Granted relief

Today is the first day that the Law recognizes me as Logan. (What a thought to begin the day!)

I posted recently about this legal process, which has been both lengthy and expensive. Yesterday, however, was brief and sweet.

My dear friend J. (the one for whom I made the mix tape) and I made our court dates for the same day. We’d planned to meet at the courthouse, but ran into each other earlier as we voted at our local precinct, an elementary school across the street from that little bakery I so appreciate. It was so picturesque: J., leaving for the courthouse, just as I pulled up to vote. We caught each other’s eyes through our open car windows, and just laughed with a familiar non-surprise at our unplanned crossing of paths. We laughed again when we realized we’d dressed alike, as we often do: khakis, brown dress shoes and belt, a blue dress shirt and a fierce, narrow tie. (His was plaid, and mine was striped. You know, in case you were wondering.) And, of course, the always fashionable “I Voted” sticker, to prove to the judge what good citizens we transmen can be.

He waited while I voted, and then we drove together to the courthouse. We went to the third floor and sat quietly, just the two of us. A few more people trickled in, then the judge, and our hearings began. I was second on the docket, and J. third.

My birth name was called. Unrepresented, I walked to the podium alone. The judge asked me to announce and spell my birth name for the court. I’m told this doesn’t always happen; courts that are more sensitive to this process probably wouldn’t flaunt or force this recognition of a name no longer in use. But for this once, I didn’t seem to mind. Almost as though it was ceremonial – one last time, in front of the Law and my chosen family, will I voice this part of my history, because from now on my new self is also my legal self. A reversal of greetings: goodbye, and then hello. So yes, one last time, I said my old name, and said goodbye. And then:

“What would you like for us to do, today?”
“I’d like to legally change my name, please, to Logan Samuel.”
“For what purpose?”
“I’m transitioning. And for personal preference.”
“Have you ever been convicted of any crimes?”
“No.”
“Are you aware of any creditors who might be defrauded by this name change?”
“No.”
“Very well, I find no reason to believe this request is made with fraudulent intent, and I have an affidavit stating timely publication of a notice of this request. Does anyone object to this grant of relief?”
[my heart, jumping a bit]
“Very well, I grant this request and have signed it so ordered.”

She smiled so warmly. And then it was over.

J. was called next, and took his turn standing before the court. A few short minutes later, he and I hugged tightly, and called each other by our new, legal names.

…

A day later, I’m still thinking, more than anything else, about language. The most emotional moment in this whole process was the simple language the judge used yesterday. Not its brevity, or its authority, but that this language was formulaic, chosen for her, used for any multitude of purposes (but almost certainly without thought of changes like mine), and nonetheless captured so much of my emotion.

A “grant of relief,” indeed. Such relief in recognition.

Maybe there’s a little room in the Law for me, after all.

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