Iowanization: Step 3
On the morning of my birthday, I woke up early and walked downtown to an ATM. I had no cash and needed $20 to get my Iowa driver’s (not “drivers’”) license. The Department of Transportation does not accept credit or debit cards, which is totally fine with me.
Though my CA license did not expire until next November, it was time to take the final step of my reIowanization. And, since it was my birthday, it was a timely occasion to do so. Just as I had gotten my first full driver’s license on my 16th birthday, I wanted to officially become an Iowan again on my 28th.
After clearing out the journal inboxes, I headed down to the DOT station at Eastdale Plaza, the quasi-mall that somehow manages to survive. (I am sure housing the DOT and Iowa Workforce Development helps it a lot.) With me was a folder containing all my pertinent documentation, proof that The Quiet Man is The Quiet Man, and it was very helpful when dealing with the DOT “bouncer.”
The last time I was at the DOT — sometime in 2003 — the bouncer was a uniformed department officer who asked what I needed and gave me an appropriate waiting number. She was a stern, but efficiently friendly, middle-aged woman whose cop-like tone and demeanor had been hardened by years of dealing with the public. (This was back in the day when I had hardly any money, and was dismayed when she told me the DOT no longer issued cheap, two-year licenses; the only option was a five-year renewal for $20. I grumbled all the way to the ATM at the neighboring Deli Mart.) Nowadays, the bouncer is a plainclothed extension of the licensing clerks. Before I could do anything else, she needed to see and verify all the required documentation, which I thankfully had in my handy folder, a relic from my college days.
“Wow,” she said. “You came prepared.”
Duh. You’re supposed to.
After being authenticated, she gave me a clipboard and a sheet to fill out while waiting. It asked my sex, height, and eye color, but not my weight (at least I don’t think it did). It also asked if I wanted to be an organ donor, and I indicated I did. Whether or not my organs can be donated is something I don’t know. I don’t even know my blood type.
As I sat and entertained myself with the happenings of the room, I worried about taking the written test. Though I was not required to, even with an out-of-state license, the DOT can play God and curse you with the written test and/or driving test. I have never taken the driving test, but have never been spared the written examination. As far as I remember, I had to take the test when I got my learner’s permit at 14, my full license at 16, renewals at 17, 19, and 21, and when I got my CA license. Expecting the same shit, I had read the entire driver’s manual a few weeks before. Take my advice: it was not fun. Enlightening, but not fun. It gave me awful flashbacks of driver’s education with TWR.
After 10 minutes my number was called and the clerk did his own verification. I handed him my CA license, expecting never to get it back.
It was a little sad. As I have said, as eager as I am to become an Iowan again, it is hard losing my identity as a Californian. For years I dreamed of living in California, thinking of it as a wonderful utopia where I would possibly settle for good. Now that I have lived in The Golden State, become Cali-jaded (at least with SoCal), and returned to the heartland, relinquishing my official CA documents is like killing those dreams for good. They deserve to die, I suppose, but I can’t help feeling sentimental about putting to rest the naïve dreams of my youth. A period of my life is over. Close the book. Bam. Done.
Frankly, though, I was ready to give it up. California driver’s licenses are ugly as hell. (I read on the LAT a few weeks back that they will be redesigned in the next few years.)
However, after the clerk did his thing he punched a long hole in my CA license, voiding it, and handed it back to me. What?! I get to keep it? It made me happy to have another west coast souvenir along with my CA license plates. My old dreams, though, are still dead.
After the clerk was done (he wished me a happy birthday) I got my picture taken. Apparently, the DOT does not want you to smile. The state now uses face recognition software, which means your license picture is profiled and law enforcement agencies can match your facial features to mug shots and images of burglars. Smiling compromises face recognition features, so our burgeoning police state has asked us to strike a serious pose. No one told me not to smile, but I decided not to anyway.
At this point I was hoping I was spared from the written test, but still expected to have it sprung on me. After having my picture taken at the CA DMV, I thought I was in the clear. But no — they gave me an exam and a pencil and put me in a little voting booth. I was not happy they teased me like that, and was anticipating the same thing at the DOT. However, it appeared no one was being tested. One or two people had been singled out and escorted outside by uniformed DOT officers for the driving test, but the written testing area along the side was empty and the computers were off. It took me the better part of three nights to read that fucking driver’s manual, and it was basically for naught. Not entirely, but you get the idea.
Back in the day, this was when the driver’s license machine cranked out a freshly printed ID. However, Iowa’s switch to central issuance has made that a thing of the past. I instead received a temporary license hot off the HP inkjet. The temp is basically a paper version of the real thing, and looked much better than CA’s temp: a simple slip of paper.
After waiting over two weeks, the genuine article came in the mail today. It looks pretty sweet. My birth date is laser etched along one side of my photo and my signature is raised. When held to a blacklight, The Great Seal of Iowa becomes visible on the front, and my name, birth date, and picture appear on the back. Sexy.
