraction, the mind is an awe-inspiring machine of inspiration. That is, if you let it do its job. The next time you feel a wave of boredom coming on, and you reach out for the safety of a familiar distraction: a book, a laptop, a phone, try something revolutionary. Reach for your mind.

When You're Sixteen

            This summer I finally felt what cool is. Cruising in my car, flying down the highway, windows down, and music up I was invincible. Whipping around turns, foot on the accelerator, I felt so free.  Honestly, before I ever drove I don’t think I really identified with being a teenager. I have never wanted to party, or vandalize things, or cause the havoc that we are defined for. But, behind the wheel, I finally had this feeling. Of course I knew that it was dangerous to drive fast, but it was too much fun. The consequences didn’t matter, because I am young and unstoppable, and nothing bad can happen to me.

            Of course, this feeling is stoppable. It stops with a screeching of tires, and in a flash it is gone. The day it left was a strange day; the sky was almost tinged with green. It was the kind of weather that features prominently in Steven King novels. The sky would be a dead giveaway for a reader, who would be bored by the obvious giveaway that something bad was about to happen. 

            That day I had shown up to guard, and as I walked in the air was hot, humid, and calm, the kind of quiet right before a massive storm. Ten minuets after I had gotten there the wind started whipping, kicking and swirling up leaves. My manager Ellen called me in, “ Rachel, we don’t need anymore lifeguards today. Is it ok if you go home?”

            “ I guess that’s fine,” I grudgingly replied, annoyed that I had wasted 20 minutes driving over and would have to go all the way home with out getting paid. I got into the car, slamming the door and pulled out. Light rain sprinkled on my windshield, the light drops before a monsoon.

            As I came sailing down the hill, about to get on to the highway, I felt a sudden jerking. Before I knew what was happening, I was headed straight into the curb 45 miles an hour. Without thinking, without remembering everything that they had ever told me at driving school, I spun the wheel as hard as I could. Unfortunately this was the wrong decision. My car lurched again, and I was now pointed directly at the oncoming lane, and in that moment time stood still.

            The seconds felt like hours. I looked across from me, at where I was about to crash into, and saw the huge truck coming up the hill. My mind was in overdrive; I was completely out of control. I have never been in such a powerless position.  All I could think about is what would happen next. Waking up in a strange hospital bed, not knowing where I was. I tried to pull the wheel back but nothing happened, my car could not be controlled. I was flying across the lane, approaching the other side, at the yellow line, across it, and suddenly, just as harshly as the car had moved before, it switched directions again, not a second too soon.

            The car fishtailed back and forth until it finally straightened out 100s of feet from where I started. When at last I regained control I had no idea what to do. I was alone, and I had almost just crashed, but just as easily, I was fine and completely ok. My entire body went numb as I realized how close I had escaped. I was in a panic attack, and I could barely move my foot, but I had to keep going. Outside the storm had finally come. It rained in a torrential downpour, and I could barely make out the cars in front of me.  I wanted so badly to pull over, to stop until I could retain control, but I knew that I couldn’t get stuck in the storm. So I went home.

            In a moment, as I stared into the vehicle I was about to hit, out of control and knowing my destiny, my perspective changed. It stopped being “cool” to speed and ignore the rules. I am young but I am not invincible. I had looked into the eyes of what I thought was impossible, and seen that it was a very real thing. Failure, death and a car crash are all very real things that can happen. Being a teen does not stop me from that, it only filled me with false confidence that I am indestructible. My identity as a teenager, that there are no consequences was a lie. I had stared down destruction, and saw just how true it is, and just how stupid I am.

Revolution: An Ageless Hobby

           

            Everyday in the news it seems like Americans hear negative sentiment piled upon negative story coming out of the Middle East. Many here in the U.S. look down upon these radicals and their extremist revolutions. But yet, weren’t we as a country in the very same position once? Weren’t we also the radicals, fighting for a voice in our government? It is easy to hold up the American Revolution as a flawless battle for peace and humanity, a perfect moment in human history when we banded together to throw off the regime of the blind elite. It is easy because it was long ago and we have time behind us proving that we made the right choices. Next to this, we see the violent events of the Arab Spring, in which citizens of countries like Egypt, Libya, and Tunisia, attempted to overthrow false democracies and dictatorial regimes. But in reality, we are more alike than we are separate.  Both revolutions were brought about by new forms of mass media, and fought for by people who were tired of being ignored by the few who claimed to govern them. And, though it is easy to forget, Americans have a lot in common with the pictures we see daily in the newspaper; the struggle to reestablish peace and stability was very much an element of both revolts. Just because those photos of rioting in the streets do not resemble our images of men in wigs drafting documents, does not mean that they are any less, at their core, both movements for freedom.
              These two revolutions, thousands of miles and hundreds of years apart were both inspired by the same source. The nations were each ruled by tyrants, and were not heard by their governments. In America, the colonies felt that they had no voice in the “representative” monarchy. Parliament claimed that they could make decisions for Americans, without having a single colonist physically present. Additionally, though it is now the accepted mode of government, at the time, the idea of a democracy and rule by the people was quite radical. Like in the colonies, many Arab countries are ruled by tyrants pretending to be presidents, while really staging elections and results. This was most profound in Egypt, where president Hosni Mubarak governed for over 30 years and was finally ousted by the people after committing human rights abuses and negligence. Today these rebels are often portrayed in international press as extremists, but in their core their ambitions are simply for democracy.

            The unifying element of all revolutions is often media. An uprising is nothing if it does not have the support of the people behind it. Both the American and Middle Eastern Revolutions took advantage of new technologies to connect dissidents. In the 1700’s newspaper publishers were the world’s Web. Across the colonies they were able to distribute pamphlets and newspapers, advertising their radical thoughts. What they were not able to preach they could write. These contraband writings, often censored and blacklisted by the government, were at the heart of the revolution. Pamphlets like Common Sense were able to mobilize support through written word alone by making rational arguments and generating outrage. Next to this, the media of the Arab world is decidedly quite modern, but nonetheless central. These people utilized new platforms, like Facebook and Twitter to organize demonstrations. The reason why these Revolutions happened when they did was because they were suddenly able to connect the commoners, and give a voice to the silent.

            Sadly, looking at the region currently, it is hard to see where the liberty is. At this point the Middle East, even after successfully overthrowing many dictators like Muammar Gaddaffi in Libya, is quite honestly in shambles. The people are fighting to establish a true and lasting democracy, for real presidents, and not real dictators. This turmoil and disruption is what appears to be so different from our own national revolution. But yet, here too are we alike. The American people, even after declaring independence and proclaiming freedom, had to deal with instability and violence, just as any other Middle Eastern country has had to. Violence and riots were as much apart of early American life as was democratic ideals.  Conflicts such as Shay’s Rebellion, and the Whiskey Rebellion, in which Americans took up arms against their own government happened not 5 years after the end of the war. This unrest after the immediate goal is reached, when suddenly the people are charged with building a nation, is emblematic of both movements.

            Hopefully, these similarities are not just superficial. What is important is that, maybe, in the close connection between these two revolutions, we can see into the future. A journalist in 1787 may have found no hope in America’s prospects; they may have torn it down and said that it could never survive as a viable nation and that democracy was dead. But yet, we have thrived as a country for 250 years. Today, the Middle East must seem as bleak as the U.S. appeared to be all those years ago. It is hard to look past the bloody demonstrations and shocking images and see a region at peace. But it has been done before.  Giving a voice to the people is not easy, but it is possible.