Object: My Driver’s License

First Revised Version:

The piece of plastic is as thin as a filament, and yet it tells all. A minute, rectangular sheet with a rounded outline near where vertices used to be resembles a phone, but perhaps the phone takes after the license. The words are miniscule, but they always say the same thing: Month Month Day Day Year First Name Last Name Month Month Day Day Year, but the way they say it holds significance: sometimes, it builds up in a crescendo by the middle of the phrase and gradually breaks itself down, as if it had recognized its own self importance but then realized the err in its ways only halfway through. In other places it camouflages behind what one would dare call a signature, in text so teeny you weren’t even sure it was text, but it was, lurking. The transition from an ocean blue with Lady Liberty peeking over the horizon, thoughts of yes you do belong here, surrounded by squiggles that could be microscopic cells in another universe, to green nonexistence: crisscrossed faint lines trapped in bars where, yes, if you hadn’t noticed the intimidating blue writing and the timid red letters below it at the apex of the license, you would be shocked to find that this person calls New York his home, and that he is under 21. It’s astonishing they don’t try to hide the phrase drivers license just to make sure that you know what this is. Then back to blue, but richer this time: an image of Liberty and Justice in striped dresses of sky blue and sun yellow and scarves that are the opposite color, tied around their waist, with a red robe draped over each of them. Scales in the hand of one and a crown at the feet of the other, while between the two an eagle sits perched on a globe, on the entire world mind you, above a picture of the rising sun, emitting concentric rays as it climbs above a mountain, as a ship sails down the Hudson River, looking for a place to expand to. The only words they dare say are self-important, those that are engraved in plastic are the day you were born and the day you can buy alcohol and the day you cut up this card and your ID number that means nothing to you, but something to someone, somewhere, right? And your signature: of all the salient words on this document like your name and your address and what sex you were assigned at birth and what color someone saw when they gazed into your eyes, these were above the rest, somehow.  The contradictions run rampant when the phrase USA and Not for Federal Purposes are written, juxtaposed with barely any breathing space between them, and where your month and year of birth somehow is not significant anymore when shadowing the day you are now an adult.  

The TSA agent takes one look at the black and white portrait, and asks if he could do an extended search.

Rewritten Version:

Lady Liberty peeks out from the delicate, handwoven blue tapestry that surrounds the intimidating, darker shade of blue words yelling New York State in your face, and the more reserved black and red ones calming stating this was a driver’s license and that he is under 21. USA hides in the uppermost right corner of the plastic, perhaps because paradoxically it is immediately overshadowed by the phrase Not for Federal Purposes to its right. A miniature signature followed by minute, ornamented words that mean nothing to you is followed by a dull gold line and a blue dotted one as you make your way downward to green nothingness. Or that’s what it appears like at first, but bars streaking diagonally rightward are filled with criss crossed waves that bob in and out as they move forward, subtly filling the space you once thought to be empty. Just in case you forgot, words whispering this boy is from New York State and he is under 21 are thrown in there too. Everything you need to know is here: the ID number that means nothing, the date of birth and the day this card gets cut up that must mean something, as they are bolded and etched into the card, and the color someone would see if they took the time to stare into his eyes. And who could forget the fade to white before you hit the black and white portrait of this boy. He looks at you as if he was told not to smile, as if he knows this is the first thing that the TSA officer at LaGuardia Airport will see when he asks for his ID. A nanoscopic line follows, could these be words? The phrase Day Day Month Month Year First Name Last Name Day Day Month Month Year lurks behind what one dares call a signature, but yet this scribble seems important: it is engraved after all, and not many things on this card are: not his name underneath, his address neither, and yet the days he could buy a lottery ticket and when he could buy alcohol are. And lest you think you understand what they deem important, his date and year of birth are not bolded again, even if they were once, but appear to wish to be anywhere but on the bottom left, desperately hoping no one would see its faint gray ink. The spotlight then falls on the same black and white portrait, cutting out a piece of Justice as she holds a scale in one hand, dressed in a striped yellow dress with a blue robe belt, mirroring Liberty, who proudly steps on a crown with her sandals. They both wear a delicate red robe over everything else, and surround a painting of the ascending sun over a mountaintop, illuminating the voyage of a ship barrelling down the Hudson River, looking only for a place to expand into. An eagle sits perched upon a globe, upon the entire world, proudly spreading its wings. And yet his picture is on top of this image, with our beloved phrase that, instead of lurking, rises and falls and curls and shrinks before vanishing. His picture is the only thing that they see.

It took me a really long time to pick an object I felt comfortable enough with to say that this was part of my story, and when I first picked my license it seemed like a boring choice: what was so interesting about describing a document that was all words? But I spent a long time staring at it and seeing everything else that I honestly had not noticed before, and I felt like the only way I could describe this piece was through a structure that told various stories about myself and bureaucracy and a little but of history as well. I think I leaned too much into a narrative structure when I first wrote my description and went for a more methodical way of navigating the license the second time around. The images that I try to invoke are, of course, about the text and the design, which the uncommon descriptors greatly helped with, but I think there is benefit in going beyond a surface level description of the words. I tried to be as intensely detailed as I read from Mr. Palomar, and this allowed me to also manufacture tension in both cases. Both pieces are meant to be intensely charged, even if they are just about a boring drivers license, and I think I managed to get that point across.