Lover's Cross

"Lover's Cross". Acrylic on Canvas © 2014 Linnie Aikens Lindsay

Writing about my many names in a previous post, reminded me of the dark time that I changed my first name. Often since 1991 the old Jim Croce song, Lover's Cross of 1973, has come to mind when I think about how I gave up so much of myself in my first marriage. A lifetime friend once told me, "Not only did he steal your name; he stole your essence." Ugh, harsh words, but I have only myself to blame. I let him. I gave it away.

This is the humiliating story, written in dialogue form, of the day I went to court to change my name. I was 31 at the time.

“May the court hear Case #734259, the Case for the Name Change of Linnie Jean _____.” 

For the past 45 minutes I’d been sitting quietly in the courtroom and almost didn’t hear my name.  Certainly, I felt intimidated by the whole court procedure, but what I hadn’t counted on was the beauty of my surroundings.  I had anticipated the usual legal interior of T.V.’s “L.A. Law” courtroom, which hadn’t changed much from the “Perry Mason” courtroom of childhood T.V.  Not this though.  This room was like a museum!  Murals and frescos covered every wall.  Depictions of the Spanish settlement of Santa Barbara and the native Chumash peoples who’d lived here during that time.  The open beam ceiling was rough-hewn and painted with little Spanish designs, like what you’d see on Spanish tiles. Candelaria (incandescent candles in rustic, vintage chandeliers) hung from the beams. The benches were authentic from the same period, varnished by use of nearly 200 years. I’d been temporarily distracted by the historical and artistic ambience.  Yes, I’m was an ambience girl, and seeing amazing artwork would always serve to distract me from the realities of life.  Today this is a good thing.  I’d been dreading this day for a month.  How did I ever let him talk me into this, I questioned myself, not for the first time.

The bailiff called out into the quiet courtroom. “Is Linnie Jean ______ present?”

“Yes. I am present,” I say from about five rows back.

“You may stand and address the court with 'Yes, your honor'.”  More than a little embarrassed, I quickly stood.

  “Yes, your honor.  I am present.”

  “Please state your name please. Your present name.”

  “Linnie Jean _______.”

  “Linnie Jean _______, your honor,” the bailiff corrected again.

            Butterflies flapping suddenly inside, disrupting the calm I had worked so hard to effect earlier, I corrected my answer, “Linnie Jean _______, your honor. I am sorry, your honor.”

            “That’s quite alright, young lady.  I gather, you’ve never been in a courtroom before?”  He smiled kindly and chuckled, but I remained tense.

            “No, I haven’t...your honor.”

            “Well, I must say that is refreshing in my business, young lady.”  He chuckled to himself some more.  There were quiet titters around the room, but I was too nervous to look around.  He went on, “So, it says here that you are seeking a name change, from, ah….let’s see, Linnie Jean _______ to… Victoria Aikens _______?” he’d glanced through the papers then looked up at me.

            “Y-y-e-s, your honor.”

            “Interesting,” he seemed to muse.  “So it would please the court to hear why you are changing your name.” 

            “I-I-I …I…  Forget the butterflies.  I’m talking a thousand frenzied bats inside now.  Flapping and biting too!   I cleared my throat.  Well… My husband doesn’t really like my name…” The judge raised his eyebrows.  I forged on.  “He says it isn’t sophisticated enough for a politician’s wife.”  More titters around the room punctuated the following silence.  The judge’s eyebrows rose even higher, and he wrote something down in front of him, his brows furrowing a moment.  The bailiff hid a smile with his hand. “…So he… and I ...decided together to choose a more appropriate name that can be easily pronounced in Spanish.” As the bailiff opened his mouth again to correct my address, the judge lifted his had slightly to the bailiff and stilled his words. “Your honor,” I quickly added.

            The judge just sat and looked at me for a few minutes in silence.  I tried not to fidget.  I tried to ignore the whispers around me.  I put my shoulders back, lifted my chin, and forced a smile.

            Finally, “How long have you been married, young lady?”

            “Four years, your honor.” Phew, I didn’t forget the address this time was all I could think. He made a great show of looking around the room. Now what? I wondered. He resumed, “Is your husband here with you?”

            “No, your honor.  He was unable make it.”  He raised one eyebrow this time.  Seeing it, I followed up with, “He has an important job, your honor,” I quickly explained.  Lame.  Like he won’t see right through that one, the wayward thought flitted through my mind.

            “Hmmm.  And, would you consider yourself to be happily married, young lady?”  I paused, confused.  I wondered why he was asking so many questions.  They told me these kinds of cases take two minutes, no more, slam-dunk sort of thing, nothing to worry about.  What’s the question again?

