B218.
I honestly never cared much, but the final decision was to take my husband's name legally while continuing to write, submit and (hopefully) publish under my given name, the name I've been for 27 years, the name that I have spelled out infinite times because it is how the world recognizes me: Dianna Calareso.
On the way to the office I called my sister and complained. I didn't want to fill out forms, didn't want to change my written identity as if I am no longer the same person, didn't want to wait in line at the mercy of federal employees. Of course, I am thrilled to be married to a person I love, and I did choose to make the legal name change. It just seemed like an awful lot of paperwork, and paperwork that only I have to do. The husband's name is business as usual. On my list of things I hoped I'd have time to do were yoga and the beef stew that I'm dying to make with the three pounds of chuck I bought at the farmer's market.
My first stop was the Social Security office to get a new card. I took a number, sat down, and listened as various combinations of letters and numbers were called. Each letter represented a different type of issue, and the numbers kept the order. It seemed like a decent system, but boiled down it was simply waiting at a government office: fluorescent lights, pale furnishings, signs instructing people where to stand, old chairs, and the almost tangible sense in the air that this is some sort of time warp. Your eyes adjust to the din, you forget that time is moving at a normal pace just outside, and you develop a keen interest in why everyone else is there.
While I waited for my number to be called, I studied the people around me. There was a man and woman with a young boy who were called up to the desk in Spanish; a young, well-dressed couple who joked about how long they'd have to wait; and a large elderly woman with a walker who answered, "I'll try," when the security guard told her to have a good day. On the other side of the room were people with different number/letter combinations, and the people there were just as varied. I couldn't tell what anyone was there for, because everyone had the same emotionless look on his/her face, with a handful of papers and various forms of ID. When my number was called I sat at the counter, presented my documents, and walked away Dianna Clare Sawyer. The woman at the desk laughed, "Oh, like Diane Sawyer!" I smiled, having considered this as a reason to keep my own name. Here we go, I thought.
Since I was already downtown, I drove over the to the farmer's market to pick up a few more things for the stew. I signed my check "Dianna Calareso" on instinct, and drove to the DMV, already resenting the next round of paperwork because I wanted to get the stew in the slow cooker so it would be ready by the time my husband came home.
The closest DMV satellite branch was still over 12 miles away, but I figured once I'd made this stop I could get on with the rest of the day. The exterior of the building looked like an abandoned beach house, with splitting wood and chipped paint covering the sides. I walked in and waited behind a man no taller than 5'5. The employee behind the desk said, "Can I help you?"
The man in front of me did not respond.
The employee said louder and slower, "Can I help you?"
The man did not respond, and after a few seconds pointed to the camera used to photograph people for their licenses.
The employee responded, "You have to wait over there, and then I'll call you." When the man did not move, the employee pointed to the waiting area. "Over there," he said, and the man slowly walked over to the row of plastic chairs.
"Can I help you?" the employee said to me.
"I hope so!" I said lightly, thinking I could trigger a smile or something. No such luck. I went on, "I just moved from out of state and got married, so I need to transfer my Massachusetts license to Tennessee and have it printed with my new last name."
He shook his head. "Can't do that at this office. This is just for renewals. You'll have to go to a full-service branch." He gave me the directions for a branch nine miles down the road, in a different county. It wasn't his fault, so I took a deep breath, thanked him, and left.
When I arrived at the next branch, a storefront in an old shopping center across from a Food Lion, I almost left - the place was packed. Everyone had a ticket, the familiar sound of mixed numbers and letters called out, and people were filling out various documents on clipboards. In my head I cursed paperwork, and wondered why I couldn't have done all this on the Internet.
My ticket was B218, and the timestamp on my ticket said 12:13pm. I sat down and waited. While I waited, I heard various people's stories - there were teenagers testing for their learner's permits, people reinstating licenses that had been revoked, and people transferring from a different state. The woman next to me had been there since 11:00, and had court documents, a certificate from driving school, and a million complaints about the time and money she'd spent trying to work everything out. Some people I didn't understand, and noticed them translating to people sitting with them. Signs illuminated the number being serviced, like a deli counter, and also tallied the number of customers. 65...69...75...88...
This room was smaller and more crowded than the social security office, and had a more varied combination of people. A woman with her elderly father; a man with his teenage son; a couple with young children; several young men by themselves; a woman with a baby. I heard Spanish, Portuguese, and Hindi, along with various strains of a Tennessee accent. The children in the room were antsy after hours of waiting, and began to whine or run around or throw their parents' keys on the floor. One toddler tugged so hard on the American flag that the flagpole teetered and almost fell on his mother. Elderly people shifted in their seats, holding their backs and hips as they tried to get comfortable. Young adults took phone calls that always began with, "Yes, I'm still here."
At 2:55, a woman's voice called out, "B218 to counter 1." After five minutes of photocopying documents, signing the receipt, and confirming personal information, I was sent to have my picture taken. Five minutes later, I left with a Tennessee license signed Dianna Sawyer.
I called my sister again and complained, as it was now after 3:00 - no time to slow cook a beef stew, no time to go to the bank to endorse the checks made out to the Mrs. Sawyer that I wasn't at the time, and all that waiting for about ten minutes of real work. And as suddenly as my fury hit me, it left when I remembered who else had been at the Social Security office and the DMV that day: people with children; people with parents; people who go to these offices weekly or monthly because of changing identities due to marriage, divorce, or citizenship.
I am a natural-born citizen of the United States. My parents are natural-born citizens. I have had one Social Security number my entire life, and nobody has ever questioned it or stolen it. I am white. I have no children. I do not have a criminal record. I changed my name because I married a person I love, a person who takes care of me. Even on a day like today, it's pretty easy to be me; my emotions were a mixed blend of gratitude and humility. How dare I react as though I know the frustration of paperwork.
Yes, it was annoying - even obnoxious - to spend my day driving around and waiting around, all to shuffle a few papers to make sure my identity is recognized and legal. But that was one day, and there may be one or two more like that before it's finished. And then I'm done.
The people who really have a tough time are not the people who don't want to miss yoga or put off making beef stew until tomorrow (which I have to do now regardless, because when I came home the meat was still frozen). The people who have a tough time are the people who have to continually prove themselves, their names, their addresses, their identities, for one reason or another. The people who have to explain why their children have Social Security cards but they don't. The people whose past records, histories, mistakes, addresses, and names constantly stop them from having a true and free identity that they can take pride in.
The people who would give anything to only have to spend one day explaining that they have had the happiest day of their lives, and are changing their names to celebrate.