Me & Jesus

It may not make sense to you, that I am not sure I believe in god – the capital G-o-d, but I do very much believe in Jesus. I spend a lot of time, in all seriousness, asking some form of “what would Jesus do?” and I take the answers I get to heart.

Growing up Irish-Catholic, albeit in a strange, lapsed and half-assed way, I was familiar with the idea that women inherently can’t measure up. “If you wanna be like Jesus you gotta pee like Jesus” is the strangely articulate way of summing up why women can be Sisters, but never priests. Why women are incomplete vessels, too weak to embody the Word. Anyone who grows up around nuns and female religious can tell you that there is nothing weak about the work they do. Those women are fearless and tireless. My great-aunt is a nun, a Maryknoll sister, and she has stories about war, famine, crocodiles and the bravery of her Sisters (and only indirectly, herself) in these conditions that would make a combat vet give mad respect. Many of these stories occurred after she reached the usual age of retirement, by the way.

When I was an undergrad in a Jesuit University, a political science professor I clashed with on values and political opinions passed me between classes.  He patted me on the shoulder and said, in front of a hallway full of students, that he was on his way to Mass and would “pray for me”.  I was startled, but I did manage to shout out to his retreating back “pray for yourself, Jesus holds me in the palm of His hand, and we’re all good.”

In law school at the same Jesuit institution, my Torts professor was rabidly devoted to the Catholic tenets regarding birth control, homosexuality and especially abortion.  He struck me as a bit presumptuous, as I heard he’d converted to Catholicism ten years prior, and here he was now, out-Catholic-ing those of us who’d put in our time since childhood.  He and I went head to head over the pro-choice law caucus I started and the fact that the LGBT student caucus could not, by school decree, use the words “gay”, “lesbian”, “bisexual” or “transgender” in their name. (The pro-choice law caucus could not use the word “choice”, either.)

You might wonder why a girl like me would set foot in an institution like that, but this is not the Catholicism I grew up rebelling against and admiring simultaneously.

Another prof, a Jesuit – you know, the real deal – described to us the Jesus I know. In a Theology course, of all things.  He discussed the Magnificat – the speech that Mary makes to Elizabeth right after the angel Gabriel appears and tells her that she will be conceiving and giving birth to the Son of God.  It’s not a speech that a submissive woman would make.  It is about how things around this Roman outpost are going to change when her son is born. Elizabeth is pregnant with John the Baptist, so this little conversation takes place between the mothers of two revolutionaries. God is going to do some housekeeping through her Son, she says:

He has showed might in his arm: he has scattered the proud in the conceit of their heart.
He has put down the mighty from their seat and has exalted the humble.
He has filled the hungry with good things: and the rich he has sent empty away. 

This last part, the professor/Father said, is extremely important to understand clearly. Jesus did not come to regulate whether one washes one’s hands properly, or whether personal habits are clean or unclean. He did not come to arbitrate the squabbles of priests in the temple over rules and regulations. He came with the express mission of ending the injustice of the rich and powerful over the poor and powerless. In short, this priest said, “Jesus is a communist.” “Note” he said, all twinkly, “that The Blessed Mother did not say ‘and the rich got lots of yummy treats, too’ she said they went hungry.”

God wanted his only begotten to remind his chosen people that while they were quarreling over what constitutes holiness, their race lived and died in slavery all around them.

This part of the message has always resonated with me. And the women of the New Testament have also always resonated in harmony with my little rebel heart. Even as a child, I could see that Mary (and Esther, and the Magdalene, and Elizabeth) were terrifying in their ability to persevere, and do the work of being good.

There is a reason that evangelicals and fundamentalists of all stripes work their asses off to minimize these women and their fierceness. You can’t actually be raised to revere New Testament women and think of women generally as weak, or their role as submission.

But back to me, and Jesus.  Like any son raised by a rebel mother, he hung with a bad crowd.  When people say “prostitutes, lepers and tax collectors” they are oversimplifying.  Jesus championed ‘fallen women’ of all kinds – adulteresses specifically.  Remember the stoning story? Though Magdalene was probably not an actual prostitute, she was not behaving like a good little woman, either. And if you read the Gospel of the Magdalene, you will see that she was an apostle in her own right. (That Gospel is not canon, as the geeks say. So you will have to go looking for it.) As for the lepers, Jesus did not see their suffering as warranted by some past sin, unlike everyone else. He saw disease and suffering as separate from sin. He would see AIDS the same way, regardless of what your local hatemonger preaches.

