“A child is born to us, a son is given us; upon his shoulder dominion rests. They name him Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero, Father-Forever, Prince of Peace.” Isaiah 9:5

On the eve of my forty-(mumble) birthday, I decided to treat myself to a trip to San Francisco with my good friend Lisa. My old-fashioned paper driver’s license was about to expire, and knowing current flight regulations required photographic documents, I decided to upgrade to the next plateau of identification: the digitalized photo license. 

“This should be easy,” I surmised. “I know my name, and all I have to do is step up to the Division of Motor Vehicles counter to get my picture taken.”

In olden days, one’s license renewal would have been rubber-stamped with only a crayoned drawing and a note from one’s third-grade teacher to verify identity, but in this Homeland Security-conscious time, applicants needed multiple forms of identification, an affidavit and climate-controlled genetic material to prove citizenship and license-worthiness.

Not a problem. I’ve owned and operated the same name my entire life: Christina. No one in my extended Italian/Polish ancestry shares this appellation, and no angel (Gabriel or otherwise) visited my parents to influence their choice.

A simple look at the calendar inspired my Roman Catholic mother-to-be to dub her eldest child. Since I was born the day before Christmas, my name was a logical selection made en route to the hospital. (Thank goodness I was not born around Groundhog Day or she might have chosen….wait for it….Punxsutawney).

Mom favored one version of the name over the other; “It’s Christina, not Christine,” she frequently admonished friends and strangers alike, and I had taken to doing the same over the years.

So, I thought, the acquisition of my photo license should be a breeze. Following the one-from-column-A, two-from-column-B guidelines in the DMV brochure, I amassed an impressive portfolio of “Christina” paperwork, a lock of hair, eye of newt and a DNA-laden extracted baby tooth to speed my passage towards the license. Oh, wait, my birth certificate… Quickly stopping at the bank’s safety deposit box, I grabbed it without closely examining the yellowed document, then drove to the state agency. 

“Welcome to the Division of Motor Vehicles; we are here to serve you,” promised the multi-lingual hanging signs bearing smiling faces.

Serpentine-roped aisles guided visitors to the appropriate workers (whose faces, truthfully, did not look quite as joyful as those on the hanging signs). As I shuffled through the line, I finally examined my ancient birth certificate for the first time in decades.

My name was carefully typewritten as “Christine” with the final “E” overwritten by pencil to an “A”.

What?!, Christine?!?! Why didn’t my mother correct the birth certificate legally rather than just verbally (and painfully) stress that final “A” my entire life??

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