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May. 28th, 2014 05:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dolariIn honor of the Fifteenth (+1 Year) Anniversary of my name change, here's the chapter from Girl in the Mirror that covered that part of my life:
“Words Have Meanings and Names Have Power”
I began doing some research on how to change my name, and, as this was pre-9/11, the process was pretty simple, straightforward and relatively cheap. Not something I’d do every day, but at the same time, not completely bankrupting me.
Despite being a pretty earlish period for the internet, a simple web search got me exactly what I needed for changing my name in Centre County, Pennsylvania. The simplified version on the website implied all you needed to do was go to the Prothonotory’s office at the county courthouse, plunk down your money, and leave with a shiny new name.
Prothonotary. Say it with me. Prothonotary. Isn’t that just an awesome word to say? Prothonotary.
But what to name myself. It’s not every day you get to name yourself, and it’s something that becomes your identity. It was actually a tougher choice than I thought it would be, and I spent some time wrestling with what I’d actually be.
The first name was a no brainer: Jennifer. It’d been my name for quite some time, and there were no others in the running. Not for a long long time.
My middle name. Now that was something I’d not given much thought to. There was Marlene, of course, who had been the second place winner in the Jenn’s First Name contest. But there was also another I’d considered as well: Christine.
Now where did that name come from, you may ask yourself. Do you remember way back in an earlier chapter, where I talked about my first moment of realizing boys and girls were different things? It involved clothing, and a TV show called You Can’t Do That on Television.
Yes, my middle name comes from Christine McGlade. The same one who got hit with buckets of water, and green slimed all the time. I chose the name, not just because that was the first time I realized what gender was, but also because, I felt, I would have looked like her growing up, had I been born a woman. With darker skin, yeah, but a lot like her.
It was a silly reason to choose a middle name, some might think. And they might be right. I can’t think of any name I’d rather have as my middle name, though.
It was the last name that really got me.
My last name was Tastykake. Actually it wasn’t, but for this draft, I’ve decided to go with Tastykake because I don’t know if I’m going to have my real name or not on this. My online last name, the name I’d fostered for almost seven years as an online extension of myself, the name that Michael originally met me as, was Dolari. At this point in my life, communication with my parents was very very tenuous, and I was self-estranged from the rest of my extended family. Tastykake, while my family name, had a tough fight ahead of it because of this.
A day or two before I planned to head over to the Prothonotary’s office, my parents called out of the blue. It had been a long time since we’d talked, several months at least. We updated each other on our lives, but there was something different in their voices. Something, worrying. I half expected my mom to say that my father was dying, or that something terrible had happened in the family. Whatever it may have been, I wasn’t sure, but it had my attention. Just before the call ended, she stopped for a second, and said, “Whatever happens. Whatever you end up doing. You always have a home here.”
She meant it. She had in that voice, a conviction that a hard truth has. That pause, that delivery. That emotion. It shook me.
I told her I would call soon, and that I loved her.
Tastykake it was, then.
I was dressed androgynously for my trip to the (once more, class) Prothonotary’s office. I figured if I was changing my name, I should go for subtly in between to not surprise anyone when I asked for Jennifer Christine Tastykake from Marco Ines Tastykake. So, with $120 in crisp clean $20s, I walked into the courthouse for my brand new name.
And came out with $120 in crisp clean $20s and no new name.
Turns out, it’s not as easy as the website said it’d be. Not really all that hard, per se, but not as easy as buying potato chips. There’s a reason 7-Eleven doesn’t hand out name change papers along side their Big Gulps.
But the Prothonotary’s office does. Minus the Big Gulps. What I got from my trip, was a large packet of forms to fill out, and a list of things to do:
1. Go get a Tax Lien search done. Bring back the findings.
2. Get fingerprinted and checked. Bring back the findings.
3. Bring the One Ring back to Mt. Doom and await instructions.
Uh huh.
Well. It wasn’t like I had to go to work or anything. And we could do the first thing right away! The Tax Office was right down the street, I didn’t have any tax issues I knew of, so shouldn’t be much of a search. This should be a snap.
$20 later, I was told I’d have the results in two weeks.
Ouch. I went home and had some ice cream to soothe the double whammy disappointment of the day. But at least I was on my way to a new name,
$480. $120 needed for the name change. Two weeks at least before the Tax Lien would come back. That left me with $360 to play with. What else could I get the ball rolling on, while I waited?
And then, it came to me: The Plan. The Plan, which had been mostly abandoned due to all the financial setbacks I’d had, had therapy as the step after Move Out. It’d been three years since I’d moved out, and the only thing stopping me was that after that $360 ran out, there wouldn’t be anymore coming for the foreseeable future. And if prices were anything like they were when I first tried getting therapy back in the early 90s, it’d be at least $100 a pop.
