Tell your driver’s license stories

Remove your glasses.

Don't smile.

Your license is in the mail.

Oh, boy.

As if the Iowa Department of Transportation's licensing bureau doesn't get a bad enough rap, it's at it again.

And I'd bet everybody who has dealt with the licensing bureau - whether that be getting a first driver's license or renewing one - has a story to tell. I'd love to hear the best ones. Share them with me via e-mail at dave.rasdal@gazcomm.com through snail mail in care of The Gazette at P.O. Box 511, Cedar Rapids, IA 52406; or by visiting GazetteOnline.com or my Ramblin' with Rasdal blog at that address.

Less than a year ago, when I renewed my license, I thought it strange that the camera operator had me remove my glasses and refrain from smiling. I guess it had to do with security, as officials have since confirmed. They say the specs-less sober look makes it easier for officials to determine if I am who I say I am.

Mmm. I've worn glasses since 1992, corrective lenses since I could drive. And while I don't always smile, I like to think I do more often than not.

The resulting driver's license photo wasn't me. Then again, how many of us have been able to say that about the mug shots on our licenses?

But what set me off was Sunday's story about how Iowa will mail your driver's license to you within 30 days of your application. More security, they say.

In 1987, shortly after moving to California, I walked into a San Jose Department of Motor Vehicles office to transfer my license from Iowa to California, as required by law. I'd already leased an apartment, transferred my car license to California and set up a checking account.

Good thing, because back then, California already had the “your license is in the mail” policy. I waited in line, filled out the paperwork, waited, posed for a photograph, waited.

Finally, a woman at the counter handed me a piece of paper. She told me to use it as my license until the one with my picture arrived in the mail in about 30 days. On the paper it stated, “Not for identification.”

“What's this?” I asked, knowing I wouldn't be able to cash a check. “In Iowa we get our real license right away.”

“In Iowa,” she responded, “you have, what, two drivers? ... Next.”

Three years later, returning to Iowa, I was pleased with a short wait, a quick photo and my new license, still warm from the laminator, in hand.

Here's hoping Iowa doesn't become more California-like. Then I'd have reason not to smile.