When I moved to Boulder, Colorado in 2015, I had something like 60 days to become a “resident.” I had to get a Colorado driver’s license, license plates, and a handful of other official paperwork to ensure I received in-state tuition for my graduate program. There was a lot of money on the line, so I applied for my license and plates within 48 hours of arriving.
It was early August. I was 22 years old. Moving across the country from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to the foothills of Boulder, Colorado to attend a Master’s program studying environmental journalism felt like a massive leap—as though my life had finally begun. I had grand visions of the adventurous mountain woman I could now become. It seemed plainly obvious that I would end up with an old manual truck (that I would magically afford and know how to drive), find myself a cabin where I’d have to dig out the driveway half the year just to get to class (because there are definitely so many cabins in the foothills of Boulder), and other ridiculous notions that only a whimsical 22-year-old who has read too much Edward Abbey could possibly dream up.
When my Colorado license finally arrived in the mail at my grungy studio apartment nestled between a highway and busy road (see previous note about cabins), I happily swapped out my Pennsylvania version still emblazoned with an acne encrusted 16-year-old for the official Colorado club card. Then I drove my inherited 2004 Toyota Camry (which still advertised “Proud Pitt Parent” and “George Mason Mom” from stickers my brother and I had gifted to our mom on the back windshield) to Advanced Auto Parts for some help prying the rusted-on Pennsylvania license plates from my bumper. The bolts crumbled under the torque of the wrench and cumulative years driving over heavily salted winter Pennsylvania roads.
Back at my apartment, I felt so accomplished screwing on the Colorado plates, those white mountains shimmering against a deep green background. It was official, I was a Coloradan. It wasn’t that I hated Pennsylvania. I loved my home state. But I felt like I was finally receiving a tangible delineation between the child that I was and the woman I was becoming. My dingy green Camry (affectionately named Marjorie) parked next to extremely capable Wranglers, Outbacks and Tacomas looked like a street dog on display at the Westminster Dog Show. Still, I felt pride. So long as that Colorado plate was stuck on the back, I didn’t care. I belonged.
***
When I moved from Colorado to Washington in the fall of 2020 (in my updated, only somewhat capable rear 2-wheel-drive Tacoma, affectionately named Gale), I had only 30 days to establish residency. But I couldn’t figure out the penalty for not doing so, so I took my time (read: procrastinated). I hadn’t really wrapped my head around the fact that I’d just moved across the country again. It felt for a while like an extended vacation.
I left my dashboard clock in Mountain Standard Time for the first few weeks. Even after J changed it to Pacific Standard Time one afternoon when I wasn’t paying attention, I quickly changed it back. “Please don’t change the clock yet,” I said to him, clicking the buttons. “I’m just not ready.” I left the clock this way for weeks until Daylight Savings occurred and I couldn’t keep track of how many hours I had to add or subtract to know the actual time.
I got my Washington driver's license a few months later and felt uncomfortable swapping out my Colorado version. That sense of arrival and belonging did not well up within me. I dragged my feet even longer on my vehicle registration, which wasn’t due to expire for another couple of months. But then my registration expiration came and went and still I didn’t bother to get new plates.
“I’ll get them before my trip to Oregon this summer,” I promised myself. But the trip to Oregon passed and I didn’t make it happen. I set the new deadline for the month of my move into a new rental so I could use my updated address. But then that date flew by too. Before I knew it, my plates were 18 months expired.
The border between the U.S. and Canada opened a few weeks ago and I realized if I wanted to explore any of that country, I’d probably need updated plates to get across. I caved and went to the licensing center this week. A paper sign taped to the door said it could take several weeks to get new plates due to the supply chain shortage and I breathed a little sigh of relief knowing I could drive my Colorado truck just a bit longer. But as the clerk looked over my information at the front desk she said, “You’re in luck! The only plates we have left are truck plates. You can put them on today.”
“Yay,” I said with all the gusto I could muster. The whole ordeal took less than 20 minutes. Perhaps the only time I’ve ever not been thankful for a DMV miracle. I drove away with two new license plates rattling together on the bench seat. Tears streamed down my face. When I got home, I set the plates on the kitchen table and didn’t look at them for several hours. Around 4pm I dug the screwdriver out of the toolbox, picked up the plates from the table, and walked out to the truck.
I thought about lighting incense, having a whole ceremony—and then I pulled myself together. The screws came out with ease, and in just a few minutes, the last vestiges of my Colorado life had been removed. In their place sat boring white plates with faint blue mountains and angry red letters. The tears returned. As I tucked the new registration into the glovebox, I noticed a long patch of red dirt stretched across the rubber floor mats likely from my last trip to Fruita before I left Colorado. I ran my hand along the gray rubber and watched my fingertips turn rusty orange.
I’ll need to clean the mats eventually. Maybe in another 18 months. For now, though, I’ll savor them as a salient reminder of belonging.