I decided to make calls anyway. I poked around the yellow pages, leaving messages for various psychologist, psychotherapists. Anyone who could help, and a sliding scale, too, if you could.
One call led to another call, led to another set of psychotherapeutic partners, and down the hall from this guy, and up the stairs frm this one, all pointing in different directions, until I came to Dr. Mary McClanahan. She dealt with Gender Dysphoria, and a sliding scale. $25 a session. That’s 14 sessions on $360 dollars.
I scheduled my first visit with her, on our first call.
About a week before the Tax Lien report would be ready, I went to go get fingerprinted. Not a big deal at all, as this time I was prepared for the inevitable wait by calling ahead and asking how long it’d take. About a week – just in time for the tax lien report.
With the two weeks up, I grabbed my $120, walked over to the Police Department, grabbed the report that said I was harmless, walked over to the Tax Office, grabbed the report that said I was penniless, and marched up the stairs of the Centre County Courthouse.
I walked out $120 poorer, till had my old name, and another side quest before I could move on in the game.
1. Take this name change announcement and print it in the newspaper classifieds.
2. Do the same in a legal journal.
But there was a Number Three this time that was awesome:
3. Bring back proof of publication on May 20th. That’s your court date.
On May 20th, 1999, I would have my new name.
That was another two weeks away, but at least I knew that would be it. The yes or no would be on that date. I sent in the advertisements as directed and waited.
One week later, I had my first meeting with my therapist, who preferred to be called Doctor Mary. Unlike the original Veteran’s Affairs psychotherapist, who seemed afraid of my condition, or the the one my parents chose, who seemed very hostile, Doctor Mary was a much more friendly person, and seemed well versed already in transgender issues. I told her what I was doing and why, she told me her guidelines, and how we’d walk the path between what I’d want, and what she needed. She followed the Benjamin Standards of Care when it came to treating transsexuals, and I told her that was okay by me. I’d been trying to follow them all my life.
And for the next hour, we just talked. Got to know each other. Built trust and rapport. She was going to be awesome.
As time went on, I received a notification that my name change announcement had been printed in the legal journal, and was sent a copy of the advertisement. I heard nothing from the Centre Daily Times, the newspaper I sent my name change notification to. I made a few calls around a week before my court date, to find out where that was. It got to the classified’s editor’s desk, who said he had it sitting right near him, and it was awaiting publication. I asked how soon. He said next week, which would have put it squarely after my court date. I needed both proofs before then.
There were…loud words. He’d had had the classified for some time, he just hadn’t gotten to printing it just yet, and, to his credit, as soon as he saw the May 20th date on the ad, he got immediately on the ball. It was printed the next day, and on the 18th, I received a letter in the mail with my proof of publication.
I was set.
The morning of the 20th. After two trips to the courthouse, and another session of therapy under my belt, I decided that androgynous was not the way to go. If we’re going to do this, let’s do it right.
I was poor, my clothes were old, but I pulled out the best of what I had. Some flat skimmer shoes, black tights, a black tattered lace skirt, my nice white shirt I wore to the Women’s Study Center job, and a black jacket blazer over that.
I looked presentable. I didn’t look sharp, or dressed to the hilt, or even very good. But I was presentable with what I had. Nine O’Clock. Court appearance at Ten. Now was the time to go.
Thankfully, State College is a small town, and the county seat, Bellefonte, is not too far away I got there by Nine Twenty, with plenty of time to get to the courtroom. Now Bellefonte in a neat little town nestled in very steep hills. I was driving a pickup with no emergency break. Thankfully, I had a wheel chock to keep it from rolling down most hills. I parked the pickup right next to the courthouse, put it in gear, and opened the door. It immediately popped the gear and began rolling down the hill. These were really really steep hills.
I braked, put the truck back in it’s parking spot, and this time left the gear in reverse, hoping that would help it. I did manage to get out and chock the tire. Only to have the gear pop again, and the truck drive over the chock.
These are really really really steep hills
And my skimmer shoes were totally not made for running after a half ton pickup truck on a careening death plunge into Spring Creek. It got about a quarter block away before I managed to get back into it, just in time to brake before the red light.
I meant to do that. Yeah. Totally meant to do that.
I found a flatter parking spot about a mile away.
I walked up the stairs to the courthouse. This was it. After entering this building, I would be Jennifer Christine Tastykake. Forever. Once I did this, there would be no backing out. No flipping back and forth between genders. No middle grounds. I was going to have a woman’s name, and would have to present myself as a woman from here on out.
