My Love Matters

There was a political uproar in Seattle immediately following the passage of Prop 8 in California. The evening Obama was elected was a night of great joy, but also heartbreaking disappointment: the state of California repealed the right for gays to marry.

I was crushed–I didn’t know whether I was  still “married” or not. After feeling married for over two years, even if only one of our weddings was legal, I felt like something had been taken from me.  It was like Ellen had gone back in the closet, or Sir John Elton admitted that he’d lip synched his whole career.

As soon as it was announced, I knew that we had to go to the march on November 15–to be around others who were outraged and hurt so none of us would feel alone. Ruby took this photo of me in front of the amphitheater at Volunteer Park, holding my sign. (Yes, that is a broom handle.) She was pregnant with Frances at the time.

I thought about what it was that could be taken from me, and what couldn’t, what it was that made the difference between being girlfriends and being wives, even if our legal marriage resided in a different state than we did.

Things changed after we had our first wedding ceremony. We shared so much joy with all our friends, chosen family, and family that I knew if we had rough times, 200 people would be there to root for the union. I think we both felt like there was a third entity in our relationship now;  the marriage was a new element to which we each had a relationship. I felt a protective urge that I’d never had before–she was my family now.

At our second, legal marriage, we had a different experience. I had an uncanny sense of history the day we were legally married. I thought of scenarios where our great great grandchildren would be looking for us on ancestry.com one day (ha ha), and would pull from a government archive database a copy of our marriage license. Both of our names, legally bound.

Hey, remember those old Great Aunts, the ones who “kept up with the same woman” for over 50 years? That couple who in the midst of  an otherwise totally dysfunctional family, managed to cohabitate longer than anyone else?

Well, that’s nice, but we’re not your weird Aunties anymore. We’re married. Went to the court. See photo.

At the Beverly Hills courthouse for our marriage license

(Speaking of Ellen Degeneres, just moments after this shot was taken outside the Beverly Hills Municipal Courthouse, I heard a reporter asking a counter clerk whether or not she’d happened to have helped Ellen or Portia DeRossi that day. In full I’m-busy-right-now voice, the clerk says: “No. Haven’t.” The reporter continues, “Oh, cause it’s real hushhush, but they’ll be in one office today, cause the word is the wedding’s on.” Let the record show that we are marriage buddies with Ellen and Portia, having gotten married on the very same day! Congratulations Ellen and Portia, and happy recent second anniversary!)

The clerk didn’t even glance at us when we handed her two female driver’s licenses from out of State. She handed us the clipboard with the “sign here. initial here, sign here” tour, and just as curtly and officially as to anyone else in that lobby said, “Come back when you’re done signing. You don’t have to wait in line again.”

I’d never been so overjoyed to be ‘a part of the system’ before. I hadn’t known it was missing, but it was the first time that I felt recognized as an adult by my government. Sure, I’d gotten a driver’s license at 16 and could drink at 21, but before this, there was no rite of passage into adulthood for a queer like me.

For months our status as a legally married couple in California hung in limbo. After two wedding ceremonies, we didn’t know if we were married. Or where.

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