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Monday, 29 October 2001 (queens of the circulating library) 10:54am The first bad moment came when I parked outside the DMV and realized I'd forgotten my wallet, which would make it difficult to pay the $12 fee.. I had my license, my social security card, all that stuff, but no actual money beyond a bag o' meterfood. (In theory there might have been $12, but I can't bring myself to pay like that.) Not even my lone credit card. With twenty minutes to spare before my appointment, I decided that my only real option was to drive back home to get it, in spite of the fact that the round trip would take at least thirty minutes. I'd gotten a block or two away before I realized that I had my checkbook, so I swung back around, parked, and went inside and asked at the information booth if they took checks. Yes. Yay. Of course, it almost smells of a scam to pay for something by check when part of what you're doing is changing your identity, but hey, irony rules the universe. I checked in, got my number (#F004) and sat down, doublechecking for the umpteenth time that I had all the documents I might conceivably need. Fat lot of good it did me earlier in the morning, since that was one of the only times in recent memory I hadn't checked for my wallet before leaving the house, but pick pick. My number came up on the screen within five minutes (thank you, online appointments). I gave the DL-328 and the completed yet unsigned-per-instructions DL-44 to the clerk and told him I was changing my name and gender. He looked at the papers, and I steeled myself for the surely inevitable question about a court order. The DL-328 is used in lieu of a court order, but since most DMV employees don't even realize it exists to begin with, I don't suppose they can be expected to be aware of that finer detail. Instead, someone came up next to me and wanted to know why it wasn't their turn yet. They were #F003, and I was #F004, so they should have been called already. I doublechecked the screen: yep, #F004 at Window 18, I'm where I'm supposed to be. The clerk told them that he didn't know why their number hadn't been called (or even if it in fact hadn't been called), but that if they would be patient, he would help them as soon as he was "done with her." Referring to me. If I was prone to such things I would have leaned over and kissed him for that. It was a momentary spike. The clerk went and spoke to what I presumed was his supervisor, then returned and asked if I'd gone to the Social Security office yet. Now, everything I've read on the subject (like this, or this, or especially this account from someone who did it last friggin' week, most of the messages on the aforementioned Yahoo group, et cetera) says that one should go to the DMV first, then the Social Security office as soon as possible. Before changing the name on a license the DMV crosschecks with the SSN to make sure everything is kosher, and if the names don't match, the change is refused. Fair enough, and that's why the suggestion is to get to the Social Security office "as soon as reasonably possible." For me, it was going to be the next stop. Ergo, I told him I hadn't been there yet. He said that he couldn't/wouldn't enter me into the system, because it would be rejected automatically. Being computerized and all. How's that for your cliched red tape situation? It felt like being bounced between windows, except in this case the windows were four miles apart. And I'd planned on using the receipt from the DMV for that all-important who I am/who I was evidence. I fully envisioned myself going there and being told that I had to go the DMV first. There's no point in arguing with a brick wall, so I left. Once back in my car I let out a few frustrated shrieks which (thankfully?) didn't shatter the windows like they felt they should have, then drove home to get my wallet and reorient myself. Since you're supposed to eat when you're unhappy I had a couple handfuls of the Cripsy Minis creamy ranch rice cakes from the cupboard, then immediately wished I hadn't. Still, it's a good thing there was no ice cream in the house, and for not the first time I found myself lamenting that none of the sushi places within immediate driving distance are open for lunch. Remarkably, I got my Social Security stuff taken care of without a hitch. My driver license was sufficent as the old ID (and I wouldn't have had it if things had gone better at the DMV, ironically), and for my new ID (loosely defined as stuff which proves I use the name in question, which can be difficult depending on how far along you are) I plopped down my gym membership card, receipts from said gym and from rent, my AAA card and the medical records from my old endoc. The latter seemed the most helpful, as they contained the original note from my shrink diagnosing me with gender dysphoria and thus explaining why I would be changing my name to "Sherilyn" in the first place, sparing the clerk from having to ask me any potentially embarrassing (to her) questions. Or asking to see a court order just in case.
