BALLARO: Motor Vehicle Commission is where dreams go to die
Column: Hindsight is 20/21
There are tragedies, like the story of Oedipus Rex or the Oresteia. And then, there is what had befallen me at the New Jersey Motor Vehicle Commission (MVC).
My driver’s license had expired, and with the chaos of the coronavirus disease (COVID-19) pandemic, I did not prioritize renewing it. This was my first mistake in a list of many.
My license had been expired for so long that I was ineligible to renew it online. This was despite many, many extensions and exceptions that were made for license holders in New Jersey.
If you have ever wondered what it feels like to be in purgatory, you need only try registering for a license renewal appointment on the MVC website. I had planned for months in advance, starting in November 2020, to get this renewal.
My daily ritual was logging on every day to check for appointments. I was like Sisyphus, pushing a boulder up a hill in the pits of Hades, only for it to come crashing down and forced to start anew.
In the meantime, I prepared my six points of identification. After some finagling and ordering my free official academic transcript from Rutgers in order to have it qualify as my student ID, I was secure. I neatly organized everything into a manila folder in my room.
And on one seemingly serendipitous January morning, there it was: an opening. I watched appointments snatched up in real-time by my fellow shades in hell but was able to snipe one for the end of February. I thought this was a stroke of luck. Instead, it was yet another domino collapsing in the series of my misfortune.
The one day I scheduled for my appointment, a huge blizzard hit New Jersey, making the roads nearly innavigable. And I could not just drive myself, mind you, I needed a ride. I needed a license to drive a car, but I needed a car to renew my license, but I needed a license to get a new car. The universe was pushing against me, but I pushed back harder — hard, like my inevitable fall.
I suited up, grabbed my prized manila folder and slipped it into a sturdier folder, so my documents would not fall into the snow. I pocketed my Centers for Disease Control and Prevention-recommended double masks. With the help of my beloved father, we hopped in the car and made our way through the endless snow and sleet.
Through, yet again, sheer luck, I arrived early to my appointment. I filled out my forms and waited in another line with my folder of identifying documents held close to my chest.
I watched as every person in the line in front me had some error in their processing. A form filled out wrong. A wrongly scheduled appointment. A missing point of ID. I was not like them, I thought. I had everything I needed in my own little manila folder. I was prepared.
The mask etiquette of the MVC employees left much to be desired. I cringed seeing their noses peek over their masks. One man had not only his nose brazenly out, propagating droplets throughout the air, but also an upper lip sneaking over. I wanted to scream, but I could only bite my lip.
These were the people that would bestow my final judgment. If they did not like so much as the way I blinked, it could be my final hour. I might as well have been at the gates of Saint Peter. I would have had an easier time pleading my case for paradise than for a plastic ID card authorized by the state of New Jersey. I chose not to tempt fate.
I was finally called to meet my maker, I mean, the MVC clerk. I reached for my documents, only to meet my demise.
When people experience the liminal space between life and death, they describe seeing a white light. For me, death was the color green.
Green. As in the green folder, not the manila folder I had mistakenly grabbed before I left the house. I played myself. I was the progenitor of my own demise. Me lastimo.
At that moment, the world stopped moving. The clerk, with her mask placed due south of her nose, was attempting to lecture me on the six points of ID, but all the noise I heard faded to static.
If only you could see the look of pain beneath my two masks. It was like Daedalus when he had seen his poor boy Icarus crash into the sea. It was like Oedipus when he had learned the truth of his unfortunate origin. It was like Agamemnon meeting the savage ax of his wife, Clytemnestra. That was my face when my journey for a renewed driver’s license came to a tragic end.
I returned home utterly obliterated and now tell the tale to you, dear reader.
The moral of the story? The MVC is a place where dreams go to die.
This article is also a reminder to get your license updated for New Jersey REAL ID. This is a new federal requirement for state-issued driver's licenses and non-driver IDs. You can tell if you have REAL ID if you see a circle with a star on your license.
As of Oct. 1, a REAL ID will be required in order to fly on airplanes domestically if you use your driver’s license as identification. Visit the New Jersey MVC website for more information on REAL ID and how to renew your license.
Anthony Ballaro is a School of Arts and Sciences senior majoring in classics and public health. His column, "Hindsight is 20/21," runs on alternate Thursdays.
*Columns, cartoons and letters do not necessarily reflect the views of the Targum Publishing Company or its staff.
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