Under his scrutiny, I wished I was in the UK, where judges wore serious wigs and robes to make sure everyone knew they were the body of the state. Sara K. was too confused to advocate for me, so I started to speak. “Well, that’s a great question, actually—” and then a security guard came and put his hand over my mouth.

“Do whatever you want, Ms. Henderson. Call yourself Hieronymus Bosch for all I care,” the judge said to me while the security guard’s institutional-pink-soap-cleaned hand was blocking my air flow. “But do not open your mouth in my court. Trans are children begging the government for luxuries, and they should be seen and not heard.”

It was refreshing to hear someone speak the truth about their feelings. In fact, it made me feel sane, substantiating all my anger-floods in the entrails of his disgust.

The judge might have granted the petition, all reservations aside, but before he could, a bell rang, closing the courts for the day.

“These proceedings have gone on far too long,” the judge said. “You’ll have to return next season.”

THE END

Two seasons had passed before they granted me a follow-up visit. I’d put the date in my calendar, where it had gone unnoticed with Blithe’s various upsets.

I’ll try 2 advocate for you tmrw if the judge says anything weird, Sara K. texted.

Last fall, when we left the building, she said she couldn’t believe the judge’s non-impartiality.

“I was taught at a highly prestigious institution that the law is fair and orderly, blind and righteous,” she told me in a heavy voice.

“Welcome to the other side of naïve faith in establishments,” I’d said.

I wasn’t sure if I could go through the humiliation of court while Blithe was in the hospital.

I found the Witch hanging upside down off her bed.

“Hey, can I talk to you about Blithe?”

“Yes.” She didn’t move, although her face was flushed red with blood.

“Have you heard of someone going unconscious soon after they enter the Shadowlands?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“They went to sleep. They woke up again.”

She closed her eyes, reversing the process. Her hair pooled on the ground, and her hands were folded on her stomach.

I felt better. I texted Sara K.

9am, I’ll be there.

Before I went to bed, I put my head between my knees and braided the top tuft of my hair as though I were eleven years old.

The court threatened me not only because they might reject the name change but also because they might approve it. I had lost so much in my young life, and I didn’t want the U, T, and H to be another severance.

A secret that I wished I could tell someone without rejection or more madness: I wanted to transition enough to “male” that I could reunite with certain girlhood parts and not have to explain myself.

If only I had my old diary with a lock and key.