Free On the Run: Fugitive Life in an American City by Alice Goffman

identity known. They hesitated to carry ID, to tell people their real name,
     or to write that name down. Around 6th Street, it is considered improper for even
     close friends to ask each other their last names, and young men routinely give fake
     names to people they meet, just to be on the safe side. Close male friends sometimes
     go years without knowing each other’s last names. Yet at the same time that young
     men wish to conceal their identity, and fear using it, they need proof of it for all
     kinds of life’s necessities, but can’t get it. The formal documents needed to apply
     for a job, enter a building with a guard in the lobby, buy a cell phone, or put a
     car in the shop elude them through a complex combination of their poverty, residential
     instability, and legal entanglements and fears.
    For the eleven years that I have known Reggie, he has been sitting in jail or prison,
     dealing with a pending court case, a warrant, or a probation or parole sentence, or
     working through some combination of the three. During a rare month that he was newly
     paroled from prison and had no pending court cases or warrants, he asked me to help
     him obtain a state-issued ID. Not a driver’s license, which seemed an almost unattainable
     goal, but a non-driver’s state-issued identification card. In addition to allowing
     him to apply for jobs, visit family and friends in jail, and check into hotel rooms,
     this ID would mean that when Reggie got stopped by the police, they could run his
     name immediately and verify that he had no pending warrants.
    We first needed to apply for his birth certificate, which his mother had only a vague
     memory of possessing before she left the homeless shelter in which the family had
     spent the first few years of Reggie’s life. Obtaining this document required many
     trips to the governmentoffices downtown and other proofs of identity: a social security card and two pieces
     of mail (not letters but something more formal, such as a bill). After three weeks
     of collecting these items and two long days spent in fruitless trips to the Division
     of Vital Records downtown, Reggie shook his head, noting that ID is basically for
     rich people. “Because you have to have ID to get ID,” he said. “Just like money.”
    Having gotten nowhere, we found a man in the 6th Street neighborhood who specialized
     in applications for birth certificates and other ID. People showed him their proofs
     of identity and he sent away for their birth certificates from the downtown office,
     taking forty dollars for this service. Ultimately, this man wasn’t satisfied with
     any of the documents Reggie could come up with to apply for the birth certificate,
     and finally suggested we use a close relative’s death certificate to prove his identity
     and residence. His mother at first refused to allow Reggie to take the death certificate
     out of the house, so we were stalled once again.
    After six weeks of hard effort and considerable expense, Reggie had a birth certificate,
     two pieces of mail that would count for his proof of address, and a social security
     card. With these precious documents in hand, we drove to the Pennsylvania Department
     of Transportation.
    As we approached the parking lot adjacent to the building, Reggie began to move around
     in his seat, fidgeting and adjusting his clothing. Once I’d parked the car, he made
     no move to get out. I turned to him and asked if he wanted me to go in first and get
     a ticket for the line. He sat silently for a while and then began to explain his concerns.
     Showing up and applying for this ID would lead employees to run his name and bring
     up some outstanding ticket or warrant. He eyed the security guards warily, saying
     that undercovers probably hung out at the Department of Transportation as well. “It’s
     like, I’m home now, you feel me? I don’t want to be back in there tomorrow . . .”
    We sat in the DMV parking lot for over ten