As for tax collectors, believe it or not, they were the most low of company. And the highest proof that Jesus was not about regulating personal morality, he was about compassion. See, a tax collector was not just a person considered odious because they took money and no one digs that. A tax collector was a race traitor – someone who aided the Romans in the genocide of their own people.  In Irish terms, The apostle Matthew would be your neighbor who took a salary to remove your crops and livestock at gunpoint from the fields for export to Britain, leaving your family to starve.

Jesus said exactly nothing about homosexuality, and exactly nothing about abortion.  Let’s be perfectly clear. And, as a young man living in Roman-occupied territory, these practices would not be unknown to him. Abortifacients were various and commonly used. Common wisdom and practice in the cultures of Jesus’ locality denied the incarnation of a human soul until either birth, or ‘quickening’, the time during pregnancy where the child can be felt to move. This translates roughly to about halfway through a pregnancy to the moments after birth. I learned this from another theology professor at a state University, a devout Jew.

Certainly, I don’t need to point out that homosexual practices were a Roman speciality. Yet Jesus? Totally silent about these two issues while he was walking the earth. And we are currently led to believe that these are the two issues of the day. Of the year. Of the election cycle. Of all freaking time.

Well, my expensive and intensive religious education, and my reading of the New Testament tell me that Jesus didn’t care.  It’s really that simple. He did not care who had sex with whom so long as no vows were broken, or whether women used their own means to choose when to have children. If he did, he would have said something. He was vocal that he felt that regulation of personal ‘cleanliness’ and ‘worthiness’ (including a focus on the sexual practices of others) had distracted his people from the real evil – the one he actually names. Money.

Jesus says nothing about gay sex or abortion, or even sex prior to marriage, but he said and did a lot about the problem of greed. He loses his self-control only toward the money-changers in the temple. He urges his followers to give up materialism, he condemns the rich specifically (camels, eyes of needles…) as unlikely to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.  He is dismissive about  the paying of taxes (render unto Caesar…) because he wants his followers to place no particular value on money and does not care if Rome continues to profit. From his vantage, it is the rich who will be judged in the end.

But don’t take my word for it, go read it. Take special care with the Sermon On The Mount, where Catholic doctrine tells followers the heart of Christian Law is revealed. What is mentioned there, in what I think of as Jesus’ mission statement?

Love. Humility. Lack of Judgment. Rejection of materialism.  Feed the hungry, house the homeless, give your money to people who need it. Stop planning your retirement, just do good and expect good in return.  I’m not messing, it’s all there.

What is condemned? Hypocrisy. Showy piety. Wealth. Judgment. Prejudice. Violence. Dishonesty. Xenophobia.

So, I guess what I would like from all the men preaching that my life and beliefs are immoral is for them to keep their eyes on their own paper. Do their own work. Clean their own houses. Stop legislating what can’t be legislated – my own, personal ethics and morals. Which I like to believe, are Jesus-approved.

I check in with the Jesus regularly, if not religiously.  I assure you. Me & Jesus, we’re all good.

Not that it’s any of your business.

Women in White

I am dreading the next few months because my State has passed a marriage equality bill through the House and Senate and, sometime next week amid much fanfare, the Governor will sign it.  She’s already promised.

And it’s not that my jaded little heart can’t go all goosepimply over the prospect of all those his & his & hers & hers weddings.  I positively weep whenever another state opens up their city halls and starts tying knots. Always first is some incredibly aged couple who have been waiting, waiting, waiting for decades to be told that their love is registered. Like an earthquake, on some cosmic scale.

And it is not because I won’t benefit directly from this sudden equality.  I have already warned my co-workers that on the very first day that licenses are available I will be absent from my post and camped out in front of City Hall with my 58 dollars, picture i.d. and a video camera to document my giddy bridal excitement.

I am so ready to make it legal with the woman I call my Unlawfully Wedded.  The fact that we already had a wedding in August just makes me feel superlucky. I could be twice-wed in a year. And to the same person, even!

