Dreaming of my name-change ceremony
Like many people daydream about their future wedding, I’ve been thinking about my name-change ceremony lately. I don’t really think there’s a ceremony, but there is a trial in a courtroom involving three witnesses.
In my mind, I’ve been picking my witnesses like others pick their groomsmen or bridesmaids (or bridesmen or groomspersons or…), except with a bit more strategy. I’m 19 and my closest friends are around my same age, and although I know they’re responsible –and they’re the people who know me best– the judge will be more likely to trust older people. So I might choose one friend, one teacher and one family member.
I’m very lucky that I can count on several people to stand up for me. I have enough close friends to make it hard to pick just one; a few family members might agree to go; and I can ask my old Art History, Photography, Journalism and Psychology teachers (I don’t know if they’d all be willing go to court, which is scary and serious, but it’s worth a try).
I don’t know if I’ll have to go through a trial because I’m not yet ready to change my name legally, and trans rights might be approved in Congress very soon, turning it into a matter of routine paperwork instead of having to sue the state. But if I did go through an ordeal involving witnesses, I think I’d cry uncontrollably from the sheer weight of knowing that people are there for me. The very thought overwhelms me sometimes already, but the formal recognition of that support would push me into tearland.
Maybe that’s why people cry at weddings.
Note: since writing this, I’ve learned that it’s a really unromantic affair, and witnesses have to testify on their own in an office. Oh well. I can still daydream about the day name-change laws are modified, which will be much more important than any individual triumph.