Getting my Driver's Liscese in Illinois was more difficult and time consuming that getting my Chinese work visa. And premonition inducing.

Truth.

Here's the background story:

I went to highschool in Illinois, thusly receiving my Driver's Liscense for the first time in this state. If we passed the written test, driving test, and simulation test in our Driver's Education course in school, we could march straight into the DMV on our 16th birthdays, stand in line to take what would be one of the most un-flattering photos of our lives, and then pick up our ticket to freedom.. This first piece-of-cake experience with the Illinois Secretary of State's Office deceived me into believing the second time around it would be just as pleasant (though with a hopefully more appealing photo!).

After my parents relocated to sunny Miami, I made a trip to the Florida DMV to change my license. The process was minimal; enter, hand over your out-of-state liscense, relate your new address, take another photo (by this time I was become quite adept at looking cute), and exit with your new license.

I assumed, following logical thought patterns, that the process would be the same returning to Illinois. Upon my move back up to my [kind of] home state, I was shocked and agitated to find it was, for lack of a stronger adverb, NOT.

Firstly, DMVs in Chicago have very inconvenient hours for a business hour working, CTA riding citizen. I couldn't just pop in a few minutes before closing either;  everyone applying for a license in Illinois, no matter if you previously had one in the state, must take the written test. I needed time - which eliminated the weekday eveing hours. One DMV offered a short window of time on Saturday morning - though out of the way on the far west side, this became my only option.

So, early one Saturday morning, dragged myself out of bed. I took public transportation for 1.5 hours, and then completed my trip with a  half mile walk.No buses ran directly there.

I got in the initial screening line, waited for about twenty minutes, and was promptly rejected. Apparently, a copy of one's Social Security card in unacceptable, though no where on the website does it say this. I hung my head and headed home from what became a pointless four hour venture.

The following week, I tried again. Armed with the knowledge I accrued on my previous attempt, I readied myself the night before. I gathered an excessive selection of documents for each of the 4 categories required.  I was not taking any chances; I debated with my mother whether or not I should bring any of my elementary school report cards. That morning, I, again, dragged myself out of bed, rode and hour and a half on bus and train, walked a half a mile, and stood in line for twenty minutes. In the rain.

I passed through the initial line with flying colors. After recieving a slip with a series of numbers on it, I took a seat to wait until I was called.

If this story wasn't eventful enough for you already, I'll be happy to tell you that, at this moment, I had one of the most intense deja vu moments of my waking life. A man sitting next to me, who was wearing a blue plaid jacket and grey cap, leaded over, and, with a sarcastic smile, asked, "Why do they need to see all of these documents?!". I immediately recognized him and our deja fait conversation.  In my vision, I had responded with a quick quip, resulting from laughter in both parties. Now, when this man leaned over, all of this flashed through my mind in an instant, before he even spoke. I smirked as he opened his mouth to speak, already knowing what he was going to say. I faithfully repeated the response my witty dream-self had given, and we both laughed heartily. Unbelievable!

A few [introspective] minutes later, my number appeared on the screen. I came of my thoughts and back into the throw of the morning. I smiled as I approached the counter, and calmly laid down my thorough collection of documents. As the clerk tap, tap, tapped her long nails on the keyboard, she began to sort through my documents as I held my breath on the other side. Everything seemed to be going smoothly... until she started to discard the documents I had brought to fill the last category: proof of residence. One by one, she handed them back to me silently. When I asked what was wrong, she harshly informed me that they didn't qualify. Another, another, another... until that huge stack of documents I had so thoughtfully prepared had diminished to a measly two She considered these for a few minutes, holding them up to her face, scrutinizing the verbiage, licking the paper to ensure it was real . I cautiously asked her why the others, which, according to the [every trusty] website, were in perfect compliance, were void. She snapped back, telling me that they didn't have a date on them - a requirement that, again, was not specified on the website.

After a few more minutes of dissecting these documents, she informed me that most people would not accept these documents, but, because she was in a good mood today, she would accept. A wave of relieve washed over me, and I felt close to tears. I thanked her wholeheartedly for her kindness, and we parted ways awkwardly.

Little did I know, my day had just begun.

The next stop was the paying of the registration fee. Having rushed out of the house, I realized, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, that I didn't bring any cash. A big sign in the window informed me that credit cards were now accepted. As I worked my way through the line, I noticed the fine print; virtually every line of credit is accepted, save Visa. And, consistent with my luck, Visa is all I had.

I approached the window, and greeted my a kindly woman behind a glass partition. I explained my situation, and she was empathetic. She directed me to the nearest ATM, which, continuing with my current streak of fortune, was approximately 1.5 miles away. For lack of bus, I trekked a mile and a half through the sketchy West Side to an even sketchier Walgreen's. I got my cash, plus a little extra in case the need for bribery arose, and then trekked a mile and a half back to the dreaded DMV.

I moved to bypass the initial line and walk through the waiting area to the payment station, when I was stopped by two armed guards. I was told I would have to go through the line to get passed this point. I stammered, attempting to explain my situation while suppressing the crazed rage that had been slowly growing inside of me all morning. We bantered back and forth, until one finally grasped what I was saying, and allowed me to pass. Thank the LORD.

Up at the payment stations, I waited in another long line (it was later in the day at this point, and thusly much more crowded) and paid my dues. I made my way to the next step - realizing that I hadn't studied for the written exam again. I swore to myself that, if I failed the written test, I would not scream out loud. Or murder anyone.

Thankfully for the people present, I passed the test, and everyone lived. I moved on to the last hurdle: The Photo.

