Content Warning: mentions
of death, homicide, suicide and
graphic descriptions of bodily
mutilation and trauma.
***
I remember the beauty of last
week like it was yesterday, when
all the fresh and crunchy leaves
were still littered across the
Diag and the wind lacked that
extra bite. I frequently find it
difficult to engage in my favorite
pastime — stopping to smell the
figurative roses — with such a
busy schedule, but I had some
time that day to pause and collect
a few vibrant specimens from
the ground, glowing in all shades
between red and yellow.
It’s not hard for me to imbue
such seemingly bland moments
with meaning, to make those
tender seconds of inner solitude
the defining parts of my day. But
my ability to manifest meaning
in otherwise ordinary occasions
stems from something sinister,
something completely out of my
control that haunts me to this
day. I remember the dim green
of the traffic lights and the wet,
shiny reflection on the road like
it was yesterday.
No matter how hard I try,
I can’t shake the look of the
other driver’s face, the complete
and
total
blankness
that
overwhelmed his softer features,
dimly lit up inside his car by the
luminescence of my headlights.
I almost want to say that there
was a look of fear on his face,
which is predictable given that
he haphazardly pulled out into
my lane before noticing my car
barreling towards his, but I
might just be projecting.
I remember thinking how
unfair it was. How I spent the last
five years building my defensive
driving skills. How I got my
permit the day after I turned 15
and a half. I had a car before I
had a license. There is something
embedded in this silly invention
by man, some kind of force that
beckons me to the driver’s seat
like a siren. There is nothing
more electrifying for my soul
than the hum of her engine. No
one can cure me like my Hyundai
can.
How unfair it seemed to me
then, to know how much thrill
driving gives me, and how much
of it is ruined by clueless drivers.
“Unfair, unfair, unfair!” I would
scream as I approached my
father covered in tears, for years
on end, after yet another idiot
on the road made me pay for his
mistakes again.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have
time to think about all the
unfairness in the world. This
man didn’t just pull out into my
lane — he parked his minivan
perpendicular to my path, and
with me nearing a speed of 60
mph, the already worrying 100
feet or so of space between our
cars was diminishing quickly. It
was unfair, truly, that even with
my stellar reaction time and the
urgent strength in my foot as I
slammed the brakes, it was not
enough.
I was just going too damn
fast.
In all actuality, I don’t know
what that guy went home and
did. Maybe he kissed his wife,
told his kids he loves them,
and promised to quit his shitty
job. But me? I spent months
regressing into a sort of guilt,
ruing the fact that I had been
granted a second chance, and
feeling unworthy because I
didn’t know what to do with it.
***
I
once
took
a
forensic
pathology class my senior year
of high school where we were
shown intensely graphic images
from victims of asphyxiation
to death by chainsaw to car
crashes. I wasn’t strong enough
to
stomach
one,
just
one,
image from our class, where a
pedestrian was plowed through
by a sports car, which left his
legs on the opposite side of the
road from his torso, and a mildly
interrupted string of intestines
could be traced between the
two.
I can only picture what the
scene of my accident would’ve
looked like. How both of our
faces would have been eaten
by the airbags, bones snapped
and twisted and exposed, even
though I definitely had a higher
chance of walking away from
our encounter than he did. It
would’ve been horrible — tragic
to look at, tragic to think about
and just tragic enough to make
the next day’s front page.
It may have only been a
flicker in my mind, one second
that wasn’t drowned out by
instinctual thinking, but I had
convinced myself that I was a
dead man driving.
Any time I sit behind the
wheel,
I
often
have
close
encounters with destruction.
I drive in a way that leaves
my passengers shaking with
adrenaline, slammed down into
the seat from the force of my
sharp turns and startled by the
sudden yet smooth swerving in
between lanes. And yet, with
all the accidents I’ve almost
had throughout the course of
my life, never have I blanked
behind the wheel so instantly
as I did in that moment.
And yet, when the brake
failed to stop my rear wheels
from sprinting as I approached
the
minivan
head-on,
cars
racing against me in both of the
adjacent lanes, leaving me with
nowhere to go, my detrimental
habit became the thing that
saved my life. I took my foot
off the brake and slid it to the
right, speeding up just quickly
enough to lane split and avert
death by just a few inches.
I initially assumed I had
learned
nothing
from
my
lesson, taking away nothing
from the deathly learning curve
and the addiction I have to
endangering myself and others.
