I was born in April, many years ago, at Grace New Haven Hospital in New Haven, Conn. Or so I am told, on good authority. That explains why I got a little postcard from the Nevada DMV a few weeks ago, reminding me it’s been eight years since I last had my picture taken, that this time I had to go renew in person.
So I headed over to the North Decatur DMV on Wednesday morning. Filled out the form. Passed the eye test. Then the Filipina lady pointed out to me I’d left off the zip code from my residential address.
Actually, the address on my Nevada drivers license for the past 18 years has been my post office box. Since this is the only address the DMV needs to mail me my renewal notices, this has worked fine.
But now, “We can’t go any further until you fill in the zip code,” the lady said — even though there was a zip code listed after my post office box.
Why? How does my residential address have any bearing on my right or ability to drive myself around in a non-commercial vehicle? It doesn’t. They may CALL what I was attempting to renew a “driver’s license,” but in fact it’s now a uniform police ID. The police like to have that residential address in the database in case they want to “serve a warrant,” their quaint term for breaking in our doors in the middle of the night, without bothering to show their badges or paperwork.
I provided the second zip code.
Still no good. “Your name doesn’t match,” the Filipina lady said.
“Doesn’t match what?”
“Your name doesn’t match.”
We went around on that one long enough to change partners and allemande left.
Apparently, she was attempting to compare my data to a Social Security database.
“All that matches is the date of birth,” she said.
Ah. “As you can see,” I said. “the name on my drivers license — the one I’ve been using without a problem for 18 years — is ‘Vin Suprynowicz,’ my professional name. But the Social Security database may still be showing my birth name, the same name that appears HERE on my original Social Security card — the one issued in 1965 that says ‘NOT FOR IDENTIFICATION’ along the bottom,” I said, sliding it across the desk at her. That card was issued to “Vincent Anthony Suprynowicz, Jr.”
(If you can’t figure out why I went to a simpler version, take any government form and try to fill in a name of 31 characters. Or, try to spell it to an airline clerk over the phone.)
“That’s also the name listed on THESE two pieces of identification,” I said, presenting her with my draft registration card, issued May 1, 1968, and my Selective Service Notice of Classification.
“Those are no good,” she said. “The name doesn’t match.”
“Here’s my current drivers license, with my picture on it, which YOU people issued,” I said. “You can’t see that’s me?”
“You’re going to have to go to the Social Security administration and have them change your name, or else bring in your birth certificate or a passport or your immigration documents,” she said.
Immigration documents? I asked to speak to a supervisor.
One Sheri Olsen, who receives $49,614 per year, plus amazing benefits and a lifelong pension, for the job of refusing to renew valid drivers licenses for native-born Americans with an unusually large number of authentic identification documents, was finally located to (of course) repeat the same babbling lunacy.
Current valid drivers license no good as ID, original Social Security card and draft registration documents (one signed in ink by a member of my Connecticut draft board) all no good. “Your name doesn’t match,” she said.
Why was this never a problem before? Especially when Franklin Roosevelt swore up and down our Social Security numbers would always remain confidential between us and the Administration — never used for purposes of identification the way the Nazis did, just like it says on my original card.
“It’s because of nine-eleven,” she said.
So I’m trying to imagine a scenario under which some member of al-Qaida is showing up on a Wednesday morning at the North Decatur DMV, seeking to renew a Nevada drivers license which he’s had for 18 years, with his plainly recognizable photo on it, because doing so will somehow further his plans to hijack airliners and blow up skyscrapers, but fortunately he’s being foiled by this Sheri Olsen, who won’t let him renew his drivers license because no one in their right mind could imagine someone who calls himself “Vin Suprynowicz” could POSSIBLY be the person born in New Haven, Connecticut all those years ago — on the correct date — named at the time “Vincent Anthony Suprynowicz, Jr.” No POSSIBLE connection there, do you think?
Actually, the documents this Sheri Olsen rejected were accepted by U.S. Customs and Immigration for re-entry when I flew to Canada to give a speech, a few years back. I’d gone without a passport, after my airline informed me I didn’t need a passport to enter Canada.
They were half right. When it came time to board my plane, the U.S. Immigration official — yes, he had the Stars and Stripes on his sleeve, even though he was sitting hundreds of miles inside Canada — asked “How do I know you’re an American?”
“Because I have my draft card,” I said, showing it to him.