            “I’m sorry, your honor.  Can you repeat the question, please?” I ask embarrassed.

            The judge’s eyebrows furrowed this time.  He answered, “Are you happily married?"

            “Oh yes!  We are expecting a baby this year!”  I don’t have to pretend to be happy at this.  The judge watched me for a few minutes longer, looked around the full courtroom again, then seemed to make a decision.

            “Before I rule on this, I’m curious.  What is wrong with Linnie?  It seems to me to be a quite suitable and lovely name.”  He squinted his eyes as if that helped him listen better.

            “Well, he, my husband,” I stammered, “never said my name and he didn’t really like my name because he said it didn’t sound sophisticated enough for his standing in the community.” The bailiff started to interject his address correction again, but the judge raised a forearm to forestall him once again.

            The judge quietly asked me to explain this scenario, while his expression reflected a mixture of what looked to be surprise and maybe disbelief.

            I closed my eyes in mortification.  I knew better than to lie, for I’d never been good at it, even though I’d tried a number of times in my life, especially as a kid. Yes, I am a failure when it comes to lying.  I also have never been able to think very fast when put on the spot, especially with people looking at me.  I opened my eyes and grimaced and finally took a deep breath.  He raised his eyebrows again.  I went for broke. 

            Staring at a little spot on the judge’s bench, I explained, or rather, babbled on in nervousness, “Your honor, one day I asked my husband why he never said my name when he talked to me.  He said it was because he couldn’t pronounce it. You see, he couldn’t say the short-i sound because it’s not a sound they use in Spanish.  He also felt Linnie Jean sounded, well, too “Oakie-like” he said, so I brainstormed some names I thought he would like.  Aubrey was the one I liked the best and finally settled on.”

            “Really? So why are you asking to change your name to…” he shuffled through his papers to find the name, “Victoria, then?”

Without considering, I blundered on in my nervousness, telling the whole truth, “My husband told me that he could never say that name in public because pronounced in Spanish it meant a cow’s udders, and ‘I mean, look at you!’” I finished by rote in my husband’s voice and gestures in memory of that day, by throwing my hand out in emphasis like he had toward my chest.

Outright laughter erupted around me then.  Even the judge’s lips twitched in barely restrained amusement.  He banged his gavel.  “Order.”  He didn’t say anything for what seemed like five more minutes, presumably as he fought to regain his authoritative demeanor.  Tears had started to ease from my eyes despite my will to stop them. Could this be any more humiliating?

He must’ve taken pity on me at that point, for he cleared his throat and spoke.  “The court, while it certainly understands your predicament and commiserates, feels compelled to ask if you are absolutely certain that this is something that you want to do.  The court, in its experience and wisdom, feels it must point out that decisions such as this sometimes are regretted later.  Are you quite certain that this is what you want to do, young lady?”  The way he said it made me feel like a child being scolded by her grandfather, hoping that she would realize her error of her ways and change her mind. 

“Y-y-es, I am sure,” I said quietly.  Just when I realized I’d forgotten to say ‘your honor,’ he went on, a smile still hinting at the corner of his lips.  He’d decided to ignore my faux pas once again.

“Very well, young lady.  The court rules that from this day forward, your name be changed to Victoria Aikens _______.”  He banged the gavel.  I finally took a breath and started to quietly leave the courtroom, when he turned back to me.  “One more thing.  Out of curiosity, I’m wondering why you chose the name Victoria as your new name.”

“Oh, your honor.  It means victory!” I stated once again without considering my answer.  “Victorious against all odds, I like to think,” I added. 

Oh the irony of that one statement!

About 7 years later, after the comment by my friend, who had outright refused to ever call me Victoria, I returned to using my birth name. I had figured that I would take the steps to change it back when I remarried one day—simpler I thought rather than facing that judge again. As life would have it, I didn't remarry for almost 25 years, and then when I did, they told me that while I could change my surname to my new married name, I'd have to do a separate filing and court hearing to change my first name. As I was also applying for a new passport about the same time and not wanting to throw a monkey wrench into that process, I waited. I waited too long. All too soon, retirement was approaching, I was told not to throw another monkey wrench into that process or my retirement payments would be delayed. All that to say, I still lug around a legal name I don't use—a reminder of a lesson learned the hard way, while I've used my birth name unofficially for the past thirty plus years.

Still, it serves as a none-too-subtle reminder to never give my sense of self away again. Hopefully my daughters and nieces and their daughters learn as well from my mistakes in life.  Love your man, but never give your dignity and soul away, girls.  And for doggone sure; if a man asks you to change your first name, RUN!