Proof Required: Who Are You, Anyway?

I still remember the news story from 2013, when Reese Witherspoon and her husband, Jim Toth, were pulled over by a police officer in Atlanta. Toth was ultimately arrested for driving under the influence. As the officer questioned her husband and gave him a breathalyzer test, Witherspoon was livid. Despite repeated warnings, she refused to stay inside the car, saying, “Don’t you know who I am?” The officer either didn’t know who she was, or didn’t care. 

The police report from that night states, “Mrs. Witherspoon began to hang out the window and say that she did not believe that I was a real police officer. I told Mrs. Witherspoon to sit on her butt and be quiet.” Her list of starring movie roles and awards didn’t help her that night in Atlanta. In the end, her indignant and disrespectful behavior toward the officer earned her an arrest for disorderly conduct. It also earned her a mess of embarrassing headlines the next day.

We all want to be special and get special treatment. It feels good to be recognized. 

It’s disappointing when we discover that we’re not special after all. 

I’m no Reese Witherspoon. My movie credits are zero, and I’m not holding my breath for an Academy Award or even an MTV Generation Award (Mrs. Witherspoon has both). But in a much smaller way, I’ve experienced that same righteous indignation that Reese felt.

It happens each time I have to prove residency in order to enroll my kids in school.

I’m approaching year 20 of having children enrolled in our local school district. Our two oldest sons graduated from high school years ago already; they are already fully entrenched in adulthood, with their public school career receding in the rearview mirror. Only our two youngest kids remain at home, both attending high school this Fall.

So like I said—for 20 years, my kids have attended either an elementary school, middle school, or high school in the same district. My husband teaches in the district, too—for the past 15 years.

But none of that matters when I open my inbox to see “Subject: Residency Verification Reminder.”

It shouldn’t bother me so much that we have to prove residency every few years. I understand that school districts are just trying to protect the taxpayers, by making sure that all students live within the city limits. 

Still, each time I get this email asking me to verify where I live, I get snarky. Can’t they just check the address where they send my husband’s paycheck?

But I don’t say this. I know the district staff is just doing their job. 

Years ago, when I had 4 children under the age of 14, I had to prove residency. The first time I took in my papers, I was missing one item. I had only two bills, but I needed three. As I shifted my toddler from one hip to the next, I asked, “Could you just accept the two? Isn’t two enough?”

No. The answer was no. They needed three. I had a mortgage bill and a water bill. I needed one more item.

I went back home. By then, one of the kids needed a nap, and it was almost time to pick up the other kids from school, so proving residency would have to wait for another day.

The next day, I rifled through a stack of recent mail. The gas bill! I saw the logo of our gas company on the corner of an envelope and stuffed it into my purse. After lunch and “Sesame Street,” I would head back to the school office to present the gas bill.

“Hello!” The office administrator greeted me warmly when I walked in. She was sympathetic to my plight. She knew me. She knew where I lived. But in this world, none of that mattered if I didn’t have my three documents to provide verification of my address. I couldn’t be mad at her: she was just doing her job. Three documents were required, and so far I only had two. I held the envelope over my head victoriously. “I got it!” I said. Found my gas bill! Let’s do this!”

I opened the envelope and took out the z-fold paper.

How does your energy use compare to your neighbors?

“No!” I moaned. I flipped the paper over, but all I saw was a pie chart and a bar graph, showing that our home’s energy usage was way out of proportion to what our neighbors use.

I looked warily at the office administrator. “Well, it isn’t a bill, but this is a letter from the gas company. Look, it has my name and address on it.”

She looked at me sadly, slowly shaking her head.

“Will that work?” I asked. But I already knew the answer. I headed back for round three.

I don’t remember much about the third time I went back to prove residency, other than the fact that I did it. I completed the task. I was officially a resident in the school district’s eyes. The office administrator, now on a first-name basis with me, actually gave me a high five.

So you’ll understand why, 20 years in, I cringe when I get the email asking me to once again prove residency. I don’t want to do it. I drag my feet. This year presented different obstacles: most of our bills are electronic, which meant I had to print out paper copies. Only, we don’t have a printer at home. (Does anyone have a printer at home anymore?) I felt a tantrum coming on, akin to the legendary ones my toddlers threw. 

I kept it in. I procrastinated, yes, but eventually I dug in my heels and printed copies of three bills (mortgage, water, and electric this time) at the local library. 

I didn’t throw a tantrum. I didn’t yell, “Don’t you know who I am?!” When it comes to death, taxes, jury duty, and yes, even residency verification for school, it doesn’t matter who you are. I’m sorry to say you aren’t special. Take a number; get in line.