I took a deep breath and went into the Prothonotary’s office with my paperwork.
And then promptly walked out, with even more paperwork. But this time, with a room number down the hall, through the metal detector, and to the right.
I gave my paperwork to the bailiff in the courtroom and sat down in the back of the mostly empty courtroom. There were a few people up front in orange jumpsuits. Apparently, one of the petitioners was having a quick bail hearing. I think. I could barely hear them over the blood rushing through my ears, or see them through the tunnel vision I was developing.
I shook it off as I saw the first person escorted out of the room in chains. I sat up, trying to regain my composure as I got ready to be called. The next orange jumpsuited man walked up from his bench and the three began talking a very stern angry “I’m Dissapointed In You, Son” kind of talk. There was a bit of pushback, but not much. He eventually, too, left the room, escorted out. There was just me.
“This court is now hearing the petition of name change, for...” and then he dropped his glasses, relooked the petition over, then looked back at me. “...Marco Ines Tastykake, Junior, to...” and again, looked me over, “Jennifer Christine Tastykake.”
The bailiff motioned for me to come over. I scooted down the bench towards her, and was motioned to a table. I sat down, going through everything I could to make sure I was doing it right. Sit. Knees together. Ankles crossed. Hands on the table. Look prim. Look proper. And most of all don’t look petrified.
“Does the petitioner confirm that the information entered into the record is correct?”
I looked into the microphone directly in front of me. Crap. Talking. Never did get the hang of a female voice. I tried my best and talked into the microphone directly in front of me. “Yes.”
I was just feet away from him. It wasn’t on.
He again looked me over. A loud voice from above boomed out, “Is there anyone in this court who requests that the petition not be granted?”
The only sound in the room was heart racing. I don’t know why I was so scared. Was it the life changing event I was making happen through force of law? Was it because I was finally getting something I’d wanted for so long? Was it that he might have said no?
“The petitioner will approach the bench.”
I slid out from the seat and walked up to him. He looked at me, looked at the court order, signed it. Then looked back at me with the warmest smile I’d ever seen, which then expanded into a grin and a handshake. I was obviously was showing it.
“Good luck.”
I returned to the Prothonotary’s office, and received five copies of my name change order.
I was now Jennifer Christine Tastykake. My first real step to transition.
And my first official act as Jennifer Christine Tastykake?
Grab the tire chock from High Street before I got a littering ticket.
Also: Prothonotary.
“Words Have Meanings and Names Have Power”
I began doing some research on how to change my name, and, as this was pre-9/11, the process was pretty simple, straightforward and relatively cheap. Not something I’d do every day, but at the same time, not completely bankrupting me.
Despite being a pretty earlish period for the internet, a simple web search got me exactly what I needed for changing my name in Centre County, Pennsylvania. The simplified version on the website implied all you needed to do was go to the Prothonotory’s office at the county courthouse, plunk down your money, and leave with a shiny new name.
Prothonotary. Say it with me. Prothonotary. Isn’t that just an awesome word to say? Prothonotary.
But what to name myself. It’s not every day you get to name yourself, and it’s something that becomes your identity. It was actually a tougher choice than I thought it would be, and I spent some time wrestling with what I’d actually be.
The first name was a no brainer: Jennifer. It’d been my name for quite some time, and there were no others in the running. Not for a long long time.
My middle name. Now that was something I’d not given much thought to. There was Marlene, of course, who had been the second place winner in the Jenn’s First Name contest. But there was also another I’d considered as well: Christine.
Now where did that name come from, you may ask yourself. Do you remember way back in an earlier chapter, where I talked about my first moment of realizing boys and girls were different things? It involved clothing, and a TV show called You Can’t Do That on Television.
Yes, my middle name comes from Christine McGlade. The same one who got hit with buckets of water, and green slimed all the time. I chose the name, not just because that was the first time I realized what gender was, but also because, I felt, I would have looked like her growing up, had I been born a woman. With darker skin, yeah, but a lot like her.
It was a silly reason to choose a middle name, some might think. And they might be right. I can’t think of any name I’d rather have as my middle name, though.
It was the last name that really got me.
My last name was Tastykake. Actually it wasn’t, but for this draft, I’ve decided to go with Tastykake because I don’t know if I’m going to have my real name or not on this. My online last name, the name I’d fostered for almost seven years as an online extension of myself, the name that Michael originally met me as, was Dolari. At this point in my life, communication with my parents was very very tenuous, and I was self-estranged from the rest of my extended family. Tastykake, while my family name, had a tough fight ahead of it because of this.
