The Real ID Act of 2005 is a United States federal law that standardized requirements for driver's licenses and identification cards issued by US states and territories in order to be accepted for accessing US government facilities, nuclear power plants, and for boarding airline flights in the United States. State certification for Real IDs began in 2012 (seven years after the acts implication. Thanks government!) and sort of slowed down immediately (Thanks, government!). My home state — Pennsylvania — received its Real ID certification in 2019. Earlier this year, the US government issued this very stern warning: "Starting May 7, 2025, a federally accepted form of identification — such as a REAL ID, U.S. passport, or military ID — will be required to board domestic flights and enter certain federal facilities" — delivered with a "we ain't shittin' around this time" immediacy.
My driver's license comes up for renewal in August 2025. I just renewed my United States passport last year, replacing the one that I was issued in 2013 and served me well through many cruises. In order to obtain a passport, I had to supply a federal government agency proof of my United States citizenship, a photo identification, a 2 inch x 2 inch photograph of myself offering the blankest of blank expressions, a completed DS-11 form (including such information as my height, eye color, occupation, other names I may have used in my life and my Social Security number) and a check for $130. Because I
currently possess a valid United States government-issued passport, guess what I
really don't need? That's right. A Real ID.
Be that as it may, I decided to gather all of the required documentation and get myself one of them there Real IDs. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania (just like our friends Kentucky, Massachusetts and Virginia, Pennsylvania is technically not a state) requires the following physical, original hard copies to be presented and examined by one of their crack authentication experts before they feel comfortable in handing over a Real ID. A typical "expert" employed by PennDOT (Pennsylvania Department of Transportation, our DVM, if you will) is usually identified by pants that are too short, revealing droopy, grayish socks inserted into well-worn sandals, a threadbare shirt that sports a plastic pocket protector overstuffed with pens, markers and highlighters of all sorts, a head of unkempt hair and pair of glasses whose lenses are held together by surgical tape. The female counterparts display housecoats similar to the ones my grandmother wore in the late 1970s. Both male and female employees wear an official-looking lanyard, resplendent with keys, magnetic swipe cards and various other clear plastic-sheathed identification — along with some sort of "milestone of employment" pin or a funny little plush clip-on animal. These folks are tasked with scrutinizing the various forms of identification presented by hopeful Real ID applicants. They are the final word on who passes muster and who gets booted on a technicality. They wield a lot of power considering they look as though they all got dressed in the dark, and remained there for the rest of their career. I read and
re-read the requirements and assembled (what I surmised) was a valid selection of pertinent identifying papers from the list on the PennDOT website. I grabbed my passport, my Social Security card, a W-2 form from my most recent tax return and a physical paystub from my last paycheck. The last two are to prove my legal residence in Pennsylvania. I could have presented a utility bill or a vehicle registration, but those items are (and have always been) in my wife's name. Aside from a W-2 and a paystub, I can't
really prove that I live where I claim to. Of course, I have my nearly-expired driver's license, too.
Real IDs are not offered for immediate receipt in every outlet that PennDOT maintains throughout the Greater Philadelphia area. The only one close to me is about 22 miles away. They offer unusual office hours to accommodate people who work for a living. The only day I could clear without interrupting my work schedule is Saturday. That is also the only day that everyone else in the Delaware Valley finds convenient. Hoping to outsmart to average person, I decided to get to the PennDOT facility a few hours before their 8:30 AM scheduled opening. So, early (
re: 6 AM) on Saturday morning, I drove out to the King of Prussia PennDOT office. Imagine my surprise when I pulled into the parking lot to find a line of at least 30 people already queued up at the entrance and snaking into the parking lot. Some had come prepared with collapsible camp chairs. Others brought a book or Kindle. Some sipped coffee from take-out cups and others poked around in a crumpled bag for a doughnut or breakfast sandwich. I hadn't seen lines like this since Beanie Babies were sending avid collectors and harried parents into a frenzy. Folks were chatting as though they were stuck in a slow-moving line waiting to purchase concert tickets or experience a particularly popular theme park ride.
