Imnotdriving

About four years ago, as I was recovering from a stroke, a physical therapist recommended that I avoid driving on freeways. It was fine to continue to drive on local streets, she said, but in fast-moving traffic I might no longer be able to respond quickly enough to an emergency.

I had promised myself long ago that I would not be one of those old people who endanger others by refusing to quit driving when they should. They creep along rather than staying with the flow of traffic, hesitate at intersections, cause accidents because they should not be at the wheel. “I’ve always been a good driver,” they will tell you.

It's a big transition, giving up the car keys. You have to acknowledge your severe decline. Some people can’t do it until a family member wrenches the keys from their hands. For people living in places without good public transit—and that’s most of the country—it means dependence on others, or isolation. Diminishment. I’m lucky because municipal buses and streetcars run within a few blocks of my house, I can get around in the city easily, only need to allow for the necessary time. Going beyond the city is harder but is feasible, by bus, ferry, and train. I’ll confess to enjoying the self-righteousness of telling people I quit driving of my own free will, although my license was still valid. Someone hand me a medal, please!

About a month ago a message from the California Department of Motor Vehicles arrived: my license would expire soon, it was time to renew. That was a chore I could skip, I thought, I no longer needed a license, I could replace it with an official ID card. But then I considered the implications: not having a driver’s license would diminish my status as a full-fledged U.S. citizen. When a young woman gets that license she feels grown up, when an old woman loses it, she may feel dismissible.

The DMV notice informed me that as a person over 70 years old I would have to take a knowledge test and a vision test to renew. No driving test, I was surprised but glad to see. I had to show my valid driver’s license, proof of residence, such as a utilities’ bill, and another official document, such as a birth certificate or passport.

My birth certificate was lost in the turmoil in my native county during World War II. My passport was out for renewal. I had let it expire. So I would bring to the DMV my citizenship papers, I decided. This precious document, from 1952, was kept in a safe secret place and taking it out felt scary. I tucked it deeply into a bag I could strap across my chest and keep in front of me.  Although I never worry about purse snatchers, never having been a victim, as I walked from the bus to the DMV I clutched my bag tightly. If a thief should grab my bag, I would become an undocumented person.

I had no appointment but I arrived early and walked right in to a room with a long counter with numbered windows. People were given numbers and waited to be called. A dark-skinned young woman in a black dress inspected my papers. The citizenship certificate was in a soft black leather case.

“My mother has one of these,” she said, looking at the yellowed paper with photo of myself at age 18 and my name inscribed in elegant cursive script.

“Where did she immigrate from?”

“Panama.”

She tested my vision by having me read from a chart posted behind her, then told me to go to a booth to have my photo taken. The photocopy I was given showed an old woman with disheveled hair and a gaze that was too intense—surely someone who should not be at the wheel.

Then on to a bank of computers for the knowledge test. I was anxious. A friend who had recently taken it had told me she had spent sleepless nights in anticipation. She had studied the booklet with the rules for hours but it was hard. I had only read it once. I felt my blood pressure rising. To cool down I stepped outside into the parking lot. A young man who had been wandering among the cars came toward me.

“Got a cigarette?”

Clutching my bag tighter I went back inside. A pink--faced elderly man was telling the woman monitoring the test-takers: “I’m just here today to get an ID. The bank is holding my money hostage and I can’t pay my rent.”

The people in the room were a fair sample of San Francisco residents. I sat down next to an elderly Chinese woman, opposite an old man, probably her husband, who was reading the driver’s handbook in Chinese. A pregnant woman who looked Mayan passed by, with a small girl holding her hand—probably skipping school to translate. People of many ethnicities, some dressed in well-tailored clothes, other slopping in worn jeans and shirts, were here together and I was glad to be among them.

We took the test onscreen. I missed a question on the speed limit when crossing a sidewalk to enter a driveway or alley (15 mph), but I passed. I passed! Glory be! With my temporary renewed license, (for use till the real thing arrives in the mail) I walked out the door. So glad I did not wimp out.

When I open my iphone while in a car, the screen shows a message: “I’m not driving” and a box next to it. I check the box. Correct, I’m not. But I could. It matters.

Photo by, Tara Moss