Document doldrums
Ridiculous govenment institutions disdain chastened public
By Deborah Mislove, October 2009
Staff Writer
Last week I took my 15-year old daughter to the DMV in Scottsdale to get her learner’s permit. We were eventually processed and seated with a representative and asked to hand over proof of ID. I did. “You need a certified copy of her birth certificate” I was told. “But this is the ORIGINAL” I plead. “It was the one I got from the hospital. I was THERE,” I went on, ridiculously, seeing from her practiced blank expression that begging was useless.
The next morning I drove to the Department of Vital Statistics in central Phoenix to obtain the certified copy so we could revisit the DMV with the right document. Did anyone ever consider putting all the government offices in one area? Or at least linking them electronically? Or even creating a self-serve, like those machines that issue your boarding pass at the airport? You could scan your social security card and driver’s license, select “certified copy” and insert credit card here. But I digress…
AP Photo |
Entering the bland beige office, I am greeted with a prominent sign that directs “take a number and have a seat until your number is called.” Chastened from the day before, I obediently sit down in one of the molded plastic chairs, which has the comfort level of lounging in a bleached skull.
There is a security guard stationed next to the front door, behind a glass wall, who does not discernibly register my arrival. What is he securing, I wonder? Do people get violent while waiting for government records? Why is he sitting behind a glass wall? Who is protecting whom?
My number is announced and I go up to one of the windows. I tell the clerk I need a certified copy of my daughter’s birth certificate. “Have you filled out the application?” she asks, with the sort of expression one might make when discovering an earthworm in one’s salad. “Uh, no” I reply. “I read your sign at the door and did as I was told.” Wrestling with her eyes to prevent them from rolling backward, she points to a stack of applications by the “please be seated” sign. By the door, right in front of the security guard, who was so busy guarding that he couldn’t be bothered to clue me in.
Disdainfully, she allows me to write one on the spot and shoos me one space in the queue to another room where I find another bone shard seat.
A man is ahead of me and already claiming his certificate from one of the clerks. “Check it over to see if everything is correct,” she advises. He does, and notices that the maiden and married names of his baby’s mother are transposed. “The fee for returning documents for any changes is $25,” the clerk tells him. “But I haven’t even left yet!?” he attempts. I smile, knowing the futility of logic in these situations. The man decides not to bother with the change.
A few minutes later, clutching my mercifully accurate certified copy, I leave fortified to face another government office, potential absurdity and humiliation another day. |