It was barely 10AM when I left, and I considered going straight out to the DMV and having another go at it.
The thought of waiting around for x hours sounded horribly unappealing, though, and the time pressure was off
a little: my name change was entered with Social Security, and I had documentation to prove it. So I went
home and scheduled an appointment for tomorrow morning. And I'll bring my wallet along this time.
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Friday, 26 October 2001 (freeze out) 6:15pm Like most sweet gestures, though, it may have no use in the real world: I'm now informed that so long as the "transitional" box is marked rather than "complete," I won't be able to get a license with an F. More specifically, I'll get temporary licenses (with an M rather than an F, one presumes) until "complete" is marked. Although I'm hearing this secondhand—and the original source is, shall we say, not entirely reliable—it gives me pause about going in on Monday. This thread on a "California DMV Transsexual Issues" discussion group leads me to believe that while I should be prepared for resistance by ignorant/undertrained/moralistic employees who don't know what the hell they're doing, it still shouldn't be a problem legally. Or maybe it will be. I honestly don't know. (If anyone has dealt with this personally—that is, changing the name and gender on your license while pre-op in California—couldja drop me a line? Thanks.) Yes, I received your letter yesterday |
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Thursday, 25 October 2001 (magnificent seventies) 5:36pm
So sayeth my endocrinologist on the DL-328. I have an appointment there on Monday morning, and hopefully I won't encounter an employee who takes it upon themselves to decide that "hormonal" gender reassignment just ain't good enough to get an F on my license. It certainly doesn't seem outside the realm of possibility. Then, assuming all goes well there, it's off to the Social Security Administration, from which the real horror stories spawn. The nice thing is, my only anxiety about any of this comes from dealing with uncooperative workers; I have no qualms about the actual act itself and what it represents. If I could snap my fingers and have it all done, believe you me, I would. (Awwwww. She thinks my demeanor is female. That's so sweet.) Meanwhile, Brian has pointed out that a job not dissimilar to my old one has become available at the company. I'm applying, of course. At the very least, it'll be food for the "Job Search Record" part of my unemployment claim. I started at Le Video six years ago this month. And I find myself very tempted to drop Stanley a line...couldn't hurt, right? |
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Wendesday, 24 October 2001 (suicide underground) 6:27am I keep dreaming about working retail. It's almost comforting when the more traditional nightmares take over. Since part of the deal with the company doing the workshop is that we get to use their resources for jobhunting, we got a tour of their offices. It certainly helped me get over my still-lingering fear of returning to a more traditional office job, like during my temp stint at BofA in '97. Now if only those staffing agencies would get back to me...
The concept of "changing career paths" came up a few times. I think it's something
I need to pursue.
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Tuesday, 23 October 2001 (all tomorrow's parties) 6:29am There's really never a good time to cut myself shaving, but some times are worse than others. Right now, for example. Like I wasn't already nervous enough about the employment workshop thing today, now I have to convince myself that the cut above my lip isn't all that obvious. The thing is, while I believe I pass fairly well in general—when nobody's paying much attention—this is surely going to involve a lot of up close, one-on-one stuff. If the job search had been showing any promise whatsoever I probably wouldn't be going to this, but as it is I can't justify not going. In any event, I'm going to have to deal with close scrutiny eventually. I'll look at this as a practice run. And, of course, if anybody asks (and they surely will), I'll be honest. 8:50am So far, so good. I had to sign in at the front desk downstairs, which is always harrowing, but I managed. (It was actually a tad more embarrassing earlier in the morning when I went to see the company's new office with Maddy. Their anti-terrorist tactics involve asking for a driver license, always unpleasant when I'm in girl mode—except when I'm going into a club.) There were a few bad moments when it seemed like the guy at the front desk wasn't going to find my name on his list of people attending the workshop and therefore to be allowed into the building. Well, moments of mixed feelings, anyway, since little would have made me happier than to turn around and go home.
