I don’t mean to cuss. It’s not becoming of a teacher. But I swore never return to [insert state]. EVER. That is until…well, you’ve read my other pieces. But here I am, decades later, unable to leave, being held against my will. What gives? [Insert state] must be mad I told everyone what Renee said about teachers.
Those were her words, not mine.
While we’re on the topic, Renee was right. This state pays teachers shit. I’ve learned something else living here. This state treats teachers like shit, too. But I digress. I’m not here to sip tea. This isn’t even about me. This is about giving the gift of a story. I want some real letters to get back to the real people I didn’t say good-bye to.
So while I have your attention, again, while I’m still in a deodorant-caked tank top and it’s December, while there is literally a portable potty parked on my front lawn, and while this junk heap of state is still responsible for all of life’s mishaps, I have only one winter wish.
All I want for Christmas is for the recipient of my letters to experience the magic of unfolding a story.
But I need help. I’m not a writer, blogger, influencer, content tick tocker creator. I’m an old science teacher who is locked out of social media. Twitter thinks I’m a robot. I’m not. I want to tweet like everyone else! I’m human like everyone else, too. I can prove it. Wait. I can’t. Damn. Reprise:
All I want for Christmas is a flippin’ DMV appointment.
Sorry about the poor language, but I’m frustrated. I can’t get a license. I’m not talking about a teaching license, not there yet. Before that, I need a card to prove my identity. When I first moved here, I made an appointment at the DMV to transfer my driver’s license. That was months ago and the appointment is still three more months away. I don’t have a valid [insert state] license.
I need a DMV appointment.
Beg your pardon? My other one? Oh, you mean the license of the state from which I moved? That license expired in the interim waiting on my new state’s transportation department. I no longer have proof of residency, so my former state is no longer interested in acknowledging my existence. Doesn’t even matter I served as its public educator through the span of decades; doesn’t matter I took care of so many of that state’s kids. I digress. I’m not standing on platforms (I’m tall enough. And clumsy)
I’ll simplify. Perhaps these states don’t understand. Without a licence, I have no proof of identity. Without proof of identity, I can’t find employment.
I’m confused because I know about my new state’s teacher shortage (shocking). I know my new state needs me (desperately). I want to return to the classroom (despite the pay…and the treatment.) But I can’t do that without a bloody teaching licence. And I can’t get a teaching licence without proof of identification, but I can’t get that until I get a goddamn DMV appointment!
I’m surprised those government doors aren’t spreading wide open to let me in.
Oh. Maybe [insert state] took my limp dick comment seriously. Look, I’m a science teacher. Not a writer. So I called [insert state] some bad names once before. I consulted a Medium on how to write better. ‘Sophisticated swearing’ came recommended, as did ‘telling the truth.’ I’m doing the homework and practicing to the best of my ability in hopes it draws more attention so my letters make it back quickly. Sorry I made reference to the ‘member vitality’ of my new state (not really); I’ll take it back if I’m granted something tiny.
Perhaps a slide into the DMV before Christmas?
I’m trying to be stoical, but oooooh, my teacher-patience is thin. I check for appointments at the DMV every day. I’ve searched three hours away. I was told special slots are given away early every morning (but sometimes not), so I wait in line at 4am like I’m waiting for frontrow Coldplay tickets. Still not getting in. I came close, once. The fifteen people ahead of me shuffled through. I crossed the threshold at dawn, but a cattle-eyed guard stopped me in front of the glass doors.
“Booked…Try tomorrow…Not my problem.”
I hate [insert state]. I really do. It’s beige. And dry. And boring. And it’s December, no reason to keep pumping 80 degree height especially since there’s a 100%-telling-the-truth shitter parked on my driveway. But guess what, I’ll keep the toilet there. I’ll even take back calling [insert state] the Geo-Tracker of the USA if I get one little wish for Christmas. Say it with me:
An ‘effing DMV appointment.
Ok, ok. I get it. Fix the language. I’m a nice person. Promise. I’m a real person, too. I’m writing real letters to students, colleagues, and neighbors. My plan can’t happen if it’s known, from the start, who the author is. Just because I write anonymous letters doesn’t mean I want to live in the real world without identity. I need a licence. I need it to work. I need it to drive. I need it to fly ho–
Ah! I see. [Insert state] is worried if I leave, I won’t return.
That’s sweet. I’m not seeking to leave (yet). I don’t need a bigger, better state (for the most part). I prefer more green, but I’m not seeking fame and notoriety. Heck, I broke up with the lead singer of Coldplay (he doesn’t know it).
I write for one reason only:
I moved in the middle of a pandemic (to this wasteland, don’t forget). It happened quickly. It happened under quarantine. There were no good-bye parties. I wrote a series of heartfelt letters to real people despite only knowing high school science. I even wrote to the cute, new English teacher who looks like Chris Martin (don’t tell my husband).
I did the assignments and followed the rules. I set up social media according to the world-wide web, birthed a catchy @name like the millennial cool-kids, used top-notch password security, thought I was all set! But I don’t tweet. Can’t curate a feed or post stories. Now I need some authentication code on an old, discarded cell phone for social media to allow me back in. For anyone to read my emailed-pleas, the media help desk requires a photocopy of my valid…that’s right…you guessed it!
Give me the fucking DMV appointment.
Apologies. No more swearing. Teacher’s aren’t usually like this. It’s been hard on us lately. Have some empath–oops.*
*The Owl states pathos, an emotional appeal, calls to one’s sensibilities. States don’t have emotions or sensibility. States are unoriginal and overused (my current state is proof). Here’s a cliche instead:
If I get a DMV appointment, I kill two birds with one stone.
First bird, I prove to social media, via ID photocopy, I’m a real human and finally tweet my letters @ the recipients. They experience the gift of unfolding in a story! I know it works. As a matter of fact, my college roommate accidentally stumbled upon this website. We hadn’t communicated in over a decade. I received a text.
“I read the letters. Are you the author of No Real Balance?!”
I asked what gave me away.
“You really did date a guy who lived in a tepee.”
Oh yeah. Remember that story? I shared it with everyone in another letter. That ‘guy’ left me to find god in the natural world, promised our spiritual bond forever. I even read poetry by some white-haired Walt to impress him. What happened next is the TRUTH. Out in this sewer of a state, he picked up a hitchhiker, fell in love, and dumped me.
I was heartbroken back then. That break-up, though, doesn’t compare to when I had to move. It doesn’t register next to the pain I felt writing a letter of resignation to the teaching job I never, ever wanted to leave. Interesting. [Insert state] is involved with that mishap, too…
It’s been hard since March of 2020 (especially for a teacher). My scabbed knees and palms are proof. Since I no longer have an identity, and can’t seem to gain admittance anywhere (both in government departments and socially focused media), I’ll return to putting post-its on car windows and rubber ducks on door handles. I’m not giving up on delivering my letters.
Perhaps [insert state] will help one day. Meanwhile, I’ll wait for that DMV appointment.
But remember the cliche. A second bird dies with my one stone.
I heard [insert state’s] ‘membership’ is flailing. Best of luck with the ‘little shortage.’
Merry Christmas,
me
No Real Balance 