Government in Action

Come June, the Sassafras Family is headed to Alaska and Canada.  Our brief out-of-country sojourn (hint: Canada is actually a foreign nation) requires that we bring passports.  JT and I had Monday off from school and so we set off that afternoon to secure the proper government papers.

When I arrived at the local post office, I was informed by Sam the Postal Worker that I would need to make an appointment to apply for a passport.  Since this fact had not been conveyed in my earlier phone call to the post office to inquire about the process, I was not amused.  But I can roll with the punches, so in my most courteous voice, I said to Sam, "Okay, then. I'd like to make an appointment for a passport, please."

He informed me that I would have to call a particular phone number in order to make an appointment and then he informed me that I couldn't apply for JT's passport at that moment anyway, because he'd need his parent's signatures in order to do so.  I said, "I am his mother."  And Sam said, "But he needs his father's signature also." 

Now at this point, the post office was empty but for me and JT, Sam (the helpful Postal Worker), another postal worker sitting behind the desk (let's call him Desk Jockey Bob), and a third postal worker, also at the counter (we'll call her Counter Sue).  I was still hopeful that they might help me out this very day.  So I told Sam, "He doesn't have a father."

And then Sam the Postal Worker said, "Why, I've never heard of such a thing," and in the silence that followed Sam's incredulity he had a long look at JT's Nebraska-issued birth certificate, searching in vain for an entry on the birth father line.  He looked at the birth certificate, he looked at me, he looked at JT, and then  he looked again at that empty line on the birth certificate and declared a second time, "Why, I've never heard of such a thing."

And so I patiently explained that JT's "father" was a sperm donor.  At which point Sam the Postal Worker slid the birth certificate and application back in my direction and brusquely announced, "That's none of my business.  You need to call for an appointment."

We retreated a few steps, I set my paperwork on the counter, pulled out  my cell phone, and called the number to schedule an appointment.  I could hear the phone ring just beyond the counter and then I watched as Desk Jockey Bob answered the phone.  "I'd like to make an appointment for a passport application, please," I told Bob.  He put me on hold for a few minutes and then came back on the line saying, "Okay.  When would you like to come in?"

I answered with my keen grasp of the obvious, "Well I'm here now.  Can I do it now?" 

"No," Bob the Desk Jockey explained, "we only do the appointments before 2 pm."

It was 2:30.

"You'll have to come in later this week," Bob said. 

Later this week, of course, JT and I expect to be at school until 3 pm.  I explained this to Bob.  He advised me to come in on Saturday.  Sensing that I was about to lose my cool, I told Bob that I would call back later for an appointment and I hung up my phone.  As I collected my paperwork and my fatherless-child, Counter Sue, the witness to this exercise in futility, told me, "In Town X, there is a walk-in passport office."  And then she told me exactly where the building was located.  I thanked her and left.

Less than 15 minutes later, JT and I were at the Town X passport office.  There, a friendly and very capable state of New Jersey bureaucrat named Cheryl collected my paperwork, looked at JT's birth certificate, briskly wrote N/A on the passport application line for father, took my checks (one for the federal government and one for the county.....passport processors make $25 for each application they file), and thanked me for my business.  I was out the door in 5 minutes.

Let's hope that the nameless federal bureaucrat who receives our paperwork is more in the model of Efficiency Cheryl and not Postal Worker Bob.  I worry.