Road to Becoming Californian

I promised you I would write about something less depressing, so here it is! (It’s actually something that was written and illustrated some time ago but never published.)

“What did you do to have to take a driving test again?” asked my tester “Kathy.”

I could tell she was curious. Thought bubble: “What did she do to get her license revoked? She looks normal enough…”

“I’m from Japan,” I replied.

“Oh, and you didn't get an international license?”

“No. I never had a license. I never drove a car. We have a giant, efficient network of trains and buses and subways…"

“It must be nice having such an advanced public transportation system with these gas prices!”

Yes, it was, although for most of my adult life, I’ve biked all around Tokyo. It was faster and more efficient for a freelancer like me, working multiple gigs every day in all parts of the gigantic metropolis. I loved the freedom, spontaneity and (yes, I’m going to admit it!) anarchy of a bicycle, the most eco-friendly option.

But now I was in California. And rural California, to boot. So, like the millions of immigrants, transplants, expats and foreign exchange students, I had to get a real driver’s license for the first time in my life.

According to the California Department of Motor Vehicles, a total of 875,790 new California driver’s licenses were issued in 2023. Roughly 15% were issued to those who arrived from out-of-state — some with other driver’s licenses and some who, like me, had never driven before.

The road to my license was long and somewhat twisted, beginning before I even had my Green Card. As my partner and I were transitioning out of Japan, I went to get a Learner’s Permit at the Santa Monica Department of Motor Vehicles.

“Is it for you?” an elderly lady at the desk asked, sizing me up. I try not to sound too sheepish about it.

“Yes.”

"Do you have a picture ID?"

I showed her my passport.

The visa would expire in a few months and I had no Social Security number.

“Hmm. That could make the whole process much more time consuming and your visa would have run out by then. But you're going to get a new visa, right?"

She handed me an application form and a ticket stub. I waited. And waited. It was a busy day at the DMV. An LED sign at one end of the room let us know that Culver City had the shortest wait time but by then I'd already invested more than 20 minutes.

When my number was finally called, I was directed to Counter 14.

An older man in a Def Jam bowling shirt that didn't quite match the grays in his hair sat behind the counter. Culture Shock! No one at any motor vehicle bureau in Japan wears a bowling shirt! They all look like cops in uniform. Here, no one is in uniform. Plus, this guy looked a bit like Samuel L. Jackson. Is he's going to start quoting Ezekiel? Instead, after looking at my application he shouted, “What's this address?!” pointing at my Tokyo residence. “What the hell IS this JAPAN shit? Why do you need a license if you don't even live here?” He babbled on. “And you won't ever get a license if you don't have a Social Security number.”

“I’m only here to get a Learner's Permit,” I told him, but Mr. Jackson kept making all sorts of remarks about how they don't want me to get a driver's license, there are already too many drivers in L.A. (I have to agree with that one!) and I'll never pass the background checks, etc. etc. At the same time, he also joked around with everyone in the room, dancing, singing, waving my application around, hurrumping, and finally saying “You gotta pass the test, first. You get three chances. Don't blow ‘em all.”

I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone.

I drove around a bit during that summer, up in Arcata when we were not in the midst of renovating my partner’s 120-year old Victorian, and then didn't touch a steering wheel for the next 3 years.

Just before my 50th birthday, I got a new Learner’s Permit, this time at the San Luis Obispo DMV where, much to my disappointment, there was no Samuel L. Jackson.

And then, I entered the hell that so many women have lived through: being taught to drive by your boyfriend/husband/any related or unrelated male.

My own mom learned to drive when she moved to Los Angeles with a 2 year old me and suffered through instruction by my very impatient (and often angry) dad. Although she was a terrific driver, both in California and later in Japan when our family moved back to Tokyo, I remember her telling her friends, “Don’t ever let your husband teach you to drive.”

“Why can’t I go to a driving school? L (my American friend who grew up in Tokyo and recently moved to LA) says she has a really nice instructor…”

“I’ll teach you to be a better driver.”

I could forgive him for being so cocky. I’ve written about how my partner is a Natural Born Driver. Normally so fidgety that he can’t sit through an hours-long dinner with my family, he is perfectly calm and content behind the wheel. He doesn’t need music or conversation and can drive for hours on end without stopping. I tell people he could have driven himself out of his mother’s womb.

But a Natural Born Driver is not necessarily a Natural Born Driving Instructor. As a driving instructor, he was sexist (“Women are bad drivers”), racist (“All Asians are bad drivers”) and ageist (“You’ll never be as good a driver as someone who learned as a teenager.”)

“I need positive encouragement! I have no confidence! How am I going to take the stupid test if I don't feel confident about my driving?”

Many drivers are scared of other people's driving, but my discomfort and unfamiliarity with driving affected My Instructor in the worst way, making him extremely verbally abusive when I was practicing. Eventually, I learned to channel out the screaming in my ear and focus on driving.

A few weeks before my Learner’s Permit was to expire, we were driving back home from Humboldt and My Instructor suggested I take over after we filled up in Salinas.

The back of the truck was loaded with tools, household stuff, plants...and the back seat was piled high with bags and boxes. You couldn’t see out the rear view mirror. The passenger side, too, had a planter on the floor holding cuttings of antique roses from our property. It was bad enough that My Instructor had to be scrunched up in that seat, but then to have to ride all the way to the south end of Morro Bay with me behind the wheel? Hoooooo doggie!

“You're listing to the left! Slow down! Are you going to overtake him or not? Better decide now! Stop futzing with the cruise control! Now you’re listing to the right! Why are you slowing down? You're trying to overtake him? What?!”

“You're going too fast.”

“It's the speed limit.”

“I don't care. It's too fast.”

“There's a pile of cars behind me.”

“Who cares. Stop worrying about them.”

“Honk!” Apparently the other drivers cared about my super-slow speed.

“Asshole!” My Instructor yelled at the unknown driver.

It was Highway to Hell for everyone, but we miraculously managed to get to back to our ranch in one piece.

“Miracle isn't a strong enough word,” My Instructor exhaled, finally.

A couple of weeks later, I picked the most auspicious day in the Japanese almanac (wondering if I wasn't messing up by ignoring time zones), washed the truck, cleaned up the inside, sweet-talked to it (“Be nice to me tomorrow, okay?”) I found a (lucky?) penny in the truck bed, made sure I had my little temple talisman in my purse... I did all the (probably) useless and (definitely) superstitious things my Edokko grandmother would have done. Aside from washing the truck, I did all of this secretly. My Instructor and his Western logic would have told me I should just practice more. But rituals are important to me and it was my way of preparing myself mentally. Also, I wanted to stack the odds against, say, a child running out of the bushes into the street and smack into the truck, or having the brakes lock up, or the steering wheel come off in my hand like some cartoon moment.

Yes, it also helped that at the Department of Motor Vehicles a wonderfully sweet lady was waiting for me at Window 11, and my tester was another friendly and down-to-earth local woman.

“Kathy” was chatty as I wove through daytime San Luis Obispo traffic.

“Look at that guy! Eating and trying to drive! You should never do that, you know.”

“…..”

“What was it like in Japan? You don’t have an accent…”

“I spent my childhood in Los Angeles.”

“Oh. There’re some crazy drivers down there…”

My Instructor’s training was great, after all. I learned to stay focused on driving and only driving, no matter what was going on in the rest of the vehicle. I passed the test and became a legal, registered, licensed California Driver. I was now a Real Californian.