LICENSE

 License

We had to renew our driver’s licenses and got over to the Division of Motor Vehicles early knowing that with the new procedures there would be a long line.  In fact, we had gone a week ago in the afternoon and found that the wait would be a couple of hours, as the line was out the door.  We read and followed the directions sent by mail for the new licensing procedure.  We filled out the application before we left and arrived with all necessary documentation:  two picture identification documents, and a proof of address such as a recent bank statement.  A pain which had to be endured.

The atmosphere was jovial for the nuisance that all were being subjected to.  The director of that office is a woman who fully acknowledged the inconvenience of her small office having only two cameras and a small, dingy room for the queuing up.

“Apologies for this dog and pony show,” she joked.  She offered quick processing to anyone handicapped and unable to stand. She did her best to buck us up.  And her efforts seemed to work.  She had us smiling, at least.

A couple married 56 years received her sympathy and our chuckles  when they were told they needed a marriage certificate to prove they were married.  As they left we shook their hands and congratulated them on their long and happy marriage.  We hope they felt better about the whole thing.

Don and I finally got through.  Pictures were taken, we were asked if the frightful images were “OK”.   Of course, we said, yes.

I sat waiting for Don to finish.  Two young girls were at the desk presenting their documents.  The impression was of long, dark, shiny hair, with 150 dollars or so of highlights, hooded knit shirts arranged  to flash a more than adequate peek of tan skin above the waist of designer frayed jeans tucked just so in expensive fleece lined suede boots. 

One of the girls sat down dejected beside me.  She said to no one in particular that she would have to come back again.  “I looked for my passport, but I couldn’t find it!”  Perfectly pink glossed lips pursed in a pout.

34 years of spoiled rich girls paraded in my memory: "You gave me a D?!  But I worked so hard!"  There were a thousand utterly superfluous excuses over my years teaching for not doing the work required, that occasionally rose to admirable creativity- better used to just do the damned work. One of the most inventively humorous was, "My horse pooped on my paper."
All else failing, a mother’s note was thrust at me to explain with authority that her child, mostly a daughter, had had some difficulty or other- be it migraine to hangnail,  and needed to be excused from handing in the work. Thank you, Mrs. Ahnemann, in advance for understanding.  I rarely understood such conviction on the part of these pampered pets that the way would be smoothed for them.

And here in the DMV was this girl wailing that she would not be issued her license as she had not the necessary documentation.  After all, she had looked for her passport and hadn’t been able to find it!
"I looked and looked!!"
So this is where the entitled end up, crying to DMV staff that a driver's license should be issued as the person has tried, and failed, but tried to find what was required. 
Someone said,  
 “Your school may have done away with winners and losers, but life may not. In some schools they have abolished failing grades and they'll give you as many times as you want to get the right answer. This doesn't bear the slightest resemblance to ANYTHING in real life.” 

This was the vindication for my impatience in explaining to these students that what mattered was that the work wasn’t done.  If you had wondered what happened to these kids once out of the safe womb of public education, this was the proof.  I almost laughed out loud.

Before I had communicated any of this to Don, he, of course, had lamented that those poor cute girls, the ones in the very tight jeans, had most regrettably been told that they would have to return at a later time with their papers.  Apparently there are ways to fool some of the people some of the time.