Without a doubt, my official reIowanization is complete.
Though my CA license did not expire until next November, it was time to take the final step of my reIowanization. And, since it was my birthday, it was a timely occasion to do so. Just as I had gotten my first full driver’s license on my 16th birthday, I wanted to officially become an Iowan again on my 28th.
After clearing out the journal inboxes, I headed down to the DOT station at Eastdale Plaza, the quasi-mall that somehow manages to survive. (I am sure housing the DOT and Iowa Workforce Development helps it a lot.) With me was a folder containing all my pertinent documentation, proof that The Quiet Man is The Quiet Man, and it was very helpful when dealing with the DOT “bouncer.”
The last time I was at the DOT — sometime in 2003 — the bouncer was a uniformed department officer who asked what I needed and gave me an appropriate waiting number. She was a stern, but efficiently friendly, middle-aged woman whose cop-like tone and demeanor had been hardened by years of dealing with the public. (This was back in the day when I had hardly any money, and was dismayed when she told me the DOT no longer issued cheap, two-year licenses; the only option was a five-year renewal for $20. I grumbled all the way to the ATM at the neighboring Deli Mart.) Nowadays, the bouncer is a plainclothed extension of the licensing clerks. Before I could do anything else, she needed to see and verify all the required documentation, which I thankfully had in my handy folder, a relic from my college days.
“Wow,” she said. “You came prepared.”
Duh. You’re supposed to.
After being authenticated, she gave me a clipboard and a sheet to fill out while waiting. It asked my sex, height, and eye color, but not my weight (at least I don’t think it did). It also asked if I wanted to be an organ donor, and I indicated I did. Whether or not my organs can be donated is something I don’t know. I don’t even know my blood type.
As I sat and entertained myself with the happenings of the room, I worried about taking the written test. Though I was not required to, even with an out-of-state license, the DOT can play God and curse you with the written test and/or driving test. I have never taken the driving test, but have never been spared the written examination. As far as I remember, I had to take the test when I got my learner’s permit at 14, my full license at 16, renewals at 17, 19, and 21, and when I got my CA license. Expecting the same shit, I had read the entire driver’s manual a few weeks before. Take my advice: it was not fun. Enlightening, but not fun. It gave me awful flashbacks of driver’s education with TWR.
After 10 minutes my number was called and the clerk did his own verification. I handed him my CA license, expecting never to get it back.
It was a little sad. As I have said, as eager as I am to become an Iowan again, it is hard losing my identity as a Californian. For years I dreamed of living in California, thinking of it as a wonderful utopia where I would possibly settle for good. Now that I have lived in The Golden State, become Cali-jaded (at least with SoCal), and returned to the heartland, relinquishing my official CA documents is like killing those dreams for good. They deserve to die, I suppose, but I can’t help feeling sentimental about putting to rest the naïve dreams of my youth. A period of my life is over. Close the book. Bam. Done.
Frankly, though, I was ready to give it up. California driver’s licenses are ugly as hell. (I read on the LAT a few weeks back that they will be redesigned in the next few years.)
However, after the clerk did his thing he punched a long hole in my CA license, voiding it, and handed it back to me. What?! I get to keep it? It made me happy to have another west coast souvenir along with my CA license plates. My old dreams, though, are still dead.
After the clerk was done (he wished me a happy birthday) I got my picture taken. Apparently, the DOT does not want you to smile. The state now uses face recognition software, which means your license picture is profiled and law enforcement agencies can match your facial features to mug shots and images of burglars. Smiling compromises face recognition features, so our burgeoning police state has asked us to strike a serious pose. No one told me not to smile, but I decided not to anyway.
At this point I was hoping I was spared from the written test, but still expected to have it sprung on me. After having my picture taken at the CA DMV, I thought I was in the clear. But no — they gave me an exam and a pencil and put me in a little voting booth. I was not happy they teased me like that, and was anticipating the same thing at the DOT. However, it appeared no one was being tested. One or two people had been singled out and escorted outside by uniformed DOT officers for the driving test, but the written testing area along the side was empty and the computers were off. It took me the better part of three nights to read that fucking driver’s manual, and it was basically for naught. Not entirely, but you get the idea.
Back in the day, this was when the driver’s license machine cranked out a freshly printed ID. However, Iowa’s switch to central issuance has made that a thing of the past. I instead received a temporary license hot off the HP inkjet. The temp is basically a paper version of the real thing, and looked much better than CA’s temp: a simple slip of paper.
After waiting over two weeks, the genuine article came in the mail today. It looks pretty sweet. My birth date is laser etched along one side of my photo and my signature is raised. When held to a blacklight, The Great Seal of Iowa becomes visible on the front, and my name, birth date, and picture appear on the back. Sexy.
Without a doubt, my official reIowanization is complete.
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