Last July 7th my Maryland State I.D. card was about to expire. I was at the DMV in Essex among sweltering masses of Dindu humanity. Looking at a four-hour wait, I decided to risk arrest until forced to get a slave pass in order to travel off the plantation.

With a month left before I face scrutiny at BWI Airport, headed out to link up with Ishmael and Shayne for the Liver-Eater Investigation, I headed to the civilized DMV office in Harford County. I am basing myself out there one day a week to be closer to my mother and grandson.

What was clutch was the need for two proofs of Social Security, two proofs of address and a birth certificate. Having gone through this before, in 2010, I marshaled my meager paperwork, as I’m a cash person. Two people, my webmaster and my youngest son, take care of electronic purchases for me and I have no bills. What I did not realize was that, since 2010, the Maryland Motor Vehicles Administration issues Identification cards and driver licenses through the Department of Homeland Security.

About a third of the applicants for licenses and I.Ds were recent immigrants from Central America and the Middle East. I was pleased to see JU-52—a tall, black-haired Latina of the upper Caucasian class, poured into a white suit and turning heads. As for the rest of them, they were all military age males, heading briskly through the process and I could do without them.

But I, JU-53, a number which did afford me a visually pleasing place in line, was another story, for I have committed the crime of being debt free.

I had my certificate of live birth from Mercy Hospital.

I had my Selective Service Registration card from my youth in Pennsylvania.

I had W-2 forms from my employer.

I had proved that I was born, alive, in the U.S. and had been issued a Social Security Number.

As for proof of address:

I had my bank statement—acceptable.

I had a letter from my landlord stating that I lived at his business address—unacceptable.

I had my W-2 form, indicating my landlord’s business address as my residence—unacceptable.

I had no paycheck mailed to my house as the employer pays us electronically, so had brought two royalty checks with statements mailed to my address by Paladin Press and Amazon—unacceptable! One may not make his money writing, but must have a fixed place of employment, a barracks to report to.

The lady was my age, from my part of town and had been born at the same hospital and truly wished to get me an I.D. She said:

“Do you have a mortgage statement?”

No.

“Do you have a gas and electric bill?”

No.

“Do you have a car payment?”

No.

“Do you have a water bill?”

No.

“Do you have a credit card bill?”

No.

“Do you have a cell phone bill?”

No.

“Sir, that is highly unusual. Everybody has some kind of debt. If you cannot prove you are in debt, the only other means of determining residency is a signed lease agreement. There must be a signature from both parties, and there must be a stipulated payment. You cannot simply be living with someone. You have to pay rent. Otherwise this program will not let me proceed. Will you be coming back today?”

“No, I live in Baltimore and it’s a long walk.”

“Well sir, I am saving this, so we can start where we left off. But please, take care of this soon. I’d hate to see you get flagged.’

We exchanged pleasantries as she shook her head, seemingly as much at the program as at me.

When my first ancestor came to this nation in chains “the custom of the country” stated that, once free from his indenture he would have to be able to provide freedom papers or proof of property ownership.

Now, at the far end of the wage slave matrix that replaced that “custom,” papers are not enough, property ownership does not count toward proving residency and even a signed and notarized affidavit [which is what I required from my previous land lady when applying for Maryland State Identification in 2010, before this process got routed through Homeland Security] cannot be taken as proof of residency.

A current income tax return and a bank statement are the only two proofs of address that are not debts or contracts. It seems I’m not bound and indebted enough to be an American, which is fine with me. I just want my slave pass so I can take a plane to Utah.

Next week, armed with my new lease and the tax returns that my son files for me, I should be able to prove that I’m still slave enough to be admitted to the hallowed halls of Dindustan.