For fifteen years, Wendy Auger’s New Hampshire license plate was a beacon of friendly, relatable humor on the road. “PB4WEGO” — a simple, parental mantra whispered in countless driveways before family trips — adorned her car. It was a small piece of identity that sparked smiles and nods from other parents who instantly understood the gentle chaos of raising kids. It was never political, never provocative. It was just a shared joke among grown-ups in the trenches of parenthood.
That all changed when the state sent a sudden notice declaring her longtime plate “offensive” and demanding its surrender. The decision left Auger baffled and hurt. For over a decade, the plate had been a source of connection, not controversy. Children giggled deciphering the code; adults appreciated the universal reminder. The state’s abrupt reversal felt like a cold, bureaucratic judgment on a harmless slice of everyday life, stripping context and intent from a message rooted in care.
The state pointed to existing rules banning vulgar or obscene content, but to critics and supporters alike, the application seemed wildly off base. What was once seen as a playful nod to family life was now being policed as inappropriate. Auger’s decision to challenge the ruling transformed a personal frustration into a public debate. It raised urgent questions: Who gets to decide what is acceptable in public? How should rules designed for genuine obscenity be applied to innocent humor?
The support for Wendy has been overwhelming, with messages pouring in from those who see her stand as a defense of small, personal freedoms. Her fight is about more than seven characters on a plate; it’s about protecting nuance, common sense, and the right to express a piece of your identity without fear of capricious reinterpretation. Sometimes, it’s the smallest expressions that reveal how fragile our everyday liberties can be.