I continued to drive with the
same recklessness (and still
do), but how could I not? That
night, I had saved both of our
lives, shooing away death with
the same dangerous driving
that all those news outlets warn
you about. Despite the years of
unfairness, I was in the right
this time.
Still, the ego boost was not
enough
to
overshadow
the
hollowness that followed my
spirit around. I had averted
death, but for what benefit?
For months, I grappled with
my dilemma. What would leave
a more foul stench in your
mouth — dying a little too young
or unfulfilled potential after
being granted another chance?
If you had told me that just
enjoying the softness of grass
beneath, or collecting pretty
rocks to give to my friends later,
would be enough to make me
feel whole again, I honestly
wouldn’t have believed you.
I had met Death before, in
hospital rooms and in movies
and within myself, but it took
me almost dying to realize I
was shunning the friend who
made my life worthwhile, who
made me remember what I do it
all for.
We all have, I think, treated
our friend the Grim Reaper a
little too unfairly for all the good
he brings us. Death was once
considered a uniquely divine and
honorable part of our lives, but
the creation and medicalization
of
the
death
industry
has
transformed
conversations
about Death into cultural taboos,
as we all just bite our tongues
and sweep under the rug the
most inevitable component of
our collective experience.
***
Like any healthy obsession,
my
fascination
with
death
started quite young. Instead of
“Vampire Diaries” or “Gossip
Girl” or “Wizards of Waverly
Place” (which has earned me
plenty of harassment from my
roommates), I grew up on shows
like “House MD,” “Bones,” and
“CSI.” My exposure to death
was precocious to say the least,
but these heavier and moralistic
shows helped to stiffen my
backbone
during
actual
troubling times, when I started
having to say my last goodbyes
to the people I loved.
And how ironic it is that my
life pursuits continue to center
around these topics. One of my
truest passions — as everyone
around me knows — continues
to be anthropology. I tend to
make it very explicit how much
I appreciate the efforts of past
hominins to preserve evidence
of their existence. To slather
paint on cave walls and to look
after injured members of their
clan — it’s all just too poetic to
ignore.
Two months ago, I received
an unexpected direct message on
Twitter. It was from someone I had
never met but vaguely recognized
from the University of Michigan
Twitter-sphere.
“I think my roommate found your
fake,” they wrote. “It kinda sucks
btw.”
Said ID was not, in fact, my
fake ID. It was my real Michigan
driver’s license. It had disappeared
somewhere between my apartment
and Babs’ Underground Lounge
after a night out about two weeks
prior. I had been frantically looking
for it ever since, tearing through
my car, backpack and bedroom
on a desperate mission to find it.
In the meantime, I endured the
humiliation of taking my passport
to bars.
I didn’t blame the Twitter
stranger for assuming my ID to be
fake. My driver’s license photo was
exceptionally bad. I looked terrible
in it — I had forgotten you were
allowed to smile so it looked more
like a mugshot than a driver’s license
photo, and I was still hungover from
the night before. I wouldn’t blame
someone for thinking it was taken
in a dorm basement with a digital
camera from the 1990s. And ever
since I turned 21, I’ve been paranoid
that my license would be confiscated
at Rick’s or the liquor store because
there’s something about it that just
seems so unconvincing.
But there was something so
stereotypically “college student”
about that message that it was
almost comical. It was a reminder
of the absurdity of the fake ID
phenomenon; they’re so ubiquitous
that any driver’s license found left
behind on the street is assumed to
be a piece of fraudulent government
documentation.
Fake IDs have become almost
synonymous with college life since
the legal drinking age was raised
to 21 from 18 with the passage of
the National Minimum Drinking
Act in 1984. The law was a bizarre
quid-pro-quo that withheld federal
funding for highways from states
unless they raised the drinking age,
meant to circumvent a provision in
the 21st Amendment that prohibits
the
federal
government
from
regulating alcohol. Four years after
the National Minimum Drinking
Age was passed, all states were
compliant and 21 was the de-facto
federal age.
Suddenly, 21 became the most
important — and in my opinion, most
arbitrary — social division on college
campuses. Perhaps in recognition of
how meaningless the divide really
was, students almost immediately
began trying to circumvent it with
fake IDs. Utter disregard for the
law became the norm. In one study
published in 1996, 46% of college
students admitted to using a fake ID
to purchase alcohol.
For the most part, obtaining a
fake ID is low risk and high reward.
