The burden of proof

On the day that I attended the new student orientation, I skipped lunch to take my place in the long line of people waiting to have a picture taken for their student ID.

The line stretched all the way down the balcony outside the Smith Ballroom; my hope of accomplishing this necessary step in the process of becoming a member of the PSU student body came to a grinding halt when one of the student ambassadors apologetically told me that the cut-off point for picture-taking (within the time allotted for lunch, mingling and exploring student services through some sort of bingo game) would end with the student directly in front of me.

I instantly became first in line–the line of people waiting for nothing.

At that point, I may not have been entirely gracious. I was caught up in my own observations about being forced to go without my free sandwich in order to participate in an Orwellian nightmare of inefficient bureaucracy. (Low blood sugar makes me cranky.)

I skipped out early on the personal advising portion of my orientation to see to this nagging loose end–I was going to get my picture taken for my identification card, dammit! I found the next place to wait, now in a line only about half as long as the one I had been booted from earlier.

When I approached the window, I presented my state-issued identification to show that I was, in fact, myself, in order to get another little card to prove that I am me. The woman working asked for my nine-digit student ID number.

She entered the number in her computer, frowned and shook her head. I repeated the number, slowly, making sure to enunciate. Same result. I wrote it down–no dice. Dug out a letter from the school to verify the number–yep, I had it right, and I passed the letter to her so she could see for herself. We were at an impasse, yet I had no idea why I didn’t seem to exist in her records.

I could clearly and tangibly feel–and prove–my own existence. Eventually, with the assistance of another employee, the acknowledgement of my state-issued ID and the fact that I wasn’t about to leave unsatisfied, I was granted the privilege of having my picture (an exceptionally wild-eyed and sweaty likeness) finally taken.

It was a relief for everyone involved, even though we all remained polite and–to the best of our respective abilities–helpful throughout the process. I still have no idea how or why I was temporarily deemed a non-entity, I was just relieved to have it done.

I can’t actually regard this experience as anything more than an inconvenience, and a minor and temporary one at that. Since I’ve gotten my student ID in the mail, it has proven to be a very useful little piece of plastic.

It doesn’t just identify me as a student. With this card, I can use the gym and library on campus, it provides me with access to money, it shows TriMet operators that I am allowed to ride the buses and trains without further payment, and it indicates that I am a student employee.

It’s like my very own, somewhat limited genie. I’m terrified of losing it–or even flaunting it publicly–although I can still recall a recent time when I was able to live without it.

I know we’re all familiar with being inconvenienced by the steps involved in bureaucratic conformity. And we all probably take for granted that we are required to continually provide proof that we exist, that we are legitimately entitled to take part in nearly every aspect of our life–we need identification or passwords to show our age, our eligibility to drive, work, vote, take classes, spend the money we’ve earned, see a doctor, use the Internet…the list is practically endless.

Have you ever given any thought to what it might be like not to be able to prove who you are? What rights and privileges might be denied someone unable to properly document themselves? In our post-Patriot Act society, this is something we are all increasingly likely to find out about.

In 2005, the Department of Homeland Security developed a plan to create a national identification system, the REAL ID Act, which dictates–among other things–that the documentation required to get a DMV-issued driver’s license or state identification card is more restricted than in the past. It is a lot more restricted.

The REAL ID Act was supposed to be implemented earlier this year, but the federal government has issued an extension for state compliance, in spite of the fact that many states are refusing to conform to this rule, ever. State government, civil liberties activists and troubled individuals express a variety of concerns with the plan, ranging from the exorbitant expense of implementing the new system, to diminished individual privacy and the lack of proposed security for personal information.

Many states, such as Oregon, have created legislation opposing the REAL ID Act as an expensive and ineffective step, but in concession to a call for heightened security measures, many state DMV offices are adopting more inflexible rules about what constitutes proof of identity and citizenship.

I really do understand the need for identification, in all its various forms. I know that it helps to protect us, the things that belong to us and even our way of life. Sadly, I also know that this way of life can sometimes look more like a totalitarian, rather than a democratic, society, especially as some of the repercussions of the new heightened standards for obtaining proof of ID become known.

For example, last week an Oregon veteran was denied a renewal of his driver’s license because he was unable to prove to the satisfaction of his local DMV (where he was personally known to the clerk waiting on him) that he was a U.S. citizen.

The reason? He was born in a U.S. military hospital and was issued a birth certificate through the hospital, rather than through a state agency. This is an absurd, and far from isolated, incident, something that has become more likely to happen to you or someone you know.

Any discrepancy between birth certificate, Social Security card and DMV records can invalidate positive ID, including the appearance, or lack of a middle name or initial from one document to another. Anyone who changes their name, anyone who uses a nickname (or derivative of their given name at birth), any woman who changes their name when she gets married or divorced, people who weren’t born in a hospital, or people born to a parent or parents in the military stationed overseas–under current law, all these people can be denied ID, and with it, the “privileges” of driving, opening a bank account, voting, attending college and renting an apartment can be difficult to come by.

The idea of being unidentifiable, and therefore suspect, and not able to function as a “legitimate” member of society becomes much more real to me when I realize that the names on my birth certificate, my Social Security card and my Oregon ID card are all ever-so-slightly different.

The intention of this article is the opposite of promoting paranoid thinking, but you know–all of a sudden, I’m feeling a little nervous.