It wasn’t just my driving skills that were tested.
Mention the phrase “driver’s license” to a fellow gaijin in Japan and you’re likely to hear horror stories about the dreaded behind-the-wheel test. Obtaining a license seems to be the bane of many new foreign residents– at least, the ones who don’t want to be completely dependent on the always-reliable but often-exhausting public transportation system.
I first heard about the driving test from someone who failed his first attempt before even getting into the driver’s seat– he didn’t know that you’re supposed to first kneel on the ground to check if any little kids or animals might be hiding under the car.
Apparently, it’s not uncommon for foreigners to take the test anywhere from four to eight times before passing– one fellow American kept getting failed by his proctor, even though he made no obvious errors during the test, and only got his license when he retested on a day when that particular proctor was not in the office. (This happened at a specific test center, which I won’t mention by name.) The consensus seems to be that one must not only drive the test without error, but must also have the “right” proctor, as they can fail you arbitrarily without having to explain why. Some test-takers have attempted to curry favor with proctors by bowing deeply, kissing up, being extra-polite, or wearing short skirts (not recommended for men).
One of my friends had beaten the odds and passed the test on his first try, inspiring me to give the test a shot. I started looking into what it would take for me to obtain my license, and I found out that because of where we were living at the time, I would have to take my test at the same test center where that one guy kept getting failed by a proctor who seemed to have a vendetta against him. (I later learned that one person tested over twenty times at this particular test center.)
I didn’t let that intimidate me. I remembered how God’s grace got me through my interviews with our denomination, even though I had to face a tough interviewer whom I had heard horror stories about. “If God wants me to get the driver’s license, I’ll get it, just like I got my ministry license,” I thought to myself, perhaps a tad too smugly.
The behind-the-wheel tests are taken in pairs, with one person riding in the back while the other drives the car. I was paired with a man who quietly asked me what we were supposed to do, as he didn’t understand a word of Japanese and obviously did no research beforehand.
I confess that ungodly thoughts ran through my mind at that moment: what if the test center only passed a certain number of foreign drivers per day, and by helping him out, I would have been giving my competition an edge and ruining my own chances of succeeding? Fighting the temptation towards self-preservation, I went ahead and told him whatever I knew about the test, reminding him to check under the car before starting the engine.
He managed to do that part, but it was all downhill from there.
As I sat in the back seat, this other driver nearly cut off an oncoming vehicle, causing the proctor to slam on the brakes and scold him. He did let the driver continue though, but the test would end within the next minute or two, as the driver ran over the curb on “The Clutch,” a narrow alley featuring two 90-degree turns. The other drive hit the curb– instant fail. The proctor instructed him to drive the car back to the starting line.
Then it was my turn. I was so nervous, every heartbeat jackhammered my entire being.
I first knelt to check under the rear and the front of the car, then looked both ways before entering the driver’s side. I adjusted the seat and the mirrors, put on my seat belt, locked the door, bowed to the proctor, and said “yoroshiku onegaishimasu,” a polite and humble way to ask for favor.
I shifted the car into gear and began the test, careful to signal before every turn. I understood the proctor’s simple instructions in Japanese and answered “hai” after each command. I entered “The Clutch” and made it through without hitting anything.
Then I had to make a right turn, which is like making a left turn in the USA. I made the right turn into the leftmost lane, which is what you’re usually supposed to do, but I failed to notice that the lane marker was painted green, which meant it was to be treated as a curb or sidewalk. I drove over the green line and into some obstacles, which I should have seen before making the turn.
I flunked. The proctor, who had seemed hostile in the beginning, changed his tone completely at the end, explaining to me all the mistakes I had made and encouraging me to do better next time. I thanked him, went back to the counter, and scheduled a retest, which would take place two weeks later.
Over the next 13 days, I treated every car trip I made as a practice test. I’d do my pre-flight routine before starting the car, checking all my mirrors and blind spots in the correct order before pulling out of my parking spot. I’d make sure I was driving within 70 centimeters of the line on the left, signaling 30 meters before a turn (or three seconds before making a lane change), making tight left turns and wide right turns.
On the day of my retest, I made sure that I got plenty of rest and left early for the test center to avoid feeling rushed. I ate a light lunch before the lunch rush, and afterwards, I walked the test course, memorizing every turn and road hazard to avoid. Then, I sat down for some quiet time and prayed, asking God if I would pass the test. I got the impression that I would, but that I’d make a mistake in the process.
A mistake? I questioned how I’d pass if I made any errors.
An answer came to me: “Grace.”
I got to the test area a few minutes before we were supposed to gather. Though I was one of the first ones there, I didn’t understand an announcement made by one of the officers that we were to take a number and wait to be called. It wasn’t until six other people got up and took numbers that I realized what was going on.
I was number seven.
“Shoot,” I thought. I had come early for nothing, as I was now number seven out of ten.
I anxiously awaited my turn. The officer who called my number happened to be the one who had the sternest facial expression of them all. I sheepishly handed him my number, along with my paperwork, which I had filled out the night before.
