Permission: Impossible

by Rachael Anne Fajardo

Driver’s licenses are granted by the state.  I can’t drive a car I own without proving knowledge of frequently disregarded laws, driving around a government employee, then paying for a laminated card complete with unflattering picture?  Please.  The only establishment I feel the need to prove my driving ability to is the company I pay to insure me. 

I still drive.  Frequently.  I drive with my parents sometimes, but that’s nerve-wracking, and I hear it never gets better.  I drive my friends’ cars, and some claim that I am the better driver.  Since I don’t drink, speed, or piss off other drivers, that’s probably true.  And right now, I’m visiting my grandparents in Dallas, and have driven them to Wal-Mart, the bank, and Tennessee.  (By the way, at a gas station deep in Tennessee, unleaded gas is 99 cents a gallon, Marlboro Reds are $2.19 a pack, and Internet access is 25 cents a minute.) 

Both of my grandparents are licensed drivers.  My grandmother drives like a little old lady.  She’s nervous, and her technique alternates between flooring the accelerator and slamming on the brakes.  And she over-steers.  My grandfather is almost blind.  He doesn’t drive (as far as I know), and naïvely, I assumed he no longer had a license.  I decided to ask anyway. 

“Ta-ta, do you have a driver’s license?”  I felt like I was asking a stupid question. 

“Of course, of course I have my driver’s license.”  He acted like it was a stupid question. 

“But…” I didn’t want to state the obvious. 

“My doctor wrote a special note to the DMV, so I could get my license without the test.” 

I kept my mouth shut.  Which test?  All, I suppose.  He couldn’t pass the vision test, wouldn’t be able to read the written one, and would fail the driving test.  But a doctor’s note got him a license?  What could the doctor have written in that note?  “Please excuse Jose Fajardo from the driving tests, as he suffers from macular degeneration, and cannot see well enough to pass.  Thank you for not discriminating against the sick and elderly.  Dr. Political Correctness, MD.” 

Now I’m pissed, and firmly convinced of the worthlessness of state issued driver’s licenses.  The state, so concerned with people’s safety that it won’t let drivers on the road without passing a battery of tests, gives them away to blind people with doctor’s notes?  

I’m going to keep driving.  Try and stop me.  I dare you to pick me out on the road, among all the obedient drivers with licenses.   Someday (if I ever want insurance, yes I realize you need a driver’s license to be insured) I may have to break down and get a license.   But for now, I’ll hold my freedom higher than my legal status.  Shall I let a completely intoxicated friend or sight-challenged grandparent drive when I am better able to?  Those are wonderful, justifiable “what-if” situations, but here’s a better one:  What if I just want to drive?  Shall I let not having a little card stop me, under any circumstance?  In regard to this situation, someone told me I ought to pick my battles. I did pick—I picked them all.  She thought I ought to choose the big, noble battles every anarchist fights.  I have the luxury of being seventeen, and I know that.  So why not fight them all?  I’m not willing to back down, not even long enough to pass the license test.  I’ve got the time, the energy, and the desire to fight, and win, dammit.  Should I let myself be limited by the sheer number of battles?   Shall I only actively fight, say, the popular ones?  If there is a battle to be fought, bring it on!

July 14, 2001