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  “Are you changing your full name?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, that process is a bit more complicated. You’ll need to fill out this change of name petition with your birth name. Fill in the name you’re changing it to here and the reason for the change.”

  I looked at her nervously.

  Just then the phone rang. The crotchety clerk snatched up the receiver and from what I could tell was just as unhelpful to the caller as she was to me.

  The angel said softly, “Fill out the paperwork over there, come back when you’re done, and I’ll help you.” She smiled and I smiled back, relieved. She must know.

  As I filled out the form with “CC” still barking on the phone in the background, I wondered which fixture had been in this office longer: the chain attached to the pen I was using, or her. Either way, I was selfishly relieved someone else was now suffering in my place. I tuned her out and focused all my attention on the form.

  Name at Present:

  (Ugh, I hated how it rhymed.)

  To be changed to:

  Ever changed name before?

  Reason for change:

  I signed it, dated it, and back to the counter I went. The angel looked over the form and asked for my birth certificate and the filing fee. She stamped the form, disappeared for a few minutes, and then came back with instructions.

  “Okay, so you’ll need to publish your name change in the newspaper . . .”

  Say what now?

  “. . . then after thirty days, bring a copy of the newspaper announcement back here and we’ll set a court date and get you in front of the judge.”

  I stood there stupefied. I was expecting this to be official today and was NOT expecting to have to publish my name change in the freaking newspaper.

  “I have to announce this in the newspaper?”

  “Yes, it’s an obligatory procedure everyone has to do to make sure you’re not changing your name to defraud anyone or get out of debts you might owe,” Angel explained.

  “Oh.”

  Sensing my discomfort, she then leaned in closer and whispered some conspiratorial advice. “It doesn’t have to be The Boston Globe. You can publish it in any paper.”

  “Any paper?”

  “Any paper.”

  By the end of the following week, news of my name change was published in the legal notices section of the Post-Gazette or, as it was known then, La Gazzetta del Massachusetts—The Italian-American Voice of Massachusetts. Next time you’re in Boston’s North End, see if you can dig up a copy. It comes out once a week. On Fridays.

  Grazie, Angel.

  Thirty days later I was back at the courthouse, this time wearing a tie and clutching the page from the Post-Gazette. I scanned behind the Probate and Family counter for Angel. She wasn’t there. Crotchety Clerk was there in full force, but thankfully she was tied up making someone else’s life miserable, so another woman came over to help me. I gave her my docket number along with the required newspaper clipping and she pulled up my file. I watched her process it physically and mentally. Based on her eyes and expression, I was ninety-five percent sure she would be sympathetic.

  “Do you have to be somewhere?” she asked. “I mean, can you wait around for an hour, hour and a half?”

  “Ah, yeah if I need to, sure.”

  “Okay, good. Reason I ask is because there’s another judge due here in an hour or so who would be more sensitive than the one presiding now. I think you’d be better off to wait if you can.”

  Looks like God sent me another angel.

  “Thank you so much. I will definitely wait.”

  “Okay, have a seat on the bench and I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

  I sat there out in the hall, stunned and grateful. I was not expecting this kind of treatment—really just the opposite. As promised, Angel No. 2 reappeared ninety minutes later and walked me to the courtroom, prepping me along the way. She let me know that she’d already spoken to the judge about my “special circumstance” and told me that when he calls my name, I should walk right up to the bench to talk to him—not stand up at the podium across the room like everyone else. He wanted to handle my case privately and not embarrass me in front of an entire courtroom full of people.

  I couldn’t believe this woman did all that for me. I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that when we got to the courtroom door, I gave her a huge hug, which caught her completely off guard. She hugged me back and wished me luck.

