Lee transitioned just about three years ago. We legally changed his name about a year and a half ago. But the legal name change was just a court document. Until that court document was presented to the social security office, most official documents (think bank statements and insurance information) remained under the old name. This wasn’t a problem in our everyday life. The schools had changed everything. Our usual doctors and dentists were able to note their files. Even our pharmacist changed the name in his system.
But on the rare occasion when we had to get blood drawn or see an unfamiliar doctor, I had to call ahead, or whisper to the receptionist, and plead that they PLEASE NOT CALL that name.
Nevertheless, it happened. And every time it did, my child’s eyes widened and his shoulders dropped and he looked at me with pain in his eyes as if to say, “How could you let this happen AGAIN?”
And then, my son would compose himself and lift himself out of his waiting room chair and defiantly walk up to a surprised-looking receptionist or nurse and say, “I prefer Lee.”
I honestly don’t know why it took me so long to get to the Social Security office. I thought I just didn’t want to sit in that waiting room forever. But maybe it was a bit deeper than that, and I was in denial.
Today we went. We gathered our documents and stopped for breakfast and entered the address into the GPS.
When we walked in, we were asked to check in at a kiosk. For about 45 minutes, we sat anxiously on plastic government chairs in a waiting room full of other anxious people in plastic government chairs. I had forgotten my book, so I did a little people-watching. An elderly woman had apparently been waiting for some time, and she walked up to the window as someone else left. It wasn’t her turn. She hadn’t been called. A security guard walked over to check in with her, and he kindly and patiently explained that she needed a number. Even as she insisted she had one, but couldn’t find it, he checked in with the other people in the waiting room. Does somebody have number 84? 85? As people raised their numbers, he used a little humor, took the paperwork that the woman handed him, and walked over to the kiosk himself. He got her a number, and handed it to her with a kind smile. He wasn’t rude or condescending. He wasn’t impatient. He went above and beyond to make sure that she was all set before he went back to his post.
It restored my faith a little. My previous experience with government offices left much to be desired, and watching this interaction full of faith and compassion left me feeling hopeful.
We continued to wait. We played word games and had whispered conversations. We played on our phones and doubled checked our documents. And then it was our turn.
We walked up to the counter. There were two chairs in front of a plastic window with a small slit at the bottom for passing papers back and forth. The woman on the other side of the window was older, with long white hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She wore a green shirt and a layered necklace with white and gold beads. Her face was impassive. She wasn’t particularly friendly, but she also wasn’t rude. She smiled one small smile in greeting, and accepted the paperwork I passed under the plexiglass. I explained that we needed a new social security card because of a name change. She nodded, conveying that this was something she could take care of. And then she asked, “What is the reason for the name change?”
I’m not sure why I wasn’t prepared to answer this question. I hesitated. In all the official documents, the indicated reason was “common usage,” and as I mentally reached for this phrase, she noted my hesitation.
Then things began to happen in slow motion. She looked at me first, trying to determine the reason for the pause. Not noting any apparent cause, she glanced at my child sitting next to me. Her eyebrows raised. Her mouth opened ever so slightly. Then her brow furrowed and she glanced down at the paperwork and back up to me. I opened my mouth to answer and she quietly interrupted me by saying, “You’re just changing it.” Definitively. With a slight shrug.
I felt as if I had watched her surprise and her judgement move across her face and then I watched her wave it away and choose professionalism and compassion.
It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how vulnerable we were. I had heard horror stories, of course, of name-change petitions denied. But we live in progressive Massachusetts. We didn’t even have to appear before a judge. We submitted our documents and the courts supported our right to make this decision for our child.
I hadn’t considered that we would still be vulnerable to a clerk at the Social Security Office. I hadn’t realized the power she would have in that moment. She could have embarrassed us. She could have pushed for answers to uncomfortable questions. She could have scrutinized our documentation, searching for reasons to deny our request. She could have outed my child to everyone in that office. She could have cited ‘religious objection’ and refused to serve us.
And for a brief moment, I felt the weight of my own privilege. I had never felt this way. I had never been afraid that a stranger had the power to publicly embarrass me or judge my choices. I had never understood what it might mean to have someone invalidate your existence. And the weight of that was multiplied by the fact that it wasn’t MY selfhood at risk. It was my child’s.
I sat there, focusing on the small beads in her necklace that wasn’t falling quite straight. I tried not to stare at her as she typed, but I noted each time that her eyebrows furrowed, trying to determine what box to check or what reason to cite in her database. She slowly copied information from our paperwork into her computer, and her face remained mostly impassive.
I’m not sure if I had been hoping for something unrealistic. We’ve had so much support in Lee’s transition that I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if we had a clerk who said, “Congratulations,” or “You’re so brave,” or even just smiled encouragingly. In hindsight, I think I must have been expecting something like that.
But in the absence of any encouragement or connection, I began to question the decision to bring him at all. What if this woman said something hurtful? What if she outed my son? What if? What if?
I clenched my hands, as if in prayer. I glanced at my child, happily playing a game on his phone, oblivious to the tension around him. I tried to breathe slowly and calmly. I asked God to please let us make it through this interaction without causing pain to this brave, sweet, amazing kid.
The clerk began to pass papers back to me, one at a time. First the birth certificate. Then the name change order. She quietly said, “I just need to get you a receipt.” She stood up and walked to the back of the office, shuffled some papers, and returned with the same impassive look on her face. She handed me the receipt and said, “All set.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“Yes. You should get your new card in the mail in seven to ten days. If you don’t receive it by then, you can call this number.” She circled the information on the receipt.
I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath, and as I finally released it, a single tear escaped my left eye. I quickly brushed it away, but she noticed.
My voice hitched as I said “Thank you.” I gathered our papers and hurried away from the desk. Lee glanced at me.
“Are you crying, Mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
We crossed the threshold into the summer sun and I hugged him fiercely.
“Because nobody will ever call you the wrong name again.”
“So they’re happy tears?”
“Yes, baby. They’re happy tears.”