Just got back from the trip to DC. It was tons of fun, although I couldn’t really see the fireworks on the fourth. I’ve also just been spoiled by Chicago fireworks, where the lakefront means seeing the fireworks well (and from close enough to hear and feel the ‘boom’) is the rule rather than the exception. But the non-fireworks parts were fun!

Flying was, fortunately, uneventful. I went in a sports bra and baggy shirt (my ‘lazy drag’) which got me through security without any hassle, even though I wasn’t particularly happy about the outfit. I was “ma’am”ed, both on the way to DC and on the way back, which did make me feel better.

Going out on Saturday night was a mixed bag, although ultimately lots of fun, but made me that much more eager for July 20 to roll around, and my name change to be finalized, so I can get new ID…

I enjoyed getting all dressed up (“all dressed up” mean tight jeans, low heels, and a low-cut top) with the friend I was visiting and her roommates, and chatting on the way to the bar. We went to a street in DC that’s clearly targeted at the bar-going crowd, as the storefronts were almost exclusively bars, clubs, pizza places, and late-night Mexican food. It was interesting seeing DC nightlife, particularly so soon after fireworks, and getting a different feel from the city than walking around the Mall. (My friend said her neighborhood is almost exclusively young, white kids working at non-profits and Latino families, and what I saw seemed to confirm that.)

I mentioned on the way to the bar that I hoped I wouldn’t have any ID trouble, and that the most issues I’d had so far were a few double takes and one, “Really?” Well, that night I apparently wasn’t so lucky, although I readily admit that – compared with the horrible hate crimes against trans women I’ve heard about, and against anyone not conforming to heteronormative ideals – I got off pretty lightly.

I gave my ID to the bouncer, who looked at it, at me, back at it, and back at me. That’s usually what I get from bouncers who are paying any sort of attention to the picture/name/gender marker on the ID, so I wasn’t phased. I went out of my way to continue looking him straight in the eye, and trying not to seem nervous.

He finally asked, “This is you?”

“Yup.”

He seemed somewhat unsure of how to proceed, since I obviously didn’t look much like the ID and yet was not backing down that it was mine. “What’s your name?”

“My legal name?” I asked this not trying to be smart, but because I wasn’t sure whether he meant the name on the ID or the name I’m going by.

“The name on the card.”

Well, that answers that question… I rattled off the name, address, and birthdate on the card, as I damn well should be able to do.

“Do you have any other ID with this name?”

Unfortunately, I didn’t. I’d specifically chosen to go out just with my license and some cash – since I was staying with someone else, I didn’t feel like I needed my phone and I certainly didn’t need my keys, as everything they opened was 600 miles away. I finally responded, “I’m sorry, I don’t. I’m working on getting a new ID, but it’ll be another couple weeks. I assure you, I wish I had an ID that looked more like me just as much as you do.”

The friend I was staying with came out to lend her support. “She’s getting a new ID in a few weeks.

The bouncer finally shrugged his shoulders, gave me back my ID, and waved me in. I gave a sigh of relief, and went into the club.

I do want to note that the bouncer was not rude or condescending. Rather, it seemed like he was honestly trying to prevent someone he thought had someone else’s ID from getting in, and wasn’t sure what to do about me clearly not looking like my ID. So I don’t hold it against him, but it’s still frustrating and got me worried that he was going to be an ass about it.

Almost instantly, though, something happened that did make me feel better. While at the bar getting our drinks, a few guys came up to the group I was with and said they were on a scavenger hunt for someone’s twenty-first birthday, and needed photos of girls kissing their cheeks. They asked the friend I was staying with and her roommate. Which, I’ll admit, did make me a little sad not to be chosen.

But then, the one who they didn’t kiss asked me for a kiss on the cheek, which made me feel lots better about my appearance and general presentation. And thankful for drunk 21-year-olds everywhere.

And yes, for what it’s worth, there is now a picture floating around – almost certainly on Facebook at this point, although fortunately not at all linked back to me – of me kissing some random guy’s cheek in a shady bar in DC for his scavenger hunt.)