A day or two before I planned to head over to the Prothonotary’s office, my parents called out of the blue. It had been a long time since we’d talked, several months at least. We updated each other on our lives, but there was something different in their voices. Something, worrying. I half expected my mom to say that my father was dying, or that something terrible had happened in the family. Whatever it may have been, I wasn’t sure, but it had my attention. Just before the call ended, she stopped for a second, and said, “Whatever happens. Whatever you end up doing. You always have a home here.”
She meant it. She had in that voice, a conviction that a hard truth has. That pause, that delivery. That emotion. It shook me.
I told her I would call soon, and that I loved her.
Tastykake it was, then.
I was dressed androgynously for my trip to the (once more, class) Prothonotary’s office. I figured if I was changing my name, I should go for subtly in between to not surprise anyone when I asked for Jennifer Christine Tastykake from Marco Ines Tastykake. So, with $120 in crisp clean $20s, I walked into the courthouse for my brand new name.
And came out with $120 in crisp clean $20s and no new name.
Turns out, it’s not as easy as the website said it’d be. Not really all that hard, per se, but not as easy as buying potato chips. There’s a reason 7-Eleven doesn’t hand out name change papers along side their Big Gulps.
But the Prothonotary’s office does. Minus the Big Gulps. What I got from my trip, was a large packet of forms to fill out, and a list of things to do:
1. Go get a Tax Lien search done. Bring back the findings.
2. Get fingerprinted and checked. Bring back the findings.
3. Bring the One Ring back to Mt. Doom and await instructions.
Uh huh.
Well. It wasn’t like I had to go to work or anything. And we could do the first thing right away! The Tax Office was right down the street, I didn’t have any tax issues I knew of, so shouldn’t be much of a search. This should be a snap.
$20 later, I was told I’d have the results in two weeks.
Ouch. I went home and had some ice cream to soothe the double whammy disappointment of the day. But at least I was on my way to a new name,
$480. $120 needed for the name change. Two weeks at least before the Tax Lien would come back. That left me with $360 to play with. What else could I get the ball rolling on, while I waited?
And then, it came to me: The Plan. The Plan, which had been mostly abandoned due to all the financial setbacks I’d had, had therapy as the step after Move Out. It’d been three years since I’d moved out, and the only thing stopping me was that after that $360 ran out, there wouldn’t be anymore coming for the foreseeable future. And if prices were anything like they were when I first tried getting therapy back in the early 90s, it’d be at least $100 a pop.
I decided to make calls anyway. I poked around the yellow pages, leaving messages for various psychologist, psychotherapists. Anyone who could help, and a sliding scale, too, if you could.
One call led to another call, led to another set of psychotherapeutic partners, and down the hall from this guy, and up the stairs frm this one, all pointing in different directions, until I came to Dr. Mary McClanahan. She dealt with Gender Dysphoria, and a sliding scale. $25 a session. That’s 14 sessions on $360 dollars.
I scheduled my first visit with her, on our first call.
About a week before the Tax Lien report would be ready, I went to go get fingerprinted. Not a big deal at all, as this time I was prepared for the inevitable wait by calling ahead and asking how long it’d take. About a week – just in time for the tax lien report.
With the two weeks up, I grabbed my $120, walked over to the Police Department, grabbed the report that said I was harmless, walked over to the Tax Office, grabbed the report that said I was penniless, and marched up the stairs of the Centre County Courthouse.
I walked out $120 poorer, till had my old name, and another side quest before I could move on in the game.
1. Take this name change announcement and print it in the newspaper classifieds.
2. Do the same in a legal journal.
But there was a Number Three this time that was awesome:
3. Bring back proof of publication on May 20th. That’s your court date.
On May 20th, 1999, I would have my new name.
That was another two weeks away, but at least I knew that would be it. The yes or no would be on that date. I sent in the advertisements as directed and waited.
One week later, I had my first meeting with my therapist, who preferred to be called Doctor Mary. Unlike the original Veteran’s Affairs psychotherapist, who seemed afraid of my condition, or the the one my parents chose, who seemed very hostile, Doctor Mary was a much more friendly person, and seemed well versed already in transgender issues. I told her what I was doing and why, she told me her guidelines, and how we’d walk the path between what I’d want, and what she needed. She followed the Benjamin Standards of Care when it came to treating transsexuals, and I told her that was okay by me. I’d been trying to follow them all my life.
And for the next hour, we just talked. Got to know each other. Built trust and rapport. She was going to be awesome.
As time went on, I received a notification that my name change announcement had been printed in the legal journal, and was sent a copy of the advertisement. I heard nothing from the Centre Daily Times, the newspaper I sent my name change notification to. I made a few calls around a week before my court date, to find out where that was. It got to the classified’s editor’s desk, who said he had it sitting right near him, and it was awaiting publication. I asked how soon. He said next week, which would have put it squarely after my court date. I needed both proofs before then.
