How often do you get asked to provide proof of identity?
Australian life now seems to be a lurching from one bureaucratic obstacle to another to yet another. This disorientating, debilitating and demoralizing procession is painful enough, without being punctuated by numerous requests to provide proof of who you are.
“But, but, but, I know who I am,” I generally splutter with a feeling of anxiety tinged with alienation and impending madness.
“Yes, but how do we know who you are?” comes the cold, sane rebuke by authority. “We need some proof of who you are.” At this stage, I feel compelled to put a hand deep into a side pocket of my trousers to sharply squeeze one or two of my remaining small football-shaped badges of diminishing masculine gender authentication. The resultant jaw opening twang of pain reminds me that I am a feeling, living member of the animal kingdom.
However, in a growing awareness that I am then a pre-school David facing a mature, self-validating Goliath, I then reach my other hand into my other side pocket of my trousers to extract a driver’s licence, a passport and a letter to me from the gas supply company, each bearing bits and pieces of my name, address and physiognomy as captured by departmental, ceiling-mounted digital camera.
“Ah, that’s better,” booms the voice of officialdom, “That’s you there!” With this, a long finger of omniscience points to my photograph that closely resembles my great uncle immediately before his last cerebral haemorrhage at the age of ninety-seven and a half. “Ah, yes, and that is your address there, as acknowledged by the Acme Gas Corporation. Good, now let’s see about this matter that brought you here.” At this stage, of course, the official has just the slightest trace of the slightest form of a smile.
My plastic and paper identity has once again outsmarted my organic identity.
Crankyfella
Australian life now seems to be a lurching from one bureaucratic obstacle to another to yet another. This disorientating, debilitating and demoralizing procession is painful enough, without being punctuated by numerous requests to provide proof of who you are.
“But, but, but, I know who I am,” I generally splutter with a feeling of anxiety tinged with alienation and impending madness.
“Yes, but how do we know who you are?” comes the cold, sane rebuke by authority. “We need some proof of who you are.” At this stage, I feel compelled to put a hand deep into a side pocket of my trousers to sharply squeeze one or two of my remaining small football-shaped badges of diminishing masculine gender authentication. The resultant jaw opening twang of pain reminds me that I am a feeling, living member of the animal kingdom.
However, in a growing awareness that I am then a pre-school David facing a mature, self-validating Goliath, I then reach my other hand into my other side pocket of my trousers to extract a driver’s licence, a passport and a letter to me from the gas supply company, each bearing bits and pieces of my name, address and physiognomy as captured by departmental, ceiling-mounted digital camera.
“Ah, that’s better,” booms the voice of officialdom, “That’s you there!” With this, a long finger of omniscience points to my photograph that closely resembles my great uncle immediately before his last cerebral haemorrhage at the age of ninety-seven and a half. “Ah, yes, and that is your address there, as acknowledged by the Acme Gas Corporation. Good, now let’s see about this matter that brought you here.” At this stage, of course, the official has just the slightest trace of the slightest form of a smile.
My plastic and paper identity has once again outsmarted my organic identity.
Crankyfella
2 comments:
When I renewed my passport this week, the assistant told me to take off my spectacles. No, I said, I wear them all the time. But, she said, the camera flash hides your eyes. Then, said I, improve your skills. My glasses are me, I am my glasses. Since my old passport piccie shows them, you must as well. Kalu Kalay, I won against authoritarianism!
Great going, Anon.
I once won against authoritarianism, but the prohibited me from ever talking about it.
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