Lost in Translation

Dear Boo and Bubble,

About two years ago, quietly and without fanfare, I became a citizen of North Carolina. In my opinion, citizenship should demand a process worthy of its significance - some meaningful test or background check of sorts to determine whether a state might actually want to claim you. Nope – the only obstacle standing between you and your new status is a driver's license exam. Don't get me wrong. I respect that it's very important to know the difference between right-turn and left-turn hand signals while driving a tractor down a county road. But, you'd think something a little more substantial might be required.

On an early Wednesday, I made my way to the DMV office in downtown Newland, the county seat. Even though you could pay car taxes or renew tags any day of the week, the license examiner only came to Newland on Wednesdays.

I poked my head in the door of his office where he sat with his back to me totally absorbed in a game of Solitaire on a computer. He was middle-aged, balding and stocky. The shirt of his uniform strained against the thickness of his shoulders and upper arms, as if maybe a size too small for his frame. Saddlebags of paunch hung over his belt while the hem of his pant's leg raised just high enough to expose white tube socks above his spit-shined shoes.

“Kin I hep ya?” he asked. I didn't think he even knew I was there.

“Well, yes,” I answered. “I've come to take the driver's license exam.”

He swiveled his chair to face me, never changing expression.

“Got yur current license and Social Security card wid ya?”

“Yes, sir.” I pulled them out of my wallet and handed them to him.

“Well, jest sit rite ch'er at this machine. The questions'll pop up on dat dar screen. Fill in them ther dots on this here sheet. Pretty simple.....unnerstand?”

He handed me the answer sheet on a clipboard.

“Yes, thank you,” I responded after figuring out what I thought he said.

“When yur ready, let me know. Ya gits twenty minutes to finish.......an if'n ya gits 6 wrong, ya fails.”

I slid into a chair at a wooden desk where a cup filled with #2 pencils sat next to “the machine,” a monitor of sorts. Once settled, it occurred to me that I had not taken a driver's license exam in fifty years. I had studied the North Carolina manual and felt prepared, but a little self-doubt crept into my mind and crescents of perspiration began to form under my arms.

“Okay, let's do this,” I said.

He pushed a button and question #1 appeared on the screen.

Some of the questions were forthright, some tricky. The time flew, but I finished within the allotted minutes. I handed him my answer sheet.

He turned his back to me once again. I watched intently, counting the marks he made hoping he'd stop before getting to 6. 

“Awr-ite. Ya dun good 'nuf.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now, I jest needs ta ask ya a few questions....sorta tha personal type, ya know.”

“Sure........”

“How tall ur ya?” he started.

“5 feet, 5 inches,” I answered.

“How much ya weigh?” 

“135 pounds.”

He didn't flinch.

“Clurs ya eyes...”

I hesitated and then did as I was told....closed my eyes....shut. We sat there – the two of us – for about 30 seconds – me....looking at the inside of my eyelids wondering why in the world he wanted me to do this – him....I have no idea what he was thinking.

Slowly, I opened one eye. He had crossed his beefy arms across his stomach, an amused grin overtaking his face. 

“Whut clurs ya eyes?” he reiterated.

A steady rush of red rose up my neck from embarrassment, the heat from it bringing back another dose of sweats.

“HAZEL......my eyes are hazel!”

When I look at my driver's license now, it surprises me that it doesn't read like this – Height: 5' 5”; Weight: 135; Eyes: Closed.

I know how I tell my version of this story. I'd love to hear his.