Another Great Leveler

Death may be the great leveler, or perhaps “our courts are the great leveler” (Atticus Finch), or maybe the public schools are (my Uncle George). But I have another candidate: the Division of Motor Vehicles.

There’s something about these low, flat, uninspired buildings that cut us all down to size as soon as we pull into the parking lot. Once inside, we’re assigned a number that strips away any sense of self. We’re all the same when it comes to the DMV: a driver’s license number and a birth date.

Privacy? Forget it. At the Hillsborough office on Thursday, an officer asked all of us in the waiting room why we were there: a newlywed with a name change, a kid taking a road test, a traffic violator in search of a driver improvement class, a woman who finally found her social security card. We’d hoped to seem interesting or confident or aloof as we sat reading our magazines and checking our cell phones. Instead, we were revealed in all of our banality.

The drab, institutional feel of the officers lined up behind their desks is another immediate symbol that we don’t mean much. We may think we’re above this tedious exchange, but if we don’t have the right paper work or the required cash, we're no better than the guy with the slicked-back hair at station 2.

Maybe it’s a good thing, this reminder at least every 5 years that we’re really nothing special. It’s kind of like "pride goeth before a fall.” Start thinking you’re hot stuff and before you know it, you’ll find yourself pulling up to the DMV and all illusions will disappear.