There’s really only one reason why a herd of 20 well-dressed white Americans would be tramping through a cramped, busy district court building in Addis Ababa. Our intention was blatant, but still, it’s hard to be Caucasian and inconspicuous anywhere in Ethiopia; most people stare, not unkindly, but with solemn curiosity. We were ascending many, many stairs to meet the judge whom we had been waiting to see for an hour — nay, for many, many months.  It was a lot of stairs — later, the token jolly plus-sized joker joked that our agency should have a physical fitness requirement for those stairs, although most of us weighing under 200 pounds fared fine.

We had been waiting in the parking lot because there was no room for us to sit in the waiting room. The chairs lining the periphery of the room were filled. Along the back wall were Ethiopians, probably the birth families for other children who were being given up for adoption and needed to testify in front of a judge. There were several other white families who were obviously adopting, and whose agency didn’t tell them to get gussied up skirts and ties like ours did. With no place to sit, we stood in the middle of the room, facing a large sign that said “Silencio.” Our nervousness was palatable. With the recent slowdown in Ethiopian adoptions due to the government’s increased scrutiny of what has soured into a veritable trade of healthy infants (as opposed to aiding the truly needy children, who are older), there was a very probable chance that we would not “pass court” on that day or anytime in the near future because the court would not have the required letter from the Ministry of Women’s Affairs that states our child is eligible for adoption. In fact, Mr. P and I had met a group of families with the Holt agency at our guest house who had not passed court several days prior because they did not have the required letter. Our agency, which is one of the most reputable in Ethiopia as the program is run by a respected Ethiopian humanitarian (they even handled Brangelina’s adoption), prepared us for the possibility of leaving Ethiopia without knowing if the child was officially ours.

We stood rather awkwardly in the middle of the waiting room. A low murmur of conversation defied the “Silencio” sign, although I was so nervous that I could barely muster a smile to Mr. P as our eyes sought each other for reassurance. After a few minutes, the clerk came over and said two children’s names. Those couples went in. They came out three minutes later, and this time the clerk motioned to the three closest couples to the door. They came out, one of them flashing a thumbs up sign, and then we got herded in with three other couples.

The courtroom was more like an office, with two young women each seated behind a large desk covered in paper piles. I was the first one in the room so I took a seat furthest from the door near the windows. Mr. P sat next to me, and the other three couples filed in behind us. We sat down and the clerk collected our passports. One of the young women looked at us, looked at some papers, looked at our passports, and then studied us again. I realized she was the judge.

She spoke very softly plus there was noise coming from the windows. She called out a child’s name, and a couple answered “Here!” She called out another child’s name, and a couple answered “Here!” She called out what I thought was my child’s name, and I answered “Here!” Then she really called out my child’s name. Oh no. “Here!” we said again weakly. She looked hard at us and then dropped the passports and picked up a piece of paper.

Then came the questions. She asked and we answered collectively. Did we spend time with the child? Would we encourage the child to stay in touch with their Ethiopian heritage? Were our families supportive of the adoption? Did we understand that the adoption was final and irrevocable under the law? We answered in unison: Yes. Yes. Yes. (I thought with a laugh about one of the men, who told me that last night he was reading the Ethiopian wikipedia article and memorizing politicians in case the judge asked him to name the current president.)

The judge picked up some more papers and called out a child’s name. The couple raised their hands. “He’s yours,” she said. She called out another child’s name. “She’s yours.” She called out my child’s name. “He’s yours.”

I can’t even describe the sensation that passed through me. I think I grabbed Mr. P’s hand, I think I shook it vigorously. All I remember for sure was suppressing a shout of triumph. This child, this beautiful awesome wonderful child, was our child. Elation! Then I felt guilt because the judge was explaining to the last couple that the MOWA letter of approval was missing from their file, so she could not pass them.

We left the courtroom. I found my friend, a woman adopting a little boy the same age as mine who happens to live in our town, and we exchanged joyous smiles as we filed out of the courtroom and back to the van. We had passed court. We were going to the orphanage to hug our children.

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