There were…loud words. He’d had had the classified for some time, he just hadn’t gotten to printing it just yet, and, to his credit, as soon as he saw the May 20th date on the ad, he got immediately on the ball. It was printed the next day, and on the 18th, I received a letter in the mail with my proof of publication.
I was set.
The morning of the 20th. After two trips to the courthouse, and another session of therapy under my belt, I decided that androgynous was not the way to go. If we’re going to do this, let’s do it right.
I was poor, my clothes were old, but I pulled out the best of what I had. Some flat skimmer shoes, black tights, a black tattered lace skirt, my nice white shirt I wore to the Women’s Study Center job, and a black jacket blazer over that.
I looked presentable. I didn’t look sharp, or dressed to the hilt, or even very good. But I was presentable with what I had. Nine O’Clock. Court appearance at Ten. Now was the time to go.
Thankfully, State College is a small town, and the county seat, Bellefonte, is not too far away I got there by Nine Twenty, with plenty of time to get to the courtroom. Now Bellefonte in a neat little town nestled in very steep hills. I was driving a pickup with no emergency break. Thankfully, I had a wheel chock to keep it from rolling down most hills. I parked the pickup right next to the courthouse, put it in gear, and opened the door. It immediately popped the gear and began rolling down the hill. These were really really steep hills.
I braked, put the truck back in it’s parking spot, and this time left the gear in reverse, hoping that would help it. I did manage to get out and chock the tire. Only to have the gear pop again, and the truck drive over the chock.
These are really really really steep hills
And my skimmer shoes were totally not made for running after a half ton pickup truck on a careening death plunge into Spring Creek. It got about a quarter block away before I managed to get back into it, just in time to brake before the red light.
I meant to do that. Yeah. Totally meant to do that.
I found a flatter parking spot about a mile away.
I walked up the stairs to the courthouse. This was it. After entering this building, I would be Jennifer Christine Tastykake. Forever. Once I did this, there would be no backing out. No flipping back and forth between genders. No middle grounds. I was going to have a woman’s name, and would have to present myself as a woman from here on out.
I took a deep breath and went into the Prothonotary’s office with my paperwork.
And then promptly walked out, with even more paperwork. But this time, with a room number down the hall, through the metal detector, and to the right.
I gave my paperwork to the bailiff in the courtroom and sat down in the back of the mostly empty courtroom. There were a few people up front in orange jumpsuits. Apparently, one of the petitioners was having a quick bail hearing. I think. I could barely hear them over the blood rushing through my ears, or see them through the tunnel vision I was developing.
I shook it off as I saw the first person escorted out of the room in chains. I sat up, trying to regain my composure as I got ready to be called. The next orange jumpsuited man walked up from his bench and the three began talking a very stern angry “I’m Dissapointed In You, Son” kind of talk. There was a bit of pushback, but not much. He eventually, too, left the room, escorted out. There was just me.
“This court is now hearing the petition of name change, for...” and then he dropped his glasses, relooked the petition over, then looked back at me. “...Marco Ines Tastykake, Junior, to...” and again, looked me over, “Jennifer Christine Tastykake.”
The bailiff motioned for me to come over. I scooted down the bench towards her, and was motioned to a table. I sat down, going through everything I could to make sure I was doing it right. Sit. Knees together. Ankles crossed. Hands on the table. Look prim. Look proper. And most of all don’t look petrified.
“Does the petitioner confirm that the information entered into the record is correct?”
I looked into the microphone directly in front of me. Crap. Talking. Never did get the hang of a female voice. I tried my best and talked into the microphone directly in front of me. “Yes.”
I was just feet away from him. It wasn’t on.
He again looked me over. A loud voice from above boomed out, “Is there anyone in this court who requests that the petition not be granted?”
The only sound in the room was heart racing. I don’t know why I was so scared. Was it the life changing event I was making happen through force of law? Was it because I was finally getting something I’d wanted for so long? Was it that he might have said no?
“The petitioner will approach the bench.”
I slid out from the seat and walked up to him. He looked at me, looked at the court order, signed it. Then looked back at me with the warmest smile I’d ever seen, which then expanded into a grin and a handshake. I was obviously was showing it.
“Good luck.”
I returned to the Prothonotary’s office, and received five copies of my name change order.
I was now Jennifer Christine Tastykake. My first real step to transition.
And my first official act as Jennifer Christine Tastykake?
Grab the tire chock from High Street before I got a littering ticket.
Also: Prothonotary.
