I was just kidding when I said my birth certificate might cast doubt on whether I’m me.
A clever little kicker to a mildly sarcastic story about the need — post 9/11 — to prove unequivocally who we are.
Planning a trip to Canada later this week and unable to find my passport, I realized no longer would my Michigan driver’s license and my say-so get me back into the States.
Nothing for it but to drive to Grand Rapids and fork out ten bucks to the Kent County Clerk for a copy of my birth certificate. There was a certain irony, maybe only in my mind, to the fact that I was doing it on my birthday.
I couldn’t help wondering, though, how probitive of my identity any of these formal records might be. I got my answer when I looked over the birth certificate Kent County copied for me.
Lo and behold, there were blanks. My mother’s maiden name was there, and her age, 25, and her residence, Lowell. All correct, or at least all according to family lore. My father’s name and age were there, though according to my parents, dad was in Alabama in the air force. World War II was still on that day, which was May 5, 1945.
But what’s this? Mom’s married name was “not recorded.”
Minor detail.
Still, all that info came from mom. What we in journalism call a single-source story. Now, I believe my mom, but you see, there’s a principle. Vital data should be confirmed and re-confirmed, don’t you think?
You can imagine, I was starting to get nervous. More so when I noticed the blank where it asks for a witness, someone to sign under “I certify that the personal information provided on this certificate is correct to the best of my knowledge and belief.”
In place of a signature, it says, “not recorded.”
Not looking good. This really is a single source story. What if things were going on in that hospital that mom didn’t know about? What if someone slipped a different kid into my crib? Well, I guess that different kid would actually be me, but if that were the case, who would I be? And what happend to the kid they took away, which was really me? Does this mean I’ve lived all these years as a phony me? A pseudo-self?
See what I mean? There are holes in my story, as an editor once told me.
Golden opportunity here for someone inclined to fiddle with a kid’s ID. Sixty-three years a guy thinks he knows who he is. Gets his birth certificate and blamo! As the editor one said, hole in the story big enough to drive a truck through.
I read further. Big relief. Four days later, along came Dr. B. H. “Shep” Shepard. He was the doctor who delivered me. I don’t remember him, but I heard plenty about him. He was a barber in Lowell for many years before going to med school. There were 75 kids in my Lowell High School class of ’63, and I bet he delivered half of them. Beloved G.P. in town. Drooling with credibility. Shep dropped by Blodgett Hospital and signed my birth certificate where it says, “I certify that the above named child was born alive at the place and time and on the date stated above.”
Hmmm. Not sure I like that. It’s not quite the same as attesting that I’m me, is it? Any kid could have been born at the place and time and date on the record.
Worrisome.
What’s more, I gotta say, looking at this embossed blue and pink document, doggone — oh my God, I shouldn’t say this with a border crossing looking me in the face — but I can’t help it. The darn thing looks fake. I bet you could do better with a color Xerox.
How many people have figured that out and crossed illegally their pretty little color Xerox certificates while the federales are hassling bona fide citizens to prove what everybody knows, which is who they are?
But that’s not my worry, is it? My concern is solely with getting back into the good ol’ US of A.
