Imagine this:
It’s the morning of your 18th birthday. You’re incredibly excited because you’ve been waiting for this exact date for years. Of course, you can’t wait to finally be of legal age so you can get your ID and go to 18+ bars and concerts —you recently missed one of your favorite bands because of that— but you’re also eager because being 18 is a requirement to finish high school through an exam. You already completed middle school a few years ago through an open education system, so now all you need is your high school diploma to apply for college and finally become someone in life.
You also want to apply for a simple but legit part-time job. Something that’ll let you save up and become independent as soon as possible. So finally, the day has come. You’re legally an adult now, and nothing can stop you. Right?
It’s that morning. Unlike every other day, this time you turn off your alarm on the first ring instead of snoozing your phone a million times. You get ready super quickly, pack your backpack, skip breakfast because you just want to head out already. Your plan is to go to the Civil Registry Office to get your birth certificate —because of course, weeks ago you made an appointment for the day after your birthday go and get your ID— but you live in the suburbs, so you know it’s going to take at least two hours to get there. No time to waste.
The trip feels surreal. You’ve taken the exact same van to the subway a million times. You’ve ridden the blue subway line countless times. You’ve used that same route to get to tons of punk rock shows at your favorite venue, «Alicia». You know the way by heart, you even walk the transfers without looking up from your phone (though you shouldn’t — it’s dangerous, okay). But today feels different.
After almost two hours, you finally arrive. It’s your first time there, and you’re not quite sure where to go, but you read the signs, follow instructions, and make it to the window where you pay for a certified copy of your birth certificate. Done. You’ve paid. Now you just have to wait.
A few minutes later, they tell you they can’t find your birth certificate. Just like that. You don’t even know how to react or what to say. You’re just confused. But then they explain that this has happened to others —sometimes birth certificates were never digitized or got lost over the years— and in those cases, they have to search for it in a much larger archive (I can’t even remember the name). But they also tell you that your case is very unusual because it’s 2014, you’re only 18, and typically, missing or incorrect birth certificates belong to much older people born decades ago. Either way, you have to pay for an official investigation and come back a week later.
What a bummer!
You cancel the appointment you had to get your ID and reschedule it for a week later because, whatever, things got a bit complicated, but it’s just a one-week delay.
You go back to the Civil Registry Office a week later. The trip this time doesn’t feel exciting, you’re just trying to stay hopeful and ignore how weird everything feels.
Back at the office, you go with the little slip they gave you the week before, the one that says the date and time you’re supposed to come back to get the result of the investigation and hopefully receive a certified copy of your birth certificate like any other citizen. So, you look for the least grumpy bureaucrat and explain the situation, handing them the paper. They don’t even read it, they just tell you where to go and who to talk to.
That’s when everything starts to blur.
An hour later, you walk out of the Civil Registry Office crying and completely shaken. You had only gone in to get your birth certificate and walked out finding out that you don’t legally exist, that your parents never registered you.
The way back home is horrible: it’s hot, the subway is slow, the van that is going to get you to your house if full, you get the seat where you have to pass other passengers’ fares, and to top it all off, you haven’t eaten all day.
You get home feeling defeated, unable to process the major plot twist life just threw at you. As soon as you see your dad, you try to talk to him and tell him exactly what happened—from the first day you went until just a few hours earlier, when a woman at the Civil Registry told you, “Huh, that’s really weird, we have no record of your existence.”
And right after that, everything started to sound fuzzy. You remember seeing her lips move, but you couldn’t understand a word she said. You just walked out with a sheet full of endless requirements to register “late.”
You expect your dad to be just as shocked as you and say something like:
“What?! How could that be possible? We’ll go together tomorrow and fix it!”
But for your surprise, he just looks down and, after a few seconds of silence, the only thing he manages to say is:
“It’s just that you were born in a really complicated time.”
His answer makes you furious—you yell at him, demand an explanation, but he dodges all responsibility with:
“Why don’t you go ask your mom too?”
At that point, it feels like the whole world is crashing down. Suddenly, it all starts to make sense, the fact that you could never study like a normal person, the isolation, your dad asking you to lie about your life.
You realize that for him, it was crucial you never asked anyone for help, because no one was allowed to ruin the image of the devoted single father he had worked so hard to build over the years.
You’re devastated, completely lost on where to even begin. Despite how serious the situation is, all you can think about is that stupid exam to finish high school, because it’s coming up soon, you already paid for it, you sold your skates to pay for it, and the only thing left was turning in your documents.
Documents you don’t have and have no idea when you’ll get.
From that point on, the “character development” never stops. Every year, you uncover more and more things about your family, your life, and your past—things no one ever bothered to tell you to maybe soften the trauma.
You carry this story with a deep sense of shame (for no reason—you didn’t do anything wrong) and don’t even know who to ask for help.
And when you do tell someone, like how you don’t have an ID because you don’t legally exist, they laugh. They make comments like, “You should take advantage of not existing and do something illegal,” or “You should apply for loans—no way you’ll end up on the credit blacklist.”
Which is incredibly stupid, because for any dumb bureaucratic process, you do need to exist legally.
But they don’t seem to realize what they’re saying.
Besides, you’re not interested in loans or doing anything illegal—(which, later on, you kinda did, but not because you didn’t exist… but that’s another story, lol).
All you ever wanted was to study, get a job, and be normal for once in your life.
Hearing ignorant comments hurts, so you choose not to talk to anyone about it—not even your family.
Finally, in March 2021—six years and five months after day zero—you legally exist, thanks to a Civil Registry court in the middle of nowhere.
–
A few hours later, you send a message to the WA group you have with your siblings to let them know you finally exist, and one of them replies:
“So… when’s the baptism?”
This time, the joke actually makes you laugh.
Seven months later, you turn 25.
Years have gone by.
You finished high school, but you didn’t go to college. Everything happened so fast—you didn’t even have time to dream or plan.
The best thing you could do all these years was to stay here, trying to understand the why behind your existence.
–
Thank your for reading.
See you soon.
fer de erratas 