Minors can effectively purchase
unlimited access to alcohol, weed
or any other illicit substance. And
it’s currently easier than ever to
get high-quality “novelty IDs”
online, usually produced in China,
that can be swiped and scanned.
Sure, there’s the small risk of it
getting confiscated by the bouncer
at Charley’s, but chances are you’ll
make it past him just fine.
Still, using a fake doesn’t come
entirely
without
risk.
Under
Michigan
law,
it’s
illegal
to
“intentionally
reproduce,
alter,
counterfeit, forge, or duplicate an
official state identification card or
use an official state identification
card that has been reproduced,
altered, counterfeited, forged or
duplicated.”
And using a fake ID to “purchase
alcoholic liquor” is punishable by
up to 93 days in prison and a $100
fine. Students have been arrested
for
possession
of
fraudulent
identification before, often when
police officers are waiting near the
lines going into popular bars. In
2010, immigration agents arrested
2 U-M students and 1 MSU student
after intercepting a package with
48 fake IDs arriving from Toronto.
Regardless, it still seems like many
illicit
transactions
do
proceed
everyday and uninterrupted, as
students hand their ID to the
cashier at Campus Corner, perhaps
verifying their “address” or “date
of birth,” and go on their way.
Fake IDs are so common that it
can be easy to forget the insanity
of the concept: Minors have the
opportunity
to
significantly
improve their social lives and
overall college experiences by
committing federal crimes on
a weekly basis. This isn’t to say
underage drinking is bad or that
people should boycott fake IDs;
I actually personally support the
lowering of the drinking age.
Rather, I’d argue that this fake ID
phenomenon that’s accompanied
by ample, even grave risk is too
often taken at face value.
If you don’t have a fake ID,
there’s a good chance one of your
friends does. One could go as far to
say that the never-ending stream
of parties, tailgates and smoke
sessions that are so integral to
campus life stand entirely on an
informal network of fraudulent
identities. And I think it’s time
to confront this network for all
it’s worth and all it does for this
campus community.
These are the real fake IDs of
the University of Michigan.
***
“I thought I was totally screwed
and lost everybody’s money. I was
freaking out,” a Ross sophomore
explained.
The
student,
who
wished to remain anonymous due
to fear of legal and professional
repercussions, will be referred to
as Eric.
Eric had placed a mass order
of 14 fake IDs for himself and
fellow Michigan students. He had
meticulously
tracked
everyone’s
information in a spreadsheet and,
together,
their
false
personas
spanned the entire country — he had
ordered “novelty IDs” from Illinois,
Connecticut and Colorado, among
other states.
The entire process had gone
smoothly until it was time to pay.
Many forgers offer discounts to
customers who pay with Bitcoin,
and some of the highest-quality
vendors have gone crypto-only.
Eager to save a few dollars,
Eric transferred the $650 he
had collected from his friends
into Coinbase, a popular crypto
exchange platform.
Then in June, the price of
Bitcoin crashed. The hundreds
of dollars Eric had collected
evaporated.
Eric was able to recoup his
funds by exploiting a loophole
in Coinbase’s system. “I called
Coinbase and told them it was
a ‘mistake’ that the money was
put there,” he said. “I did some
research, and they have some
sort of rule where if you don’t do
a certain amount of transactions
within a certain amount of time,
they think that the money was
put in there by mistake or your
account is inactive, and they give
you your money back.”
Eric, thankfully, was able to
complete the transaction through
Zelle, albeit at a higher cost than
if he had paid in Bitcoin. Soon
after, Eric’s “novelty” Georgia ID
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
6 — Wednesday, November 16, 2022
S T A T E M E N T
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
VALERIJA MALASHEVICH
Statement Correspondent
In defense of my old friend, Death
The real fake IDs of UMich
HALEY JOHNSON
Statement Correspondant
Design by Ally Payne
Design by Serena Shen
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
REBECCA
LANGE
Alexander N. Halliday
Collegiate Professor of Earth
and Environmental Sciences
LSA COLLEGIATE LECTURE
4:00 p.m.
LSA Multipurpose Room
SETTING THE STAGE FOR A
CATASTROPHIC
ERUPTION
SUPERVOLCANO
Wednesday
November 16, 2022
A public lecture and reception; you may attend in person or
virtually. For more information, including the Zoom link, visit
events.umich.edu/event/95672 or call 734.615.6667.