I took my place behind a teenage girl and a woman I assumed was her mother. They sat in separate chairs and occupied their time by scrolling their cellphones and munching on something they kept pulling from their own Dunkin Donuts bag and shoving into their mouths. I overheard a man a little ahead of me tell another that he had gone to the previous night's Phillies-Yankees game in New York. He explained that he got home so late that he just stayed up all night because he knew he'd be coming here early. He also added — without any prompting of inquiry — that the new Yankee Stadium is like a domed stadium without the dome. (I'm still not sure what that means.)
No sooner did I take my place in line, people began pouring out of cars and queueing up behind me. Within minutes, there were fifty, sixty, seventy people behind me. Every so often, I turned to check the progress of the line. There must have been nearly two hundred more anxious Real ID hopefuls ...maybe more that that.
Several employees scooted between the folks in line to punch in a code and get into the building to start their workday. About thirty minutes before the posted opening time, in a very un-government office fashion, a few employees appeared alongside the line to inquire each individuals plans and to distribute clipboards equipped with the proper forms to be filled in while we waited. It was a surprisingly efficient course of action.
After a while, a sad-looking agent approached me. She was holding a plastic bin filled with clipboards and she had just finished telling a woman in front of me that the papers she brought to prove that her married name
was indeed her name were, in fact,
invalid in the unwavering, unforgiving eyes of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and
her, as its sworn representative. The woman, expressing her anger and disappointment, asked plaintively: "So, I'm done here?" The sad-looking Commonwealth agent coldly replied: "Unless you have the proper, required form." The woman angrily folded up her chair and stormed off to her car. The agent asked for the purpose of my visit today. I replied that I'd like to get a Real ID, as I fished around in my wallet for my Social Security card. She asked for my passport or birth certificate. I handed over my passport, even taking care to open it to the page with my photo and printed information. As she examined my passport, she asked for my Social Security card, which I happily presented.
She scrunched up her nose as she looked at my Social Security card through squinted eyes. "What's this?," she questioned, pointing an accusing finger as the prominent letter "M" on the card, comfortably wedged between "Josh" and "Pincus." I applied for and received my Social Security card in 1972 when I was 11 years old. My brother, four years my senior, had just been hired for his first job which required a Social Security number. My forward-thinking, always pragmatic mother, filled out a form for me at the same time. For reasons only known to my mother (dead 34 years now), she entered my name as "Josh M. Pincus." I have never ever
ever used my middle name or even my middle initial.
Ever. My middle initial does
not appear on any other piece of recognized and accepted piece of identification in my possession. But there it was, on my Social Security Card, just above my stupid little boy's signature. "It's not on your passport," she announced with a slight tone of disdain in her early-morning voice. "I realize that.," I said, "It is not on
anything! I
never use it." "Well," she began to get indignant, "it has to match exactly." I stared at her. I wasn't about to get into an argument with a government worker who only knows the script she memorized on Day One of her employment. Much like a Terminator, government workers can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with. They don't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And they absolutely will
not give in to your feeble excuses. It became pretty clear that I was not getting a Real ID today. At this point, the sad-looking agent moved on to the next potential applicant and I was told to — in no uncertain terms — "Hit the showers, rookie. You're throwing beachballs." Although I offered my US government-issued passport — a document that will guaranteed me admission to any country on this planet — it was about as useful as a used Kleenex to this certified agent of the Commonwealth. Dejected, I walked over to my car.
On my drive home, I silently argued the pros and cons of a Real ID to myself. I really don't need one. But now, it's me against the state...
er.... Commonwealth. I was determined to get one just because that sad little woman told me I couldn't. I called my wife and related the events of the events of my morning. By the time I got home, she had already located my birth certificate, compete with my
full middle name, not just that troublesome "M." I'm going to try again next Saturday to get a Real ID.
Even though I really don't need one.
Footnote: Oh, by the way, what does that pesky "M." stand for? It stands for "none of your goddamn business."
