Hey Friends,

I've been away a long time. I've missed you and AmyLocks. It's been a long, weird year and life continues to throw interesting things my way. I'm praying and learning and I'm sure I'll tell you all about it at some point. Until then...

An Angel Works at DMV

“Is all the information on your driver’s license correct?” she asked. I knew this was coming, so I was ready.  I leaned over the divider separating us and whispered, “No. I don’t weigh 115 anymore.” 

Going to the Department of Motor Vehicles is almost never a pleasant experience. We don’t expect it to be. We moan and commiserate about having to go there, how long it will take, how unpleasant the people who work there are going to be. But, regardless of where we live and who we are, everyone at one point or another ends up at the DMV.

The lady who asked if I needed to change anything on my license laughed when I made my secret confession. She looked up, meeting my eyes, sharing a moment of humanity and sympathy. She didn’t pass judgment when I upped my number, knowing I could have let it pass, leaving my weight the same as it had been when I was a 16-year-old who spent all her time doing ballet and twirling batons. 

Recently, I had another surprisingly pleasant experience at the DMV. Not entirely pleasant, but pleasant enough. And, I can now admit the parts that weren’t pleasant were entirely my fault.

It’s like this…

Over 32 years of license renewals and moves from state to state my name has gotten changed. It happened so gradually, I hardly noticed. First it was Amy Mildred Bass, then, Amy Bass Britton. 

Where I’m from, it’s customary for a married woman to begin using her “maiden” name as her middle name.  Thus, all those deep, southern, well-thought-out middle names are abandoned only to be resurrected by our mothers when we do things that shock or embarrass them. 

After marrying Bobby Britton, or Robert Davis Britton as it says on his driver’s license, I became, for all intents and purposes, Amy Bass Britton.

I got used to this name very quickly. After four months of marriage I got a job as a junior high history teacher. I heard “Mrs. Britton, Mrs. Britton” all the livelong day. So, I easily settled into life as Amy Britton or officially Amy B. Britton whenever I had to sign my paychecks from Georgia Washington Junior High School.

At some point along the way my name became the very long Amy Mildred Bass Britton, then, it was shortened to Amy Mildred Britton. As a result of these changes, my driver’s license and passport didn’t match anymore. I realized this could be a problem, so I set out to change my name back, to stake my claim.

Amy Mildred Britton, as I am now officially known, was a stranger. I almost didn’t recognize her and never signed anything with her name. So, I looked online to see when my local Driver’s License Renewal Center was open, cleared my schedule and headed out. 

The morning was cold, windy and snowy. School was cancelled. I don’t think I’ve ever gone out when school’s been cancelled. If it’s not safe for the buses, it’s not safe for Amy Bass Britton. But I was determined, so off I went. I should have known nothing good could come from venturing out on a “snow day.” 

I arrived at the DMV ten minutes after it opened, supposedly. Once I found a place to park, slogged through melting snow puddles and climbed over one snow pile which was taking up a whole parking space, I made it into the crowded warmth of the dingy office. 

After a bit of confusion, I realized I had to get a ticket to get in line. Mine was #92.  I found a hard, orange chair, settled in and looked hopefully at the lighted display announcing which number was being served. #68. 

Never fear! I was prepared for a wait with Sudoku and Pinterest on my phone, a real live book in my purse, and a plethora of people around me to eavesdrop on. Thank goodness I’m nosy because after only a few minutes I heard a lady saying she had to leave to get a money order. 

First mistake. In my rush to make sure I had many forms of proper documentation to verify the correct name on my license, I didn’t think about how to pay for it. After mulling the situation over, watching the “now being served sign” click slowly closer to #92, I decided to take a chance and drive quickly to Rite Aid for a money order. 

Five minutes away, Rite Aid was deserted. Once I found an employee I was told their money order “machine” was out of order. My best and closest bet was a gas station five minutes further away. 

I found the gas station, quickly walked to the counter and asked for help with a money order. You can’t get a money order with a credit or debit card. Did you know that? I obviously didn’t, so I made my way outside to their ATM. Trying to decide how much money to withdraw I kept hearing my husband say, “Don’t use those random ATM machines. Their fees are crazy.” He would drive 20 miles out of the way to avoid paying those fees.