I waited in line, they called my name, I sat down in front of the screen, and, the second my behind touched the chair, SNAP. Picture taken. I sat aghast for a few second, not believing that had seriously happened. Did they just take my picture without any warning? After this whole fiasco, was I going to have a ID that made me look  like a dazed and confused idiot?!

I fumed at the man. I wanted so badly to give him a piece of my mind, did I not truly believe that my license would be suspended for such verbal abuse. And I was NOT going through that mess again.

They called my name, and I hesitantly flipped over my warm, new license to see Me. It was actually not bad - I have a pleasant, friendly look on my face. How that happened, I'm not sure - I was feeling neither pleasant nor friendly at the moment.

After my half mile walk and 1.5 hour ride, I was home. I laced up my running shoes and ran off the remainder of the afternoon and the ensuing frustration. What an adventure! (Is adventure the right word?)

The next week I was called for jury duty in Miami - how ironic!

The Switch

To be honest, I never really thought about being a Spanish teacher. I love the language, sure, but always pictured myself as a general classroom teacher in my [wildest?] work-time fantasies. I recieved my endorsement as a result of my minor, but never really considered pursuing it as a career.

How I underestimated that little addition to my teaching certificate! Not only did it find me a job in a cut-throat market, but it is FUN. I should has guessed I would enjoy teaching Spanish this much; didn't I love teaching English as a language? Don't I love learning languages personally? Simply switch the language, and I continue in the career path I love. Sometimes I (or we, as people) can be so close-minded to the possibilities that are available to us. 

I see a huge number of kids everyday, from kindergarten to eighth grade. Most of them ask me if I am Mexican, or attempt to guess my age (average guesses land somewhere around 56). Most classes are good, and eager to learn a new language. Yesterday was Mexican Independence Day, and the majority of my classes remembered [that I told them] this, and rushed up to me with hugs and exuberant salutations of "Happy Independence Day!" I flaunted this popularity in front of other teachers in the parking lot.

My school has a high (around 40%) HIspanic population (60% Black). The younger ones are adorable; so enthusiastic to share that they know spanish, too. The middle level kids usually feel that speaking Spanish exempts them from studying - resulting in a lot of misspelled words and incorrect grammar. They'll learn! 

The hardest thing I find is classroom management - when you are only with a class a couple hours a week, you run the risk of being viewed as "free time". The most difficult is 8th grade... and we all know why. The kids at my school have attitude, forcing me to up my game and stay on my toes - and contain [or burst out it] laughter quite often throughout the day. 

Anyhow, work is going really well. I love what I do, do what I love, and on top of that, I get SALARY. Boo ya.

THE "The Move"

My whole life I've been moving. When I was young, my family moved five times before I was in high school due to my father's job. In college, I moved to Spain for a semester, and then to Chicago for my student teaching. After that, I moved to France. Peru. China. Miami. Japan. Turkey. Miami. The list is not meant to boast, but just to verify the fact that, YES, Amy is a modern-day gypsy.


Though I'm no stranger to picking up my bags and starting a new life somewhere, this move up to Chicago was different than all the rest. For one, I picked out my own apartment, and purchased new furniture to fit my home-style. Used to living out of a suitcase, or renting places temporarily with furniture provided, this was a first for me. Second, this move was permanent. Sure, I'll travel during the summers, perhaps taking a sabbatical in a few years to revisit TEFL life, but Chicago is my new forever home. And the feeling, that settling, comfortable, peaceful feeling, is just amazing.


Because I don't own a car, my transportation to and from my new school has to be public. Since the school is located in a rather tough neighborhood, I had to find a place the was easily accessible. I settled on Hyde Park - a beautiful pocket of safety and charm on the South Side. The apartment was more of an issue; because the University of Chicago is nearby, the number of available apartments around the area had already dwindled in anticipation of the fall semester. Though the odds of finding a place in my price range, and in the location I needed to be in (due to complicated train schedules) were stacked against me, it seems that Lady Luck was looking out for old Amy - I found the perfect place for the perfect price.


With the Museum of Science and Industry in my backyard, getting downtown and back again is a synch.  With Lake Michigan, and, consequently, the lake-front trail, a block away, my daily runs are trouble-free with much to see (rhyme). I'm a few blocks from an gilt-edge grocery - think, a cheese section of which the French would be très fier (French-English dictionaries, everyone!) - and Binny's Beverage Depot (I'm exploring wine, and this place where curiosity is satisfied!). Obama lives 10 minutes away; add an additional 5 minutes to that walk, and there's Jesse Jackson's church.


My place is affordable AND adorable. A small studio, it's just perfect for me. Taupe walls, white moulding, ceramic tub, plenty of closet place for my expansive wardrobe. Plus, a quaint little kitchen where I work my new found culinary magic, and indulge my amour du vin - you can probably guess what that means without your French-English dictionary.


I'm working on decorations; currently, I'm developing an idea to cover one long wall with miscellaneous  frames displaying photos I've taken over the past couple years. 


As for my new life here, it is coming along nicely. Though I'm not as social as I'd like to be, I am moving forward in other areas. I am using my time now to really focus on myself; to heal my wounds, to get healthy, to take care of myself. It's a funny thing, I've discovered recently, to absorb these experiences I've had and interests I've accumulated, the people I've met and the things I've done, into my... me. Coming full circle, I feel a out of place and completely at home. 


I never really thought about this part of my life, the life after my globetrotting spree. It is a great life, full of a whole different kind of adventure. My future here, with an unseen end, is full of possibilities and optimism. 


And that is what makes this move the "The Move".