“This is 40 years old,” he said. “You still carry your draft card?”
“They had a lottery,” I said. “If you drew a number over 200 and they classified you 1-H for ‘too high,’ you kept the card.”
“I saved mine, too,” he said, waving me through.
But now the ever-smiling Miss Olsen is insisting “You’re going to have to go to the Social Security office and have your name changed.”
“I don’t want my name changed. I like my name just fine. You can issue the license in either name, I don’t care which. Issue it as ‘Vincent Anthony Suprynowicz, Jr.,’ if that’ll make you happy, or as ‘Vin Suprynowicz,’ whichever.”
Nope. And they won’t REALLY accept my passport (which no American is required to have), because it expired in 2008.
“You’re telling me there are, what, 20,000 illegal Mexicans driving around this town with fake drivers licenses that they bought at the Indoor Swap Meet, no one ever arrests them when they show these bogus pieces of crap, and I can’t renew an 18-year-old drivers license because for 30 years I’ve been going by ‘Vin’ instead of ‘Vincent’?”
“We don’t care to discuss your political views,” said Miss Sheri Olsen.
She really said that.
So, no drivers license for me. What am I supposed to do, go buy one in the name of “Jose Jimenez” at the Giant Indoor Swap Meet?
I called Grace New Haven Hospital — now Yale New Haven. They don’t keep birth certificates; try the City of New Haven.
Sure, the City of New Haven would sell me one. Four to six weeks by mail, or I can go in person, Monday through Friday from 9 to 4. It’s only 2,000 miles away. Assuming they’ll let this “Vin Suprynowicz” character on an airplane, what his “name not matching” and everything.
The loop message at the New Haven Vital Records office was recorded by a young lady from the Indian subcontinent. Nice.
What we are dealing with, here, is the National ID. The folks in Washington said they’d dropped their plans to impose one, but they’ve just ordered the states to do it.
“We’re just obeying the federal law; it’s because of nine-eleven,” simpered the statist Ms. Olsen, her inability to grasp the “Separation of Powers” doctrine probably a telltale of a term of incarceration in one of our local government youth propaganda camps. You’ll remember the central government is delegated no power to interfere with or set conditions on the issuing of drivers licenses, issuing drivers licenses (assuming it’s a legitimate government function, at all) being the unalloyed province of the several sovereign states under the 10th Amendment.
But if the federals told these good soldiers they had to check everyone’s forearms to see that they had the proper 11-digit number tattooed there, they’d do that, too. Wouldn’t they? Gotta get those years in for the pension.
The illegals scamper around using stolen Social Slave numbers with impunity — the guy who did my taxes this year said he worked up in Mesquite last year, all kinds of folks came in to file for their “Earned Income Tax Credit,” but when he tried to run the numbers, the numbers were fake. Not one or two, but dozens, scores of people with fake Social Security numbers, filing to GET MORE MONEY FROM OUR GOVERNMENT, till he told his employer he just couldn’t be part of this.
There are two — and only two — other people who are allowed to go to the New Haven City office of Vital Statistics and buy a copy of my birth certificate: my parents. What better example of the infantilization of the populace than to make me “call my mommy”? As I write this, my 85-year-old mother is in downtown New Haven — a 90-minute drive from where she lives — to buy me the document the grinning Sheri Olsen insists on seeing before she’ll believe I’m me.
What do people do whose parents have not survived into their 80s, whose parents no longer live in the state where they had their children, whose parents are no longer capable of making such a trip?
It’s offensive even having to GO to the DMV. Commercial freight hauling may be an excisable activity, but merely traveling on the public roads is a right, not a privilege. From whom did George Washington have to beg the “privilege” of riding his horse from Virginia to Boston? And actively working to convert a God-given right into a “privilege” is an offense which should — and eventually will, I am convinced — bear serious consequences.
A once free people, who only seek to pay “our” taxes and obey the law, jumping through the ever greater assemblage of hoops set out for us, are increasingly lined up, numbered and humiliated by a police state so perverse it punishes ONLY those who try to obey the laws, until we are treated as aliens in our own land, while the invaders receive protection from the police who should be arresting them as they march in our streets with their foreign flags, demanding to have our immigration laws overturned.
Do they really think there will never be a price to pay, that we will never again be a free people, while the smiling bureaucrats who have cooperated in turning us into a numbered herd swing kicking from the lamp posts?
Sic semper tyrannis.