I said a silent apology, acknowledged it couldn’t be helped and made my withdrawal. 

Cash from the ATM in hand, I made my way back inside the gas station, secured a money order, wondered how close to #92 they were at the DMV, then rushed back to my van. I found my way back to the DMV, got a parking place that didn’t require scaling a mountain of snow, slogged through only one puddle and made it back inside. Now serving #81.

A mere 11 tired and disgruntled DMV patrons later, it was my turn. Douglas, a kind looking man, motioned me to his window where I laid my life before him. He gently returned several of the documents I presented then took a closer look at my passport. 

After all the time and energy given to this endeavor, Douglas informed me that the passport he was holding was expired. 

Apparently, my current passport was at home with my checkbook and my brain. Douglas continued his kindness by telling me if I could be back before 3:30 when the DMV closes, like an elementary school, he’d be happy to make whatever changes he could. Plus, as an added bonus, I wouldn’t have to get a new number and wait in line. I could come directly back to his window where Douglas and I would pick up where we left off.

Since the DMV is open for about 20 minutes every third Tuesday, I vowed to make this happen today. 

So, I headed quickly to the parking lot to relinquish my parking spot to another weary DMV-er and headed home for the correct passport and what I was sure was a return to my correct name.

The end was practically in sight.

I arrived home, anxiously flipped through the important papers and grasped my leathery, only used once so far, passport. I flipped it open and sighed in resignation. It doesn’t belong to Amy Bass Britton. It belongs to that person that’s not so familiar, Amy Mildred Britton.

I gathered the passport, stuck the money order inside, added my checkbook to the pile for good measure and wearily began my 23 minute trudge back to the DMV. Feeling defeated and stupid, I parked in the lot again, made my way past all those orange, plastic chairs and waited for Douglas to finish up his business with an excited new driver and her mom. I sat there trying to think of some way the Pennsylvania DMV would let me use the name on my old passport to validate the name I wanted on my new driver’s license. 

When my turn came, Douglas smiled and motioned me forward. I sighed and laid my disappointing offering on the altar of his counter. I began my lament, showing Douglas my new passport with the new, unfamiliar name Amy Mildred Britton. 

Assuring me that the Pennsylvania DMV would not accept my expired passport as evidence of the name I wished was on my driver’s license, Douglas boldly took my documents to his supervisor for approval. His supervisor was confrontational and abrupt.  He even tagged along when Douglas came back to look over his shoulder and assure me that none of my smiles or explanations would work with him. He didn’t say that, but I know it’s what he meant.

I thanked Douglas for trying and asked how I could go about eventually making the changes I wanted. He assured me it could only be done in court. Court? I thought. Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s definitely not worth it.

Who knew it was so hard to change your name? I mean, there’s an episode of Friends where Phoebe changes her name to Princess something with only a form, a few minutes, and some creative thinking. I had a social security card and a passport with a hole punched in it!

Douglas had heard my “I’ve always used my maiden and last names” explanation and as he gathered the documents he needed to process my renewal he said, “That must just be a local thing.” “But, I’m not local,” I asserted. 

As I dejectedly put the superfluous papers away, Douglas began telling a story.

“You can sign your name any way you want,” he said. “Just like Derek Jeter.” Excuse me? I thought raising my left eyebrow at him.

Douglas excitedly told me about a stadium seat he had bought from old Yankee stadium. He admitted he had paid too much for it, but the seat was signed by Babe Ruth and Derek Jeter.  Douglas has to tell people it’s Jeter’s signature because it looks like a squiggly line.  A very expensive squiggly line.  I guess when Derek Jeter was drafted they didn’t care what his signature looked like so long as he could hit a line drive and make amazing catches at shortstop.

According to the Pennsylvania DMV that’s why you’re asked for ID as well as a signature, because you can sign your name however you want. I can be Mrs. Amy Bass Britton or whatever as long as it’s unreadable.

I didn’t accomplish what I set out to that day at the DMV, but a mere 3 hours and 15 minutes later I had renewed my expired license (didn’t I mention it was expired?) and also renewed my hope for a decent humanity. While I may be disorganized and less attentive to detail than I had realized, Douglas was a lovely delight at the DMV. 

Next time you have to renew your license, look for your Douglas at the DMV. Or, if you know Douglas, please tell him thanks.