I vote for me

“I challenge this voter!”

Oh great.

“How am I supposed to know that this woman—“(Mind you, I’m standing right there, listening to this disgruntled voting booth worker question not only my identity, but from the sound of it, my gender…) “—is who she says she is?!”

I wanted to lean into him—while he sat behind his little plastic table and one inch thick glasses—sneer down on his little bald head, and yell, “And how am I supposed to know that you’re mentally stable?” But that would not have gotten me into the voting booth any faster. In fact, that would probably have ended with me being handcuffed and kicking my legs in the air, all while being escorted outside.

“Well, check under Whitman then,” I suggested, after Mr. Happy paged through the Rolodex of A-L and had not found me registered under my maiden name of Finley. And that’s how this whole song and dance started.

I might as well have told Mr. Happy I was planning to tar and feather the voting booths when I admitted I wasn’t quite sure what name I was registered under. It was then he threw his arms up and shouted, “Oh no! She can’t vote today! She doesn’t even know what her name is!”

Luckily, I was smart enough to stay calm and not throw my arms up too and stamp my feet. That is what I would have done in the past. Not this time! This time I made calculated and measured remarks. I explained, “Well, you see, I haven’t changed all of my identification over to my married name yet. We just got married last year and—“

“Last year? So what name do you go by?” Mr. Happy yell-asked me.

I felt like saying, "That's a great question, Mr. Happy! A question I don't really know the answer to. You see, I go by Ms. Finley during the day, but by Mrs. Whitman in my personal matters. My mail comes to Whitman but I love being a Finley... I'm so happy you asked! I'm just so confused about that." But obviously, I didn't explore that bit of irony with him in the moment.

In actuality, I said, "Yes, I was married last year, but not all of my information has been changed yet. I live here, in Queens, with my husband,” I smiled, and turned to point to Curtis, only to see that he was trying to stand off to the side, hide by the voting booth, and let me talk my way out of this mess I had so innocently gotten myself into. All I had to do was look at him to hear what he was thinking: “The only advice the clerk at Town Hall gave you when getting our marriage license was to be consistent. And here we are, not sure what our name is. I’m just sayin’…”

Ugh, I knew he was right. Not only does my driver’s license have my maiden name on it but it also has my mother’s home address—the place I officially moved out of upon going to college seven years ago. Oops! But c’mon, who wants to go to the DMV?

Just when I thought all hope was lost and that Mr. Happy would be sending me packing, three very lovely fellow volunteers swooped in and saved me! “Let’s read the manual, it has every answer to any question you could ever have,” a lovely 80 year-old Irishman informed Mr. Happy.

“What does it matter anyway, what name her driver’s license says? She voted in the Presidential election last year under Whitman. Just let her vote again under her married name!” a maternal 73 year-old vowed for me. I really had the urge at that moment to call her Grandma. I get very emotional and attached during intense moments. And anyone willing to stand up for me always and immediately becomes my best friend in my book.

“C’mon, Mr. Happy. Don’t you remember what it’s like to be a newlywed? You’re changing your life, you’re starting new, and there’s so much to do! And besides, I don’t think this lovely lady is pretending to be someone else,” my third defender chimed in.

Thanks, guys!

The four of us, standing together, creating a pretty solid case for my right to vote, was an impressive sight. Even though I was completely mortified, experiencing stomach palpitations, and compulsively eyeing the exit door, I didn’t back down. I stood my ground and knew I was going to vote for mayor and city comptroller even if it killed me—I was becoming a political activist right before my eyes! Having just come from the gym and running one very terrifying 14 minute mile, I was full of all sorts of emotions: Runner’s high, empowerment, embarrassment, excitement… The feeling was akin to what it would be like if while I led a riot and started setting buildings on fire, someone screams out, "You look so thin and impossibly fresh!" I was unstoppable. I was high.

“Fine, she can vote. Tell her she can go in the booth,” Mr. Happy informed the volunteer standing next to me.

I don’t actually remember for sure, but I felt like we all high-fived and jumped into the air and then freeze-framed. However, I think I just winked at Grandma and slunk behind the black curtain into the booth, mindful that I had caused quite a scene and should just stay mum.

But Mr. Happy touched on a nerve. Yes, I always like a good “fight for my rights” moment, but I wondered: If I don’t know what my name is, then who am I? Maybe I’ve kept my driver’s license true to my college self and in doing so preserved that time in my life. Why haven’t I just marched to the DMV and updated my license to match my new identity? Mr. Happy might be a miserable son of a gun, but he had a point…Hmm.

Yet, even if I haven’t quite navigated this limbo of names I’m in, I do know I’m the kind of person who will ultimately stand tall along the lines of injustice. And in the voting booth of life, isn't that all that really counts?