Divorce Court

Divorce Court

Seven minutes.  There sits a large digital clock with bright-red numbers on the court clerk’s desk. It ticks off the exact time, right down to the second and I feel like I’m at a hockey game.  It’s the end of the third period, time is running out.  I took my seat in the “petitioner’s” chair at 11:15:31 and stood up at 11:22:15.  I intentionally watched the clock so I would know.  One minute per year of marriage is how it worked out. 

But before you sit in front of the judge you must sit in the benches and listen to the others. One after another, children’s futures planned, money sorted out, cars and houses divided, insurance plans reviewed. One after another they say “Yes, it is all worked out”.  “Yes, your honor. I understand.”  I echo the same words not really understanding at all. That would come much later.

As I wait, I listen to a large breasted woman in a thin-strapped, bright-red print dress. I imagine how her thin black heels struggle to support her weight. Her black bra straps are misaligned with the red straps of the dress and I can’t stop looking at it, wanting to help her fix it because it looks terrible.  But she is happily oblivious to her attire, dyed-blonde and upbeat saying “I thought bright red was appropriate for divorce day”. 

I am perplexed by her presence.  I compare her to me wearing earrings from my Father, the necklace that was my Mother’s before she died and a chain of beads made by my daughter in my pocket. I am summoning the strength of the people who love me, to get me through what I see as a very difficult day.  But the woman in the red dress has a different perspective.

She talks to a man next to her. He’s good-looking and well-dressed.  She is bold and confident and prying.  Her questions let him reveal that he has been married for fifteen years and has five children aged fourteen years to eighteen months.  “Well, you were together eighteen months ago at least”, she says to him with a slight chuckle.  “After five kids I’d kick you out of the bedroom too”, she says. He is not offended, he seems to want to talk. He tells her his wife is Mormon and had a message from God that these kids were meant for her. He wanted to stop after three, tried to get a vasectomy after four but his wife wouldn’t “let” him.  I hear his choice of words and wonder how a person can give control of their body to someone else.  After five it seems he thought it easier to divorce than have more children. 

The lady in red has three children Brittany, Brandon and Douglas; ages sixteen, thirteen and ten. Brandon is gifted, taking college courses that cost her $1500 per month.  I know all this because there are no secrets or privacy in divorce court.  I know the names and ages of the five Mormon children too, and what grades they’re in and what activities they like.  I know how they will spend their summer vacations until they are eighteen years old, where they will have their birthday parties and which parent’s tax return will carry their name and in which year.

There is another man who makes a lot of money. I know this because the judge said so, in front of everyone.  The mother of his only child wanted life to be a party. She did not want to be in a relationship so she went back to Ohio with their four year old son Dustin.  She stole him from his Dad and now his Dad wants him back.  I listen to the judge ask this man, several times, why it is in the best interest of Dustin to live with him, many states away from his mother and two half-siblings. (Each from a different man; proof of the partying-mother he says) He is calm and articulate, dressed in a suit.  He calls the judge “Your Honor”.  He has black hair with bangs, which I find strange for a man, and they are cut straight as an arrow across his forehead, like Alfalfa. He says he will share custody; he only wants to be part of his son’s life.  I believe him.  He gets his order but I wonder how it will turn out. Will Ohio care what Arizona says?  I mostly wonder how the judge can know what is best.  How can she decide four year old Dustin’s future having never met his mother?  How can she know in seven minutes?

My heart breaks because none of this is right. Partying mothers and dyed-blonde divorcees with their black bra hanging out.  Ex-Mormons paying $1700 a month in support and others fighting to get anything at all from their own previous partners and parents of their children.  Maybe there are very good reasons for the way things are, after all, I think my own reasons for being in this room are good.  Still I am so sad and heavy listening to stories worse than my own.  There are too many.

And then there is the judge, a middle-aged woman with long grey hair and gold-rimmed glasses. She could be in a Harry Potter movie with her black robe and her two-story desk towering over the room.  She speaks kindly and always says “Good Luck” at the end of each case, right before she includes each child’s name, even all five of the Mormons.  She seems to know the children’s names before you are called, as if she has memorized them ahead of time. But I know she hasn’t because they just handed her my file yet she talks of my children as if she has met them.

Seven minutes later, once she is convinced that it is all worked out, the clerk hands me my official documents and I leave the room.  In the hall I don’t know how I should feel; certainly not happy, ready to throw on the red dress and heels.  But how sad should I be? How hard should I be on myself for decisions that led me down this path and now have consequences for other, smaller lives?  How easily should I forgive myself for being in this situation?

Time will tell.  But I’d bet it will take longer than seven minutes.