  Inside the courtroom, I waited with approximately forty others for my turn with the judge. After about ten minutes, he called my name and motioned for me to approach the bench, leaving everyone else to wonder what was so special about me. He was in his mid-fifties, conservative looking, and impeccably groomed. His black robe combined with wire-rimmed glasses and perfectly parted graying hair made him seem extremely judicial, and despite what Angel No. 2 had told me, I still found myself intimidated by him. As he spoke to me though, the stern tone he’d had during the former proceedings softened and became more fatherly. After a few formalities, he asked me one question: Was I changing my name for purposes of fraud?

  “No, sir.”

  He signed the document, smiled, and said, “Good luck, Christopher.”

  ••

  The following Friday was another August scorcher. It was also my day off. Normally I’d be on my way to the Cape instead of the Registry of Motor Vehicles, but I was a man with a mission: Now that my name change was legal, I could officially change it on my driver’s license. The big question was could I change the “F” that was on there to an “M”? Bet had warned me this might be an issue and gave me a document from the State Registrar’s Office that basically said anyone going through gender reassignment in the state of Massachusetts could have the gender designation left blank on their driver’s license. I asked about this at one of my F-to-M support group meetings and got mixed responses. One guy used the Registrar’s letter and had his sex left blank. A couple of the guys said they didn’t have the letter at the time and were stuck with Fs on their licenses. Another guy said he got an M without having to show the letter. Bottom line: It was a crapshoot—totally depended on who you got at the window. I’d had pretty good luck at the courthouse so I was feeling optimistic. I strode confidently into the RMV in my khakis, loafers, and repp tie, looking like Mr. Preppy. Best-case scenario: I’d leave with an M on my license. Worst case: I’d have my sex left blank. Either way, I was leaving there without an effing F.

  I entered the stale, cavernous waiting area, took a number (64), grabbed a seat, and sized up the situation at the service counter. There were nine windows. Eight were open and manned by inner-city kids who looked like they were just out of high school and would rather be anywhere but this place. Good. Maybe they won’t be paying attention or won’t care and will just give me the M. They might look at me like I’m a freak, but whatever, I’ll deal with it. Whoa, wait a minute. Where did SHE come from?

  Fresh off her lunch break, in waddled Old Mother Hen. Early sixties and bossy, she was clearly the supervisor—shouting orders, yelling out numbers, and chastising both employees and patrons for not paying attention. To my horror, she filled the last vacant window. I could tell by her demeanor and the glasses on the chain around her neck that she’d be a stickler for the rules: my nemesis.

  Still, nine-to-one odds said I’d get somebody else. As numbers in the high fifties started being called, I began my internal chant: Not her. Not her. Not her. And then I heard that unmistakable shrill.

  “Sixty-fo-wah!”

  Son of a . . . !

  I got up from my chair and headed over to her window . . . “Sixty-fo-wah!”

  . . . clearly not fast enough for her liking. In the deepest voice I could muster I told her I needed to change my name on my license then handed over my old license and the court document bearing my new name. (I kept the letter from the state registrar in my pocket but was prepared to use it if I had to.) She glanced at the
items quickly, typed something into her computer, and then gave me my marching orders.

  “Okay, fella, go stand in line for your picture. Your license will come out over there. When it’s ready they’ll call your name.”

  “Ah, okay. Thank—”

  “Seventy-one!”

  “—you.”

  When it was my turn, I took my place in front of the blue backdrop, which I noticed was almost the same color as my shirt. Damn it! I was barely in position when the flash went off and I was told to move on. Double damn it! After a few minutes I heard the girl manning the laminate machine call out “Christopha Edwuhds.”

  It took a second for me to register that it was my name she was calling. No one had ever called me by it before—let alone in a thick Boston accent. I trotted over to get my new license. The anticipation was killing me but I was afraid to look. When I saw the picture I was relieved. It wasn’t as bad as I feared. My eyes were open and I didn’t look constipated or anything. I scanned my name. It was spelled right, and under “sex” there was indeed a letter.

  F.

  As in Fuck!