I am just bracing for the hate. See, between the Gubernatorial signing gala and the nuptial extravaganza there will be a Referendum Drive.  Holy troops of volunteers with God in their hearts and pocketsfull of ball point pens and talking points will descend upon us like plagues of locusts. Or toads. And they will assault us with their hate.

The work I do is rough. It tests the limits of what I can see and hear without giving up entirely on the human race. But I do manage to get up every morning and march off whistling.  Because outside of my job, I live in a bubble where everyone I discuss and love and work with and dine with – yes, even the Republicans and yes, most lovely of which are the Christians – all of the people I see on the regular support my family. And this is by design.  I am not built to fight all day in the public arena and then come home and scrap with the people who profess to love me. I like my bubble. I guard it fiercely.

But when I hear of this referendum fight, I keep picturing my local grocery store and how I will be walking the gauntlet week after week to retrieve my yogurt and school-lunch-friendly juice boxes. You know, the ones hippy enough not to induce instant diabetes, but not so hippy that the 7 year-old is too embarrassed to drink them in public. And the soy milk. (I am a lesbian.)

I will have to pass some dickhead with a clipboard, asking people to sign a petition to remove my marriage right from me. Some dickhead who actually believes he can accomplish that feat. I’d like to see him try.

“The state can’t give you freedom, and the state can’t take it away. You’re
born with it, like your eyes, like your ears. Freedom is something you
assume, then you wait for someone to try to take it from you. The degree to
which you resist is the degree to which you are free…”  Utah Phillips

There has been discussion, amongst my friends, on how to handle the solicitations of dickheads.  My friend J.J. says he will take the petition and carefully print FUCK YOU in large letters across all the unsigned boxes.  I suggested we all sign as “Rick Santorum” with a fake address – possibly one’s own local Planned Parenthood.  There are many creative solutions.

But what I picture myself doing, what I see as really true, is standing at the entrance of the store right next to the dickhead. In my wedding dress. And just asking people.  Please. Don’t sign this. Please?

 

My Unlawfully Wedded is soliciting people’s stories about why Marriage Equality matters to them. Whether it allows you personally to marry or you just believe in the cause. Just something about why YOU care about it. She will be publishing these stories, comments and such on her blog: www.jillmalone.com

She is hoping to keep posting these stories until we’re legal, so get on it.

She also writes books. And blog entries about how totally amazingly lovely I am. You should read both.

(Not) Born This Way

Reading about Cynthia Nixon’s assertion that she chose to be gay feels familiar to me.  I have often said this about myself. That I chose to be a lesbian.

Over the last 5 years, I have altered my view a bit. Because I know myself so much better than I did right after I came out.

I no longer believe that I could ever be in a relationship with a man – no matter how fulfilling – and not miss being with a woman.  I do now know for a fact that I can go, oh, years with women and never miss being with men. In my estimation, this makes me a lesbian.  Yes, a real one. (Because, you see, the fact that I enjoyed sex with men in the past has earned me the designation of not-real from real lesbians.)

(I had a fantastic conversation about it with my very smart friends on LiveJournal back in 2007 here: Is This A Controversy?  I do miss the in-depth-ness of discussion on LJ…)

The argument The Deserving Gay make against saying such things in public is that it will hamper the movement to make gayness constitutionally protected.  This is the same argument that is made when TDG want to minimize the visibility of the bisexual, queer and transgender letters in LGBTQ because we might scare off the straight people who don’t currently hate us, or are on the fence about hating us.

It’s unseemly.  Stay in the background, please, and when we get our rights we promise to come back and give you yours. 

The Deserving Gay are the publicly acceptable(ish) face of the queer rights movement.  They tend to win hearts and minds with the ‘just like you but gay’ argument and focus on a very nuclear family version of queerness.  Unthreatening, reflecting the values of most Americans. You know, polo-shirted handsome men posing outside their restored Craftsman bungalow with their adopted foreign-born child and golden retriever.  Lesbians with their blended families and blissful looking stepchildren posing on a hike in the mountains with REI gear and an organic picnic lunch.

