Well, look at that. I now have in my hands a genuine social security card issued by the United States of America with my new name on it. It’s as if miracles actually do occur.
Spoiler alert: they don’t. This was hardly a miracle, more like a difficult pregnancy.
I’m sure you’re bored by now with my many posts about this, so I promise this will be the end of the line. But getting the card was such a tremendous nightmare – and lesson in official discrimination – that I have to make a fuss about it.
This card is like the key to the city. You can’t really officially change your name anywhere without it. I’m sure every woman who ever changed their name after marriage is yawning right now, like, duh, no kidding, but I’d bet that most of them didn’t have to file formal complaints and struggle for the better part of a year to get their cards.
In spite of all the difficulties I faced, I realize that I’m still lucky. I have a good job, a loving partner, I can afford necessary treatments, and I’m older, so no one really cares about me or looks at me. I’m half-kidding, but not really. If you’re older you know exactly what I mean.
But there are so many trans people in the world who don’t have those advantages, and the discrimination and pain they face every day are heartbreaking.
So when I think of the small-minded rat-moles sitting on their pasty asses in the Yucca Valley Social Security office, passing judgment and deciding who they believe deserves to exercise their rights as a citizen between sloppy slurps of their sticky Big Gulps®, I want to scream.
I want to do more than that really, but I’m civilized (now), so we won’t go there.
And I’m pretty sure rat-moles aren’t a thing.
But you get the point.
Anyway, I’m happy. Congratulations to me.