You are looking at one of the newest carriers of a New York State Driver License.

The inspector guy was nice enough, and I was nervous enough, which I couldn't figure out.

I drove. I signaled like you're supposed to, except I was also paranoid.

I parallel parked.

I got a little confused when he told me to turn left, and I saw a one-way sign pointing right to the right of the intersection.

He yelled at me.

Hee. He also yelled at me when I pulled a little bit onto a private driveway when performing a broken U-turn.

But I signaled. He also yelled when I didn't stop as quickly as I should approaching an intersection where a semi-truck was turning very, very, very slowly.

He didn't really yell, but I was nervous as heck, and it sure seemed like his firm, loud voice was yelly.

I mean, I've driven before. I've driven a lot. I've driven cross-country seven or eight times. I've driven in the City.

No speeding tickets.

Just a parking ticket at BYU, for the back end of the car being about a tenth of a millimeter into the yellow zone, because they're slightly retentive in the ane.

But, at the end of the five-minute drive, he told me I did fine. I thanked him and sighed with relief. With an edge of sarcasm, he told me I did it by myself, but I did it. Then I turned my head, and I said, I should have listened better, huh.

Then he took that opportunity to teach me, since I finally came across as not knowing everything.

He was a nice man. Patient. Could tell he's seen enough neurotic drivers not to take the road for granted. That's some good stuff to keep in mind.

Yay.

So, while I was at the counter at the DMV waiting for my test yesterday, the woman behind the counter asked me, "English or Chinese?" In my clearest nondistinguishing American accent, I said, "English" without even looking up. I was signing some forms at the time. Interesting assumption, eh? Once an older Asian man approached me in Times Square a few years ago and started speaking Chinese to me. I said to him, "Sorry, no Chinese." Do I really look Chinese? If so, then why do the filipino people I meet always get my nationality correct? The DMV woman meant well, but it would have been a little more proper if she asked me if I would like an English test. A lot gets misunderstood in this world, people get offended because of so many assumptions. If I spoke a different language, I would have let her know. Chinese isn't even my native language. And I took French in high school. But, what if - what if - I had said instead, "Wha? Wha you say? Me speakah no Engrish" followed by a sequence of ching-chongs that would have offended the actual Chinese speakers in the room? Would have that made me a better person? No. Would I have laughed like the hypocrite I can sometimes be? Probably. So I guess my initial response was more appropriate.

***I'm going to copy and paste the beginning of yesterday's story here, for your convenience.***

My mom joined the church when we lived in Guam. This was my first conscious exposure to hymns. I was in kindergarten or 1st grade. I had been to Catholic mass a few times, but I don't recall much of the music there. My reading was good for my grade level, but I hadn't been exposed to much outside of Sesame Street. So when I opened one of those old brown hymn books for the very first time, I had no idea what kind of treat I was in for. 

We met in an old doublewide trailer. The living room/kitchen area was the chapel, and the other half of the building were bedrooms converted (ha!) into classrooms. It was Guam, so it was tropic. It probably wasn't very comfortable. I remember sitting off to the side of the chapel with my family our first Sunday. Singing hymns instantly became my favorite part of the sacrament meeting service. The pianist plunked away on that long-used, scratched-up piano, and everyone was singing along, together. It was just SO cool how those words and syllables went to notes on a staff and all the holy melodies I had experienced up to that point were lovely and catchy, and I wanted to have a hymnbook of my very own, so that I could learn the words. I didn't know how to read music back then, but boy, were my ears ever-so poised to catch and memorize every single note of those tunes.

One Sunday in particular, I was sitting at the back of the chapel, which bothered me, because  I liked being able to watch the chorister. I think my mom was pregnant with Frank - she might have been at home, and my dad probably had to help up front. I ended up sitting next to a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a full beard. He had a strong brow, and he seemed nice but quiet.

