The air in probate court is just as heavy as any other court. At least , for me because I always assume the worst where courtrooms are concerned. We all sat there huddled in squeaky leather chairs, footsteps shushed by thick navy carpet. Something as simple as a name doesn’t require much paperwork. The court only meets once a week for this specific reason and there are only half a dozen requests even that often. It’s the most service-like of the civil service proceedings I’ve witnessed.
I got there early, like I do. Being early is relaxing. Patience stemming from not wishing my time away. I used to hurry everywhere on a tight schedule so I could get it all done. Go go go. Restless. These days, I don’t miss any chance to relax. Waiting in the hallway, watching the legal types go by, a beautiful face with bouncy brown hair separates from the suits. Polly, from yoga. Cleaned up, I don’t recognize her. She knows enough history to be happy for me. It’s nice to see a friendly smile. She wishes me luck.
At 1:09 they open the courtroom. The session is scheduled for 1:30pm. Ten of us file in altogether. Four women of three generations in one group, a Hispanic pair (with interpreter), a stick-thin elderly man, a not-thin younger man, a professional-looking young woman, and me – a crazy girl with blue hair. The bailiff asks us to turn off cell phones shortly after entering the court. A very pleasantly-shaped young lady came in and sat down at the stand below the judge’s bench right at 1:30. And then, we waited.
The judge was late. For nearly 20 minutes we all sat staring at nothing, or everything, left to our own thoughts. After seeing everything of interest in the room, I reminisced about my previous traffic court appearance, A Few Good Men, Youth Legislature, and the old downtown Post Office. In that order. When Judge Karen Webster arrived, she apologized for her lateness and got straight to business.
Lucky for me, my file was the last case on the docket. I bore witness to each case before mine and it only increased my anticipation. There’s no real contest to a name change as long as all included parties agree and you aren’t trying to hide. Some cases require affidavits and relevevant testimony. My only interested party is me and if I’m hiding, it’s in plain sight. Still, a little part of me didn’t believe the judge would go for this. The name I’m asking for is just a little too odd to escape notice.
First case was with the interpreter, so I didn’t get much in the exchange. One thing that stood out was the judge’s phrasing at the conclusion. She said, “The court grants your petition to change the name,” followed by whatever it was. Someone changed the name of their kids to match theirs. Others petitioned to change their own name. Each time, she repeated that phrase – “the court grants”. My heart sung with it each time. As I waited, I realized I desperately want that acknowledgement.
The next case concerned the four women. Two daughters there to get their mother’s last name appended to their fathers. 9 and 13, they both sat in wide-eyed wonder observing the proceedings. Judge Webster was kind enough to invite the elder daughter onto the witness stand to testify that she, in fact, wants her name changed. The girl’s excitement to play grown-up resonates with my own extended adolescence. I still can’t wrap my head around the idea of adulthood.
They might have arranged the docket by difficulty of petitioner because the man that went before me was the only other case to give the judge pause. Once the elderly man approached the bench and swore in they allowed him to sit at floor level instead of making him climb the witness stand. Little dignities of a well-managed operation. He was there to correct his birth certificate. The man had gone his whole life known as Trevor Kurtz but his birth certificate was filled out Trey Kurtz. He wanted to correct his legal name to the identity he’s claimed his whole life. The judge even pointed out that there is a felony charge against the name Trevor Kurtz and by claiming that identity he also claims the charge. The man said very firmly, “Yes ma’am, I have been Trevor Kurtz my whole life. I want my name to match.”
That’s when I realized what I wanted so badly. In granting my name change the court allows me to claim my identity. Despite any reservations my friends and family might have, Judge Karen Webster looked me in the eye as a responsible, capable adult and said, “You go, girl.”
Once she granted my petition, I couldn’t wipe the shit-eating grin off my face.
The clerk at the counter stamping my paperwork looked at my paperwork and said, “Ro. Chelle. That’s a STAR name right there. You gonna try out for American Idol?”
I laughed, but he’s right. Not everyone chooses their name that deliberately. It’s a powerful statement to go before a judge and pay the not-small fee required to claim who you really are. I didn’t know how big a change it is until it was over. I walked out of the courtroom with full acceptance of my personage and the resulting consequences. No excuses.