I got my Maryland driver’s license and now I’m questioning my own existence

I had to go to the MVA this week, which is a sentence that strikes fear into the heart of any American regardless of what state they call home, but strikes a special kind of fear into a man who just uprooted his entire life and is fairly sure he still doesn’t know where the good grocery store is.

Let me set the scene. My house currently looks like a cardboard box factory exploded inside a Pottery Barn. We are still finding things. The Woman Who Shares My Name found a spatula in a box labeled “Bathroom” last week, and neither of us has any theory as to how that happened. In the middle of this ongoing archaeological dig through our own belongings, the state of Maryland informed me that if I wanted to legally operate a motor vehicle within its borders, I would need to produce my birth certificate and my Social Security card, in person, like I was applying for a job at the CIA.

Now, understand — I already have a driver’s license. Georgia looked at me, decided I was a real person, and issued me a valid, government-approved piece of plastic that let me drive a car for two decades without incident. You would think that document alone would be sufficient proof that I exist. You would be wrong. Moving from one state to another, I have come to learn, is treated less like a relocation and more like an application for citizenship in a brand new country. Georgia doesn’t send Maryland a note. There’s no “he’s good, we checked him out already” fax that goes out. Maryland doesn’t know you from a hole in the ground, and it wants documentation.

So began the hunt. I dug through no fewer than eleven boxes looking for my birth certificate. I had to reschedule my first MVA appointment entirely because the documents simply were not surfacing on any kind of reasonable timeline. You see, our folder of important documents wasn’t stored where it was supposed to be in our old house. The Woman Who Shares My Name keeps a stack of files that ought to be in the office desk drawer in her own personal filing area in the back of our bedroom closet. Once we established that this was the box we were looking for, finding the super secret documents that identify us as legitimate U.S. Citizens was a breeze.

Once I had the birth certificate and the Social Security card in hand feeling very proud of myself, I discovered I also needed two separate pieces of mail with my new address on them, and wouldn’t you know it, I only had one. So I sat around for the better part of a week waiting on the postal service to validate my existence a second time, checking the mailbox with the enthusiasm of a man waiting on a jury verdict, just hoping a an electric bill would show up and vouch for me. Yes. That’s right. I was looking forward to receiving a bill.

I say all this not to complain, exactly, but to point out something we don’t think about nearly enough — proving who you are and where you live is a surprisingly fragile operation. You don’t appreciate how much of your identity is held together with a birth certificate, a couple of ID cards, and some junk mail until a government office asks you to reassemble the whole thing from a pile of moving boxes.

Once I finally had my paperwork in order and made it to the actual appointment, everything went smooth as you please — right up until the woman helping me at the counter reached under her desk and put on a pair of blue medical gloves. I want to be honest with you. My first thought was not “standard procedure.” My first thought was, “What exactly does Maryland require to get a driver’s license that Georgia didn’t?” I sat there for a second bracing myself for some kind of unfamiliar ritual, half expecting her to ask me to cough. Turns out it was just a standard thing they do handling documents and cards all day, nothing more sinister than that, but for about four seconds there I had some real concerns about what I’d signed up for when I agreed to become a Marylander.

Got a minute? Got a story.

This whole ordeal got me thinking back to getting my first license as a teenager in The Peach State, which was its own special production. I wasn’t like most kids counting down the days until they turned 16. I got my learner’s permit right on schedule because that’s just what you did, but I was, if I’m being honest, terrified of the road. Part of that, I think, traces back to something that happened before I even have memories of my own — when I was a newborn in the NICU, my grandparents were driving to meet me for the first time and got into a serious wreck that put them both in the hospital. I heard that story my whole childhood, and I think some part of my brain filed it away as “driving is how the universe punishes you for getting excited about a baby.” Add in the fact that metro Atlanta roads are their own special flavor of chaos, and you’ve got a kid who didn’t even attempt his driving test until he was 18 years old.

There was a strange quirk about the DMV in my home county (n the Southlands we call it theDMV) they did not particularly care whether you could actually drive a car down a road full of other cars. What they cared about, to the tune of 70 percent of your final score, was parallel parking. 70 percent. You could merge like a NASCAR driver and stop at every light like a saint, and none of it mattered if you couldn’t slide that Buick into a space marked by large white plastic posts without clipping one.

I will not tell you how many times I failed that test. I will tell you that 18-year-old me developed a genuine, bone-deep fear of parallel parking that has never resolved. Eventually my parents handed me off to my uncle, who was patient and had devoted his life to law-enforcement to teach me the ways of the road. He also let me use his tiny sports car to take the test and I passed with flying colors. I still don’t parallel park to this day. Given the option between parallel parking and hiking a mile from a legitimate parking spot, I will lace up my boots every single time.

All that to say, getting my Maryland license this week was a walk in the park by comparison. No parallel parking required, just paperwork and a lady in blue gloves. I may be far from the best driver on the road, but after spending a couple of months on the roads here — I think I’ll fit in just fine.

So, here I am. A fully licensed and registered Maryland resident. You’re stuck with me now.

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