The first time someone told me we had to get married again, I did what I always do when I don’t like an answer I’ve received: I kicked it upstairs.
My husband, who is trans, and I were on the last step of a year’s journey to make his legal identity match his internal identity. It started with a petition to the New York Supreme Court for a legal name and gender change.
Once we received the certified copies, the real round robin of legal transformation began. One by one, I (not my husband — paperwork just defeats him, and I actually like it) needed to petition various federal, state and local governments to make the pieces of paper that constitute a legal life in these times conform to who my husband genuinely is.
There’s an order to the process that was made far simpler by the LGBTQ+ Center at Ithaca College. They publish a guide, essentially, to all things legal paperwork for families like ours.
Social Security was first. I applied. We waited. Much sooner than my call to them had indicated, my husband’s “government name,” as he calls it, had been changed. He had a new Social Security Card — with the same number, his proper name and his correct gender.
I couldn’t really relate to the idea of a government name, or even a name I didn’t want to look at anymore, but I thought I understood his anguish.
Next, on to the DVM to get an ID card. An appointment, a show of paperwork, a new photo and a $10 bill, and he was good to go. It took 20 minutes.
After that, we contacted the state of his birth, Connecticut, for a new birth certificate. It was much more complicated than the federal process ― we needed things notarized, on archival paper, with documentation from a psychologist. But ultimately, we received certified copies of his new birth certificate with his legal name and proper gender.
Every time a new piece of paper arrived, my husband radiated happiness. Finally, we were down to the last item: our marriage license.
We’d dealt with the registrar’s office at City Hall in Kingston, New York, to get our license the first time. I called that office flush with confidence that this last step to make everything conform to the actual reality of my husband’s identity would be a piece of cake.
Instead, the woman we’d dealt with before told me we had to get married again ― a new license, a new ceremony ― and then we’d have the correct name.
That’s when, as I said, I kicked it upstairs.
Turns out, the Department of Health is where the registrar sends her paperwork for care and keeping. So I checked out the website that purported to explain Public Instructions for Marriage Corrections and Amendments, and read the instructions carefully, as one must for these sorts of things.
First, who could make such a request? Either spouse, or “anyone with a New York State court order.” We were good to go.
Second, for what reason? The document has a table listing possible reasons. Ours was the first one: “Correct the birth name… sex…” I wanted to correct the name and the gender, rather than the “sex” — they are not the same thing — but all right, I figured I’d give the State a pass just this once.
We filled out the Application for Correction of Marriage (DOH-1827), submitted the required certified copy of the birth certificate, blessed Ithaca College again, and toasted my accomplishment at dinner that night. My husband could not fully express his joy.
The end was in sight. All the paperwork would be aligned, in agreement, matching. Finally, the heartache that I saw on my husband’s face every time he encountered that government name would finally be put to its eternal rest.
We hoped to receive the corrected certificate before the end of the year, so that the Year of Name…
Read More: Our State Said My Husband And I Have To Get Remarried. The Reason Is Ridiculous.