Anyway, it feels like there is a shushing that erupts whenever someone queer and public discusses the possibility that their sexuality is a product of thoughtful contemplation. It’s fine to think these things, but we mustn’t say them out loud.

I have always had a problem with this dirty little secret and the keeping of it.  The implication is that queerness is only acceptable if it is some mutation that cannot be avoided.  Like a birth defect.  It’s not our fault. We were born this way. 

And besides the obvious – there is nothing wrong with being queer and this feels like begging for tolerance – I also think that we may be setting ourselves up for failure on three fronts.

Firstly, if gayness is proven NOT to be entirely genetic – if, for instance, as Simon LeVay has worried – science discovers that the genetic or inherent component must also be accompanied by a component of choice, and the only legal foundation for the rights of the gay are based on the ‘immutable characteristics’ test, we can lose the protections we have won because it is still possible to choose straightness. And as Nature seems to abhor the either/or dichotomy, my money is on a more complicated nature+nurture+desire+choice  combination.

Secondly, winning legal protection for gay men and women based on immutable characteristics does nothing to win protection for the B and the T and the Q.  Or the gay-by-choice. Like me. And apparently, Cynthia Nixon.

Thirdly, if it is found that the genetic component can be manipulated, or that ‘protecting’ the fetus from hormonal exposure at key times during gestation will prevent gayness, and our only acceptance is based on the inevitability of our sexual desires, then we are looking at the distinct possibility that much of the culture will try to manipulate reproduction to eliminate queerness altogether through medical means.

The only way to ensure protection for the queer – even the Undeserving Queer – is to change the prevailing attitude of most people, and not to It’s okay to be gay if you are born that way. We need to aim a little higher.

Yr Mangled <3

If everything you do has got a hold on me / Then everything I do has got a hole in it  

I have this problem with people who can’t get over things.

I have this problem with people who can’t get over things that have to do with me.

See, I can clear a room in this town.  I prefer to think of it as owning a room, but I suppose that is up for debate.

Many, many years ago, I had one of those social implosions.  Actually, several in a row.  You know, where people take sides and get hurt.  Multiple relationships end. No one can seem to repair some nameless damage.

Most of the people involved still live in Spokane.

Spokane has this Twin Peaksian characteristic.  All people and things are intertwined and enmeshed. I don’t care if there are actually over 200,000 people here, it feels like there are exactly 5,120. So I see these Formers quite a bit. And if any find themselves in the same place I am…they leave. Like a gather my things in a huff and make a hasty exit kind of leaving. Ungraceful. Anxious.

At this point, if Jill – whom none of them has met – comes into an establishment, the Formers make themselves scarce. Presumably in case I am not far behind.

You might think that the social implosion leading to these exoduses involved a lot of drama, yelling, sobbing.  Maybe some police action in the front yard. Nope. An atypically amiable romantic breakup of the long-term variety, another amiable romantic breakup of the short-term variety. A slow, wobbly decline to the realization that I didn’t much like a good chunk of my friends. Some delicately worded emails. And then 6 years of nothing.

No talking, no interaction, nothing.

And yet still – I clear the room.

Sometimes not immediately.  One lovely former acquaintance drunkenly hissed something at me while standing at a bar before gathering the other girls and flouncing. I think it was something like “So, are you still being mean to women?” I hear the general consensus is that I am unforgivably Not Nice.

(For more on that topic… Feminism Means Never Having To Say I Like You)

Mutual friends tell me that after exiting whatever joint I have entered, Formers call them sobbing.

She didn’t even acknowledge me!

Or text them furiously.

She bored holes in my skull!

(Bored is the word, but with the more usual meaning.)

They conference at cocktail parties regarding their assessment of my looks, happiness or unhappiness quotient, love life and general skullduggery

She doesn’t look happy, does she look happy to you? When I saw her she definitely seemed unhappy.

All have come to a general agreement that they are much better off without my friendship/romantic interest/positive regard.

Love me or hate me / It’s still an obsession 

I find this incredibly satisfying.  I suppose one shouldn’t say that, but it is a concession of something, this flouncing, isn’t it? Something powerful. About me. How could I not love it? I mean really, wouldn’t you?

