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It has been almost eight years since I was last forced to go to the Florida DMV. The last time I went to renew my license, things couldn’t have gone more smoothly. I made an appointment, got there on time, went right in, got my picture taken, paid, and was in and out in ten minutes.
Since then, our thoughtful governor who is fiercely advocating that all Florida residents get injected with the Delta variant, has grasped control of the DMV and turned it into hell on earth. During the early Covid days, they still had appointments, but they were impossible to get. Plus they only scheduled two weeks out and were always booked due to the limited number of appointments each day. And now they don’t even offer appointments.
By the way, and I know this has been a long time coming, but I have decided to let everyone know that my gender is now female. It was a difficult decision, and with it came gallons of tears. Like many of my trans/non-binary sisters/its/they-them people, I did not spend months with gender reassignment surgery or grueling laser hair removal (which, if you know me, would have resulted in a 10 pound weight loss), or wardrobe replacement shopping. I became female through a simple typo by the DMV in 2013. I don’t know if it was a homophobic act by one of the snarky, overpaid-for-what-they-do DMV clerks, or just an honest mistake, but my license lists my sex as F. I noticed it about 5 years ago, but decided to wait until the next renewal so I didn’t have to pay $25 to correct an error (or deliberately hostile act) the DMV made. This is a prime example of the motto of the state of Florida: “Never accept responsibility for your mistakes, unless you can charge for it.”
The Florida DMV now allows you to renew your license online with a credit card. But, I found out after searching weeks for a phone number to call, if I wanted to go back to being a testicular hanging person in the eyes of the state, I would have to make a personal visit to Hell and bring 3 forms of government identification: a passport, a certified copy of my birth certificate, and another document. It was as if I were applying for a DOD top secret security clearance.
Great. So Other Bill and I took a day to not only renew our licenses, but to get a sticker for our new hybrid car so we have free passage in the I-95 express lane, which also cannot be done online. I carried with me my current passport, my expired passport, a certified birth certificate copy, a photo of my previous driver’s license that listed me as male, as well as my genitals, which I was prepared to put on display if need be.
So we got up early and left at 7 am to get to the DMV, which opens at 8 am. When we got there we noticed the line stretched from the entrance to South America, and after fighting to find a place to park, we got in line. There were easily 200 people ahead of us. People in line were sitting in lawn chairs they brought from home. I sat on the wet pavement with a folded beach umbrella. Tropical Storm Elsa was approaching, so I was hoping for a big storm that would chase away the unbrella-ed.
While we were waiting, I wondered how many people in line thought they were there for the virus infusion. Even after the doors opened, the line failed to move. I waited for what seemed like hours but was only five minutes before announcing to the crowd, “Fuck this shit.” We left.
Florida, in its infinite wisdom, has contracted with a company to issue tags and titles, so I drove us to one of those joints (after we got back from Brazil). Big bold letters pasted on their windows read, “WE DO NOT RENEW DRIVER LICENSES HERE.” But I hoped we could still get the hybrid sticker. We got there at 8, and there were only 4 people in front of us. But they didn’t open until 9. Other Bill went home for the house phone so we could pass the hour playing Words With Friends. He also brought back cookies. Gotta love him. So we played for an hour while we inhaled the vape stench of the fourth in line and listened to the off-key hymns sung in Spanish by the first in line. I was glad someone was praying.
A little after nine am, Herr Bigshot came out and loudly announced the procedure for registering (via the one kiosk inside the door). He told us there were four fields we had to enter: Cell phone number, first name, last name, and if we were there for vehicle registration, title, or handicap registration. I repeat, four fields.
The first three in line each took 10 to 12 minutes (3 minutes per field) to complete this difficult task. Oh, and they all had questions that required lengthy answers. I tried not to crack molars while weeping and gnashing my teeth.
Finally, I registered, and we took a seat. I already had the form filled out, so when we were called, things sailed by quickly, I’ll give them that. I suspected by the attitude and look of our clerk that she was an ex-DMV employee. She had thick glue-on eyelashes that could have easily been pulled off and used as whisk brooms, Ginsu Knife-filed acrylic nails, and her eyebrows had been shaved and redrawn, ala Divine.
But we did escape with the sticker. A $5 sticker cost us $8.81 with the contractor’s surcharge.
So after all that, I decided that rather than go back to the DMV and wait in the hell line another time, I would just renew it online and keep my state-assigned gender reassignment.
So my pronouns are she/her, and I expect you to abide by that. I will also accept they/them, but only in writing. Thank you very much. And remember: Trans Lives Matter.