The first thing the stern officer did was rip my photo off the page– I had glued it to the wrong spot.
Whoops.
He reviewed the rest of the application and stopped at my address, which I had labored to write in kanji. I must have spent fifteen minutes writing it out.
“Did you write this yourself?” asked the stern officer, in Japanese.
“Uhhhh…” I was too nervous to reply with words.
He informed me that I had written it in the wrong place.
I wanted to melt into the floor and slither down a drain. I blew it on my application, and the officer didn’t look too happy about it, but instead of making me fill out another one, he simply circled what I had written and drew an arrow pointing to where it was supposed to go. He handed the application back to me and told me to have a seat and wait for my number to be called.
As I waited, I stood by the window and watched other people take their behind-the-wheel tests. One driver hit the curb coming out of The Clutch and failed. My heart broke for this unseen driver as they headed back to the starting point.
Another driver kept turning on the windshield wipers instead of the turn signals– a common error for those of us from right-side-of-the-road driving countries– and failed the test for doing this too many times.
Again, my heart sank. I started to pray that the other drivers would pass their exams, fully aware of how callous and selfish I had been the last time I tested, when I wanted others to fail and make me look like a better driver who was more deserving of a license. By failing the test, I was humbled and convicted of my own scumbaggery.
After about forty minutes, my number was called and I was instructed to go to car number 2. When I got there, I bowed to the proctor, who was in the passenger seat.
It turned out to be the stern officer who had taken my application.
Yet, I wasn’t nervous. Many of my friends were praying for me at that moment, and I felt the peace that surpasses all understanding (Phil. 4:7). I checked under the car, did the complete pre-flight routine, and bowed to the proctor with a “yoroshiku onegaishimasu.”
He told me to begin.
I started driving with an odd combination of confidence and resignation: I was confident that I had done as much as I could have to prepare for the test, but I was resigned to the possibility that I might fail the test again. Perhaps this was a good combination, because I don’t think I made any errors this time around.
I made it to the end of the course and was told to park. I didn’t know what to expect, because the proctor had not taken a single note on the score sheet throughout my test, unlike the proctor during my first test, who kept marking points off every time I made an error. For all I knew, the proctor had already decided to fail me for making so many mistakes on my application and didn’t bother wasting time with the score sheet.
To my surprise, the proctor said, “Bay-san, O.K. desu.”
“Honto (really)?” I exclaimed. He nodded, congratulated me, and handed me the “pass” card, which I was to take upstairs to have my license processed.
I bowed deeply and thanked him as profusely as I could in my limited Japanese. He seemed almost embarrassed by it and told me to go upstairs already. This entire time, his austere countenance did not change.
I was ecstatic. After calling Soo with the good news (and posting it to Facebook), I sat down to process what had just happened: before I took the test, I got the impression that I’d make mistakes but pass the test anyway due to grace. Perhaps the stern officer/proctor cut me some slack because he knew that I am not fluent in Japanese, yet made an attempt to write my address in kanji rather than Romaji (the Latin alphabet), even though the latter was permitted.
Whatever the reason was, I was grateful and relieved to have passed the test and received my license.
This experience taught me:
- You reap what you sow. The first time around, I was hoping that others would fail so that I could pass, and I failed miserably myself. This time, having been convicted of the ugliness in my own heart, I prayed for the other drivers and was saddened whenever one of them failed.
- Know your foe/practice makes perfect/due diligence matters. I did not study or practice for my first test attempt nearly as much as I did for my second try, and although driving the test flawlessly is no guarantee that one will pass, it does give the proctors less reason to mark you down and fail you. My first attempt ended up being a trial run that gave me a feel for the course, which I was familiar with by the time I took my second test.
- Our trials can be redeemed. For our first few months here, driving in Tokyo was one of my biggest causes of stress, what with extremely narrow roads and tight turns to navigate while dodging bicyclists and pedestrians. This major stress factor turned out to be a blessing as it prepared me to drive the test course. If we had moved straight to Ofunato from the U.S.A., I might have gotten spoiled by the wide-open, mostly bicycle-and-pedestrian-free roads there, and I could have been in for a shock when it came time to test.
- Stay humble. Before my first test, I had a cavalier attitude and didn’t practice much or even really ask anyone for prayer, confident that I would pass. After my second time testing, when I was resigned to possibly failing, made some mistakes, and passed anyway, I noticed that the other six gaijin who were awarded licenses that day were all soft-spoken, whereas the ones who failed looked like they were trying too hard to impress the proctors. (Yes, several of them tried the miniskirt trick.)
Failure taught me some valuable lessons, but the most precious thing I learned came when my wife asked me how I did on the test.
I told her that I failed the driving test, joking that I had at least passed the written test and the eye exam.
I was expecting Soo to offer her sympathies or an “oh well, better luck next time.” Instead, she cheered me on, celebrating that I had done a good job by passing two out of three tests that day.
I learned that my wife is even more awesome than I thought.
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