Where Do We Go From Here?
Practical considerations and re-sharing an old but *sigh* ever-relevant piece
Hi all,
The friend who I mentally consider my trans older brother reached out from the rural Midwest earlier this week. He’s not a huge texter; this was the first I was hearing from him, since. ‘Prepare for fascism,’ he instructed, and asked if I’d dealt with my passport and social security stuff yet. I was out in the garden and cringed, taking off my gloves to reply.
Passport yes, social security no, I confessed, explaining I was waiting on my birth certificate stuff to come back from California before I could deal with the latter, alas. I felt ashamed, knowing it was my bad I had put this all off for years to begin with. I definitely can be one to avoid stressful nonsense such as tedious, gender-related paperwork-type tasks.
My friend said he didn’t think I should need birth certificate done to deal with the social security stuff, if I had my passport. I now felt silly and grateful all at once and looked online, which I thought I had before. It said to call my local social security office, who said to just come in. Just bring that certified copy of your name change order, I was told (which I had mailed to California for my birth certificate change months before. That wouldn’t come back for “28 weeks,” I’d been informed via email after).
But, I figured, I could get another copy of the name change order from my county clerk. So I now called there, and purchased one, paying the extra dollar to do so using a credit card over the phone. A few days later it arrived and I drove to the social security office, an hour away through the countryside.
Before walking in, I sat in the parking lot, my hands shaking. Loved ones texted encouragement. I felt scared of whoever I might confront inside, I suppose, of whatever their attitude might be about someone like me making these sorts of changes. Even though I’d read that this social security one was relatively easy, as these wretched tasks go. That they wouldn’t even ask for any money.
Out of an abundance of caution, I had brought an old passport along with my new passport, because I’d read having extra stuff could help if whoever you spoke with isn’t cooperative. I reasoned I had my new driver’s license as well, and of course now my new certified copy of the name change order. I had put it all in a blue folder, perhaps thinking it’d help me look extra prepared and masc.
In sum, everything went fine. The woman I spoke with was young and amiable, she mostly seemed pleased I had already printed and filled out my form. She helped me through the various slight snags she seemed to identify looking at my papers and her computer. She eventually said my new card should arrive in about a week. Like that, it was done. I walked back out to the parking lot.
You finally slayed the final dragon! another friend congratulated, because this was my fourth of the four big things that one might want to change (license, passport, birth certificate, social security; BTW if it’s helpful, here is a great explainer of all such stuff via Assigned Media).
I admit it feels surreal to have this awful queue of tasks actually “done,” in part because I am still waiting for two of those components to still arrive in the mail. Also because I dunno, what if such things are somehow reversed now? Scenarios I fear more than ever? I’m a constantly anxious dude, for many reasons. I’m not only looking at the wave cresting right now on the shore but also at those two or three sets back.
My friend who’d prompted me to get my shit dealt with in the first place, he is doubtless right that it’ll be easier to get this sort of stuff done now than later. I’ve legally lived with this new name for five years, besides. I’ve been on Testosterone for nearly four now (a fact I’ve been recently stating to various health and mental health professionals this week, as I try to finally get myself a long-desired and long-delayed hysterectomy scheduled as quickly as possible — another very practical thing I’m rushing to deal with right now, for reasons).
Just last evening, in fact, I was doing a last-minute session with one of my mental health care providers in an effort to obtain one of those terrible letters they make you get if you want to be considered for insurance coverage for such a procedure. Cis people maybe do not realize this, but trans healthcare tends to be rare to begin with, as in not many providers know how to even work with us, and then our healthcare is also gate-kept when it comes to getting insurance coverage for example, even for those of us who are lucky enough to have insurance and the means to afford care and to live in states where our healthcare isn’t already under full-blown attack from the state.
Just to repeat this: Trans healthcare is so gate-kept! You wouldn’t know it, perhaps, given the fantasies Republicans spend so much time repeating to themselves, these dreams about how they’re handing out sex changes in public schools or whatever. Nonsensical bigotry. Distraction.
Meanwhile, actual trans people, we’re totally fucking scared. And rightfully.
A winter storm is finally hitting here today, precipitation our parched (and in parts burning) earth very much needs here on the East Coast. So yesterday, in between doing everything I could to get this surgery scheduled ASAP (like answering a litany of various and totally invasive questions over the phone), I also tried to attend to the last of what I could in the garden.
High gray cloud-cover and the air felt like snow approaching. I chopped back the forest of asparagus fronds, yellow and frail now, and heaped them onto the compost. I pulled the last of the leeks and carrots and a ton of rutabagas.
I even braved driving to the hardware store to buy a bale of straw. I wanted to cover the asparagus bed, and also the one where I’d planted garlic. It had been quite tempting to skip actually buying the straw, but, I don’t know. So much to fear right now, I had thought to myself as I jumped in the car, I might as well try to do what I can that’s concrete to spare myself future regret and misery.
The guy behind the counter was of few words, as such men tend to be (I now find), but he called me “buddy,” as we ended our exchange, and my insides swirled with joy of passing, I suppose. He walked me out to the parking lot to show me where to grab my bale.
I got home in the mid afternoon as scant sun remained. I shook the straw over the beds. As ever, lots of uncertainty in doom out there in the unknowable future. But hopefully soon I get a social security card with my name on it. And hopefully next spring I’ll have happy asparagus, and come summer, garlic.
Given the not-at-all surprising but oh-so-depressing performative transphobic workplace bullying happening in congress right now, I wanted to re-share this 99% Invisible story I reported and produced back in 2020 on bathrooms themselves, called “Where Do We Go From Here?” The story investigates: Why do we have sex-segregated bathrooms in the first place? And, how could we do better than this?
The story features my pre-Testosterone voice (which, wow, so surreal for me to hear now) but otherwise remains, in my assessment, all too relevant.
What’s Helping Today: Making a big pot of white bean stew, an Ina recipe, as I watch this rain shift to snow. I love that this soup contains the aforementioned leeks and carrots, and also homegrown celery, onions, garlic, and rosemary. It smells divine.
Love,
Sandy
p.s. Here is a playlist I have on called call for winter.
p.p.s. Periodic reminder that you can send in a question for my “Dear Sandy” advice column by emailing whatshelpingtoday at gmail dot com. ICYMI, here were the first, second, third, and fourth installments.
p.p.p.s. Thanks for reading! If you’d like to further support my work, consider buying my first book (for yourself or someone else) and / or forwarding this newsletter to a friend and / or sharing about it wherever you share such things.