I sat in the Social Security office, waiting to apply for a replacement card. I looked at the electronic sign that flashed the latest number being served.
When I saw my number, I headed for the plexiglass window. I slipped my passport and driver's license through the slot.
"Hi, my name is Aly Colon," I said. "I'm here to apply for another card. My original one accidentally got packed with my household goods when I moved, and it's lost."
The payroll department at my new company had told me the government enacted a law that requires employers to match Social Security numbers with the names of their employees. If the name on the Social Security card didn't match the name on their payroll records, I was told the company could be fined, and so could I.
The Social Security woman looked at her screen.
"I don't have anyone with that name," she said.
"But that's my name. It has always been my name. You can see it there on the documents I've given you."
"According to our records, your name is Aly Delval," she said.
"That's not my name," I said.
"That's what it says on my screen," she said.
I explained that that was not my name. That I had never gone by that name. Nor did I have any legal documents in that name. She said that's what she had. And she couldn't issue me a replacement card unless I could show her documentation that proved I was not Delval.
I thought for a moment and then explained that my mother's name sounded like the name she was telling me. And that in Puerto Rico, where I was born, they listed your father's name and mother's maiden name on your birth certificate.
She was adamant. If I wanted to be known as Aly Colon, I would have to go to court and have my name legally changed.
But why, I said with increasing frustration, would I go to court to change my name to the name I had had since birth, the name I used when I applied for a Social Security card as a teen more than 20 years ago? She stared at me with a blank expression. Finally, she relented. She agreed to send me a new card.
When the card arrived, I barely glanced at it as I turned it in to HR. Then the questions began. Who is Aly Delval? That name had begun appearing on my company e-mail. I was told Delval was the name on my Social Security card. I fished the card out of my wallet and took a closer look: "Aly Antonio Colon Delval."
I called HR, asking if they could use my real name on my e-mail until I cleared the matter up with Social Security. They could. But I kept forgetting to return to the Social Security office.
Then something happened I could not have anticipated. My company instituted a new, comprehensive and unyielding employee database. I became "Aly Delval" again. This time, IT couldn't override the system. Only the payroll department could. They wouldn't change it without a Social Security card that had a different name than the one they had on record — the card that I had foolishly given them with the very name I wanted to erase!
Worse, my medical provider sent me a new card in the name of "Aly Delval." When I called the provider, I was told they couldn't change that name back to my real name either; my company had to do it. I needed to change it because when my wife went to the doctor the folks there questioned her relationship to me.
I trudged back to the plexiglass window. They remained adamant. If I wanted my name to be Aly Colon, I had to go to court and legally change it. The cost: $110.
When I tried again to explain about Puerto Rico, I was asked for my certificate of naturalization. I said I was a U.S. citizen. That all Puerto Ricans had been U.S. citizens since 1917.
"I don't need a history lesson," she snapped.
"May I speak to the supervisor?" I asked politely.
A few minutes later, another woman stood behind the glass. She smiled. I explained my problem. She repeated what the first person had said. No name change unless I went to court.
Finally, I asked if they could at least spell my mother's name correctly: DelValle. She scrutinized my birth certificate and made the correction, had me sign a receipt and went back to staring at her screen.
I left the office, relieved that at least I would get a name that accurately reflected my genealogy. I pondered whether I should pay to get back the name I had lost because of some clerical error. Then I wondered if somewhere, Kafka sat listening and laughing.
Aly Colon writes freelance articles and is a former writing group leader at the Poynter Institute For Media Studies, which owns the St. Petersburg Times.
[Last modified: Jun 14, 2008 04:31 AM]
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