  License in hand, I trudged back over to the dreaded window. I was sweating now. Not sure if it was the lack of AC, the Ace bandage around my chest, or my nerves, but I wiped my palms on my pant legs and pulled Plan B out of my pocket. As soon as Old Mother Hen finished with seventy-nine, I stepped up before she could call the next number.

  “Hi . . . um this . . . ” With no plan in place for what I was going to say, I just handed her my license and pointed to the F.

  Great, I was a mime now.

  She pulled on her glasses to take a closer look.

  “Huh, how did that get there?” she said, confused. “Sorry, Hun, I’ll take care of that.” She typed something into the computer and sent me back to the laminating machine. I slowly walked over there in shock. Did that really just happen?

  Yup.

  Hello M!

  ••

  With luck on my side and a new driver’s license in my wallet, I headed over to the Social Security Office to get a new card. Surprisingly, that step proved to be the least difficult and most uneventful. I was in and out of there in fifteen minutes. I was officially on a roll and onto my last stop. The U.S. Passport Agency.

  After twenty minutes of waiting in a line that moved like a boa constrictor slowly strangling its prey, I ended up at the window of a friendly looking gentleman with sandy-colored hair and outdated glasses. He reminded me of my seventh-grade math teacher.

  “Can I help you?” he asked cheerfully.

  Sweet! Another nice person. I deepened my voice: “Yes, hi, I changed my name so I need a new passport.”

  I handed him my application complete with the two-inch by two-inch photos I’d had taken a few days earlier.

  “Do you have your old passport?”

  “Yes, and here’s all my other stuff,” I said, handing over my court document, new license, and social security card.

  He read the court document, looked a bit confused, and then opened up my old passport. He stared at the picture of me taken when I was seventeen, then at my license, then at me, and then his confused expression turned to disgust.

  I was no longer prepared for this, not after my previous positive experiences. That one look he gave me completely shattered my self-esteem. On the inside, I was crumbling. On the outside, I stood there like a statue, head held high, while he called his supervisor over to discuss the situation. He said something to her that I couldn’t hear, and then pointed at me. I stared right back at them both. The supervisor read over the documents and told him it was legal.

  He refused to wait on me.

  The supervisor gave me an embarrassed look, took my cash, and said she’d be right back. Ten minutes later she returned with a receipt and the promise that my new passport would arrive in four to six weeks. I thanked her and got the hell out of there. I couldn’t wait to get to the Cape.

  Four weeks later, my passport arrived. I proudly showed it to my mom, who thought I looked handsome in my picture. But what was more pleasing to my eyes was the big fat “M” under “sex/sexe/sexo.” This was a huge bonus because, as I later found out, to legally change the sex designation on any of my documentation, I was supposed to supply an affidavit from a doctor indicating that I had undergone irreversible gender reassignment surgery (for F-to-Ms, a mastectomy is usually enough). The fact that I changed my name to Christopher and had begun living full-time as a man technically wasn’t enough. So when it came to changing my birth certificate, I decided not to push my luck; I waited nine months until I had the affidavit, then headed to the city hall in Revere, the town of the hospital where I was born.

  Compared to Boston’s City Hall, this place was more like “City Small” and the Clerk’s office was only a tad larger than my father’s. There were two people behind the counter, both in their late twenties. I stood there patiently while they pretended not to notice me. After a throat clear and an “Excuse me,” one of them finally made eye contact, and in the stereotypical Boston accent out-of-staters expect everyone from Massachusetts to have, begrudgingly asked if he could help me.

  “Yes, I need to change my name and gender on my birth certificate.”

  He just stared at me, squinting. I braced myself.

  “Yuh whut?”

  “Need to change the name and gender on my birth certificate,” I repeated. “Here’s all the documentation and the fee, plus twenty dollars for two copies.”