But here I am now, in a well-lit room with six computers. It's 9am, but only a few other people
are here. I'm told this will be specific to my old company; I'm not sure how I feel about that.
With a few hundred people laid off (who is that man and how does he know to call me Jeff?)
and this being the third of these workshops so far, the odds are against anyone I know being here.
On the other hand, it would be nice to have a friend.
I definitely got the nod and point from the building security guard as I was leaving for the day, though. I'd glanced back over my shoulder after I went outside, and he'd gone over to the front desk guy and was motioning in my direction. Well, I did have to speak to him, and my voice continues to be the most fatal flaw. (There are others, of course. I just suspect that's the worst one.) I guess we'll see what happens if he's there on Friday. |
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Monday, 22 October 2001 (what sound) 3:30pm To change my name and gender with the Department of Motor Vehicles, I need Forms DL-44 (Driver License or Identification Card Application) and DL-328 (Name and Gender Change). They aren't available on the official site, so I decided to call ahead and see if I would need to make an appointment to get them, or if I could just walk in. Never can tell, and it made more sense than showing up and having to wait several hours. Being clever and all. I wandered through their labyrinthe phone system until I was given the option of speaking to agent; after waiting for about five minutes (not as long as I was expecting), someone came on the line and I asked my question. Loooooooooong silence. I was on the verge of rephrasing it when they finally replied, in a rather exasperated tone, that I could get them at the information booth. What a stupid question! (No, they didn't say it out loud.) So I went to the DMV. (I can do that.) Stood in line behind about a dozen people at what I figured to be the information booth, although it wasn't labled as such. The 44 was no problem as there was a stack of them on the counter, but when I asked for the 328, I got a blank stare. Turns out they'd never heard of them before, and would have to go ask someone else. Don't you hate it when you're in a long line, and the person behind the counter walks away? (Little tiny knives...) It's hard not to feel just a smidgen resentful of the person at the front of the line, because surely they're partially responsible, requiring help which is beyond the scope of the employee's job. Really, the least that person could have done was call ahead, right? When the employee returned, they told me to step aside and that someone else would be along with the form once they dug it up. Only then did I allow myself a glance at the line behind me, at least three dozen deep and well out the door. Did I do that? I eventually got the form and left. The 328 needs to be filled out by my endoc, and I have an appointment on Thursday morning for her to do just that. I wrote back to the original person at Staffing Agency #2 this morning, telling her that I'm willing to do more basic office stuff. When I contacted her last week, she responded within in an hour; it's been about eight hours this time, and not a peep. She probably has Mondays off. |
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Sunday, 21 October 2001 (foggy notion) 7:49am I'm trying to come up with some kind of joke comparing headhunter.net to head-hunter.com, but it's just not happening.
Part of the company's "please don't sue us for laying you off" package
involves working with an employment agency. Not, sadly, an agency which gets
you another job, but one which—as near as I can tell—helps with resumes
and practicing for interviews and stuff. I'm going to a two-day workshop of theirs
this week, on Tuesday and Friday. (The reason why it's so long after I got laid off
is because earlier workshops were inconveniently timed, one of which conflicted with
my appointment with the speech therapist and the other being the day after we got back
from Vegas. I wonder now if my priorities weren't a little out of whack.) (Who? Me?)
I'm keeping my fingers crossed, but I'm sure it's going to be painful. On the plus
side, though, the name issue has already been resolved. I told them I'm mostly going
by Sherilyn now, except for things which involve my driver's license and/or social security
number, and they said it's no problem. So that's something.
That's the first paragraph of the AP article. The headline on the newspaper, however, was "TALIBAN: US 'SOFT.'" Which, I guess, is what inspires people to wear NRA caps. They can't call us that! |
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