Reclaiming my maiden name among casualties of the Patriot Act

Karin Anderson, Las Vegas Sun

Sunday, May 7, 2006 | 9:05 a.m.

I was eager to be divorced. Get my life, my name, back. The divorce finally came through after 15 long months of waiting.

On Jan. 26, I go to the Social Security Administration with all necessary documents in hand. I wait in line for over two hours, gleefully, my eyes on the prize. My number is finally called. I step up to the bulletproof window and confidently push my paperwork under the glass.

I'm here to get my name back, I declare. The agent says nothing. He looks over my documentation. I am so glad to be doing this, I say. I've been waiting an eternity, it seems, to be me again.

Nothing.

Neither your divorce decree nor your court order for name change list your birth date, he says. Without something listing that date, we can't issue you a new Social Security card.

You have my driver's license.

But it only has your maiden name. We need two forms of government-issued ID - one with your maiden name and one with your married name. These both have to list your date of birth or age.

An ID with my married name just doesn't exist.

Do you have your marriage license? That would list both names and can be substituted for the two forms of ID.

I think I burned it in a voodoo ceremony.

He doesn't laugh.

I'm kidding, I say. It's packed away in storage 2,500 miles from here. I have no way to get it.

Well. I'm afraid you'll have to come back then when you do get it.

You're kidding, right?

Actually, quite serious.

No, really, you don't understand. I just moved here from the East Coast and I am signing mortgage papers in less than a week. My house cannot have my ex-husband's name on it. I clear my throat.

Hmm, he says. He begins to explain homeland security things I don't understand and cites the Patriot Act. Lovely.

Isn't there something, anything, I can do to make this happen today? I plead.

Well, no.

Does that mean I will be permanently married to this name but not the man it belongs to? I wince. I cannot carry this name one more day. It's burning a hole in my heart. Please, I grovel. I begin to pray under my breath.

He looks at me for a while. I look back doing my best not to puppy-dog stare.

He pulls a red three-ring binder off the shelf behind him and starts thumbing through the pages. I say nothing.

You can order a copy of your marriage license from the state you were married in, he says.

A tear slides slowly down my cheek. Really.

He goes back to his book. There's just nothing that links you to your married name, he says.

Me. I link me. Here, I have a credit card with it. A library card. A Hollywood Video card. I desperately spill the contents of my wallet and handbag onto the counter.

Not valid.

Finally, he finds something in his red book that says that because my Social Security number is listed on my divorce decree and that number used to be registered to my maiden name, I probably had enough evidence to show that the old me and the new me were indeed one in the same.

I decide not to tell him I could kiss him.

As he finishes up the last details, I thumb through my passport. And there on the very last page is my married name typed in as an addendum.

Look! I exclaim. Here it is. If I'd only seen this before, we wouldn't have gone through all of that. I could have given you this with my driver's license and been done with it. I'm so sorry. I have no recollection of changing my passport. But as I am telling him that, I vaguely remember talking with my ex about a honeymoon to Scotland, which never materialized. And for that, I had gotten my passport amended.

As I am walking out, it occurs to me that now I will have to get my passport changed, too. Brilliant.

OK. I sign for the house with my new, my old name. I fly back to the East Coast to get my stuff and to turn over my car to the shippers.

My Social Security card finally arrives, only days before my driver's license is to expire on Feb. 28. The DMV Web site says I need that card, my old license and another form of government issued ID.

My passport is still in my married name. But I've got my birth certificate. I'm good to go. Again I stand confidently in the line. Again I present my documents. Again I am rebuffed.

I'm sorry. We can't honor that birth certificate. He starts to cite the Patriot Act again. I am beginning to wonder what good this Patriot Act can possibly be doing.

What do you mean? I say. This is my birth certificate. It's the only one I've ever had. I've been using it all my life.

Well, it's not valid for our purposes.

How can it not be valid? It's the real thing. It's all brown and crispy and it's even got the little stampy thing on it. See? I hold it up to him. What could possibly be wrong with it?

Listen, there's nothing I can do. It has to be issued by a state. This is from a hospital. You can order a new one from the state for a fee. (A hefty fee, it turns out.)

At midnight tonight, my license will expire. I couldn't come before now. I'm pleading. It will take time to get a new birth certificate, or amend my passport. What do I do in the meantime? I don't want to drive illegally, I say.

He shrugs his shoulders. I've lost him. His gaze has gone through me to the next person in line.

Dejected, I stand aside.

Well, that's just great. So, now what.

I get back in my car and cry like the girl I am.

I go home, research the passport thing, gather the necessary documents and ship them off FedEx.

A week or so later, I get an envelope in the mail from the U.S. Passport Center in Charleston, S.C. That was fast. Things are looking up.

I fish out my shiny new passport and open it. There aren't any changes. I'm confused. I did exactly the same thing I had done to get it amended to my married name. Why wouldn't they change it back?

I pull out the letter on top. "Effective September 26, 2005" (as part of the Patriot Act, of course) ...

Bloody hell. Who is my congressman out here anyway? Can't something be done about this Patriot Act? How are normal nonterrorist types like me supposed to function? This is madness!

So now I have to apply for a brand new passport, go get new pictures taken and printed. I do it all dutifully and ship it all off again FedEx. My license is now almost three weeks expired.

In the meantime, I might as well do something productive. I'm going to switch investment guys. He wants to consolidate my accounts. Consolidation is good. I fill out the forms, answer the questions. Then I get a phone call from his assistant. We need you to verify your new and old addresses. It's because of the Patriot Act. Until we get that information from you, we can't move your accounts.

Good grief. Do I need to go on some kind of a crusade to warn nonterrorist women like me against moving or traveling or retiring or investing or certainly changing their names when they get married? Of course, the ultimate irony is that the illegal Eastern European immigrant who married me - for what I now believe was solely to obtain citizenship - is now happily working for the Bush administration.

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