  He stared at me like I was the most repulsive human being he had ever laid eyes on, and I stared right back, stone-faced, daring him to question me. He shook his head, half-whispered something degrading about me to his female counterpart, and then they both enjoyed a good laugh at my expense. Oddly, it didn’t sting as much as the incident at the Passport Agency. Maybe because I expected this kind of behavior from these two bozos, and the passport guy caught me off guard because he was older—fatherly—and nice to me until he put it all together. Or maybe I was just gaining more inner strength.

  I pondered all this while the two of them disappeared behind a side door I hadn’t noticed existed. After fifteen minutes or so, the guy came back out. He slapped the new documents down on the counter without saying a word, quickly pulling his hand away so as not to catch any of my “disease,” and then turned his back to me.

  I grabbed the certificates and headed for the door also without saying a word. Okay, I might have muttered “Thanks, fuckface” under my breath, but not before making sure my new name was spelled correctly and that next to “sex” it said “male” and not something wise-ass like “Yes, please.”

  It took almost a full year before I finally got all my documentation changed over. And by then, a lot of other things about me had changed too.

  TESTOSTERONE POWER

  September 1995

  I was at Boston Medical Center about to take the first step toward my irreversible physical transformation: testosterone injections, which I’d need to have every two weeks for the rest of my life. I wasn’t sure if I’d actually get one at my first appointment, but I knew from my support group that when it came to endocrinologists, Dr. Chipkin was “the man” and that he and his staff were very supportive of transgender patients. This put me at ease, which was a good thing, seeing that my last visit with an endocrinologist had left me totally traumatized.

  It was my sophomore year in high school, and Mom was taking me to see a doctor who, she told me, might be able to adjust my hormone levels so I wouldn’t be so hairy. The doctor came highly recommended by one of Mom’s best friends. I was curious why Wendy wasn’t coming with us (we both bleached our Armo mustaches), but I never asked. Deep down I always knew I was different from her. Maybe Mom did too.

  She waited with me in the ice-cold exam room, while I sat shivering in my paper robe. When the doctor finally arrived, she forced my mom out into the waiting room despite both our requests that she stay. This kicked my predilection for worry into overdrive.
What was this woman going to do to me? I sized her up as she ushered Mom out of the room and closed the door: medium height, heavyset, with straight salt-and-pepper hair, big glasses, and a nose shaped like a parrot’s. Her voice was loud and abrasive. Even louder was the voice inside my head shouting, Run!

  She asked me a bunch of questions: When did I first get my period? Age twelve. Was I sexually active? No. Did my father ever touch me inappropriately? WHAT? Then she briefly examined me in a place where I’d never been examined before and after a few seconds stopped and announced, “Your clitoris is fine!” As I struggled to comprehend what that meant for me, she opened the door and yelled the great news to someone else out in the hallway. I was mortified, confused, and humiliated. She closed the door, came back over to me, and said, “You’re not a man!” adding that I should see a psychiatrist and so should my mother.

  Too stunned to say anything, I got dressed and found Mom in the waiting room. She could tell something was wrong and once outside the office asked me what the doctor said. I burst into tears and told her. She was furious and told me to forget we ever came here. On the ride home, I wondered why the doctor would have said anything about my thinking I was a man. Did Mom think I was? Did she say something to her friend who said something to the doctor when setting up the appointment? Was the hairy thing just a ruse to get me to agree to go? No matter, I was too traumatized to ask any questions—mostly because I was afraid to know the answers and have to admit to my feelings.

  Ten years later, the irony of the current situation was not lost on me: Mom and I, once again waiting to see an endocrinologist, this time to help me become the man we both had secretly suspected I always was.

  There are plenty of reasons someone might see an endocrinologist—diabetes, thyroid, anything glandular—so it’s not like everyone in the waiting room was necessarily going in for testosterone shots. Still, I found myself sizing up the only other patient there, trying to determine if he, too, was transgender. He pretty much kept his head down and didn’t make eye contact, but I noticed, like me, he had relatively small hands and small feet, which as it turns out is a pretty good indicator.