It came time to sing the hymn for preparing the sacrament. We sang "I Stand All Amazed." What I heard from the man sitting next to me I could not believe. He had the richest, most sonorous tenor voice I had ever heard. I looked up at him and his eyebrows were lifted and expressive as he sang the refrain, "Oh it is wonderful that he should care for me enough to die for me!" And he sang the ends of the phrases with a slight lilt then clipped it off with a huff of breath. It was impeccable. This was around the time when advertisements for Pavarotti's greatest hits were playing on television. All the arias from all his operas, and even a few bonus tracks. And this man at church - with the dark beard and hair, and the hefty build, and the expressive eyebrows, and THAT VOICE - I was so confused. Wasn't Pavarotti in Italy? Wasn't he Catholic? What if this was Pavarotti sitting right beside me? And why had no one else in the congregation noticed?

I'm sure I was convinced every time I saw a Pavarotti commercial that it was the same guy from church. I would compare their features every time I saw Church Guy. Church Guy's hair was dark, but it wasn't as dark. And Church Guy's face was differently shaped. And Church Guy's name was not Luciano Pavarotti. That probably should have been the big selling point, but who can really contain a 6-year-old's imagination? What I did know was that I wanted to sit next to Church Guy every Sunday, so that I could hear him sing. What I wanted was for us to sing "I Stand All Amazed" whenever I did sit by him, because I wanted to feel the thrill of a live concert the first time I heard him.

This past Sunday, we sang "I Stand All Amazed" for the sacrament hymn. The memory as a 6-year-old revisited my conscious and took me completely by surprise. I heard Church Guy's voice echo from the recesses of my mind. Sitting next to me was a little boy, maybe 8 years old. He had dark hair, neatly combed, and a cute face that will develop into a very handsome face. He wore a dark, pin-striped suit and black shoes and tan socks that weren't pulled up but bunched down toward his ankles.  

We were sitting smack dab in the middle of the chapel. The hymnal covers are green now, and the boy was holding a hymnal turned to the correct page in his lap, his head down and focused, following and singing the words as the melody progressed. This child's voice was sweet. And innocent. And earnest. And sometimes sang a word or two too soon. It struck me how truly beautiful that was. I stopped singing for a few seconds so that I could hear him. How lucky was I to sit next to such a wonder, an inspiration, this beautiful soul? It took a lot of effort to keep tears from streaming down my cheeks, I was so incredibly grateful. I guess I have a new Church Guy now.

Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me. 

I started writing a little account about a childhood memory while at the DMV waiting for the results for the written test for my learner's permit. Yes, I let my Florida's driver's license expire, then I didn't do anything about it for over two years, so I got a non-driver's ID card, then finally I've gotten around to the whole teenager's process and I can't wait to drive my mom's souped-up station wagon with the wood veneer paneling. The written test was really easy. I've signed up for a driver's education course, and I've signed for a road test. In about six weeks, I'm going to be a legal driver in the state of New York, whereas I was driving illegally in New York and Florida. Please don't tell.

I'll finish the rest of this account tomorrow.

***
My mom joined the church when we lived in Guam. This was my first conscious exposure to hymns. I was in kindergarten or 1st grade. I had been to Catholic mass a few times, but I don't recall much of the music there. My reading was good for my grade level, but I hadn't been exposed to much outside of Sesame Street. So when I opened one of those old brown hymn books for the very first time, I had no idea what kind of treat I was in for. 

We met in an old doublewide trailer. The living room/kitchen area was the chapel, and the other half of the building were bedrooms converted (ha!) into classrooms. It was Guam, so it was tropic. It probably wasn't very comfortable. I remember sitting off to the side of the chapel with my family our first Sunday. Singing hymns instantly became my favorite part of the sacrament meeting service. The pianist plunked away on that long-used, scratched-up piano, and everyone was singing along, together. It was just SO cool how those words and syllables went to notes on a staff and all the holy melodies I had experienced up to that point were lovely and catchy, and I wanted to have a hymnbook of my very own, so that I could learn the words. I didn't know how to read music back then, but boy, were my ears ever-so poised to catch and memorize every single note of those tunes.

One Sunday in particular, I was sitting at the back of the chapel, which bothered me, because  I liked being able to watch the chorister. I think my mom was pregnant with Frank - she might have been at home, and my dad probably had to help up front. I ended up sitting next to a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a full beard. He had a strong brow, and he seemed nice but quiet.