License to Drive

Ah, the Sunday edition of my blog, filled with the hopes of a wonderful week ahead, coupons worth thousands in savings and cartoons that are in full color.

I spoke to my HR Manager on Friday, I was trying to help another trans person get a job at our facility. I don’t actually know her but everyone should be employable that can do the work. My HR Manager was more than open to the issue, as she had helped me in a year and a half long coming out at work, the problem was there was only one open position and they are I believe required to post internally first, so it was bound to get applications very quickly. As we were speaking, she brought up that she had gotten several reports about me and being transgender. At this, my heart stopped for a bit, but she continued on. They were reporting that I am much happier since coming out, easier to work with and generally a delight. And they are right, I am indeed much happier being at work, because I no longer have to look at each Monday as the start of wearing a mask for five days until I get two days respite as myself. I am giddy with the knowledge that I will never, ever wear that mask again. It has been relegated to the rubbish bin, hauled away and some poor raccoon is likely trying to work out if it’s edible or if it’s more a physical Snapchat filter. I’m sure some raccoons have snapchat so that they can relate this.

I have been going quite mad this previous week because I was waiting on my driver’s license to appear in the post. Each day, I would return home and casually but with great anticipation, check the box for an envelope containing the rectangle polycarbonate of glory. I was a bit like Charlie Brown, awaiting a valentines that just wouldn’t arrive, disappointed.

Then on Saturday, I was gifted with a timely delivery of bills, junk mail, shopping guides and yes, one letter from the North Carolina department of… I couldn’t be bothered to read it because I was tearing into the envelope like a child going after a sweet. Before I made the front door, I was holding a driver’s license in my hand. It was a moment for me, for bureaucracy and for my dog who was waiting inside to be walked before she went all over my hardwood floors. I can’t say there wasn’t a small bit of confirmation for me that I belonged to the system correctly named and gendered.

More than this bit of confirmation, it meant that I could now go about changing all the things that still had the name of my mask, printed neatly in the generic block letters only a dystopian society film could properly light, upon it. I could change my bank account, my mortgage, bills and all. I would never be completely free of a name that has haunted me since a doctor in a German hospital looked between my legs and said, “male”. But I would be able to treat those few things as junk mail, obviously for some poor chap who isn’t getting their dollar off coupon for a new, twenty thousand dollar, Toyota Corolla.

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