Lesbian culture is tolerant about stalking behaviors – even affectionate about obsessive data-gathering as a staple of all lesbian relationships, whether platonic or not. Lesbians are data-gatherers. The age of information has made this simple.  I also hear from third parties that my Formers keep awfully updated on my personal info, pursuits, relationships. And they trade tidbits. Predicting failure. Anticipating the lovely Schadenfreude of watching me get my – what? Comeuppance? Just reward? Karmic retribution? Anyway, something bad.

I had a professor once who said that we can claim whatever values we like, but that the measure of what a person truly values is what they spend their time doing.  So I guess my stock is valued high.

It’s not exclusive to lesbians. Or women. But when I see men do it, it is nearly always about an ex-girlfriend / wife / whatever.  (See: any bitter custody case ever.)

I wonder how this makes the Current Romantic Interests of my Former Romantic Interests feel.  I would be furious. Actually, if my Current talked as much about anyone as my Formers talk about me – especially after 6 long years – I would be gone. But here is another staple of lesbian culture: acceptance that  overinvestment in lost girlfriends is a fundamental human right. I guess we think that if she can be so steadfast to a Former, maybe she can become so steadfast about us.

Cross pollination of two sacred lesbian concepts – doomed love and the fetishization of commitment.

How long is it healthy to hold onto an old relationship? To invest it with anger and resentment. Fuel it with new information, with gossip.  Skulk around hoarding crumbs. Construct elaborate conspiracy theories. Blame the Former for your lack.  Join with others also injured – to participate in the never-ending autopsy of your shared past. A support group for my Formers. They meet for drinks. Lots of drinks.

Everyone designates themselves Chief Mourner at a funeral. The Most Injured. It’s all very small. And officious. Victim status lends us an air of put-upon courage. Brave Little Toasters. Leaving the building because I arrive is a way of notifying everyone that I have hurt you, but you have your dignity.

No, no. No need to discuss it, I will just clear up my things and go. Be the bigger person. So sorry to leave, I was having such a good time. But as you can imagine, it is just too painful to be here for me right now. She’s just so… Oh, nevermind. Anyway. I’ll go. 

Call me later and tell me if she noticed I left.

I suppose people will stop flouncing when I enter now.  Or not. Because then they would be admitting they sought out, found and read my blog. And I am sure of one thing: I do not deserve a single moment more of their time.


Death in Florence

I will always associate Florence with grieving.  I went there in the death throes of my ambition to be an attorney.  In a way, Florence was my attempt to make finishing law school seem possible, or palatable. I spent quite a bit of time roaming around and shopping with a judge who was spending her summer teaching.  She spent much of our time together trying to convince me to return and complete.  My life had already changed too much to stay on that track. It was painful to think that I had taken a wrong turn somewhere and was now on the brink of having a life I knew I would never enjoy.

The trip came hard on the heels of a dramatic and eventful coming out.  Florence was the first place I had room to breathe and think away from the major players in the drama.  My ex of 12 years – who lived right down the street and still contended that our breakup was the most traumatic event of his life.  And my ex of 5 months – the first girlfriend, who dumped me suddenly and awkwardly while we were on a romantic getaway in Seattle. She then spent my remaining time before departing acting almost exactly like a girlfriend and expressing wonderment that she’d left a lovely girl like me without knowing exactly why.  Confusion and guilt on every front.

In Italy, I spent a huge amount of time wandering.  I would get up early with my roommates and walk to classes, grabbing cappuccino on the way.  Class was about a 45-minute walk if you had the luxury to enjoy it, and a 30-minute walk if you were late. Traffic was murderous, and by that I mean crossing the street meant taking huge risks with life and limb. I attended class and got out at lunch time, quite a while before my flatmates, so I would set off for the apartment in a random direction and purposely lose myself in the streets.  My homeward walks took at least 90 minutes, and had no agenda. While most students who spent a summer in Florence can tell you all about museums and art and churches, I never even set foot in the Duomo  – though you had a great view of it if you stuck your head out our kitchen window.  I am used to living in a city bisected by a large river, so I oriented myself by the Arno and the Ponte Vecchio, and I never once felt lost.

So it was, for lack of a better word, a beautiful kind of grieving. The kind that makes you wander the streets of one of the world’s most gorgeous cities feeling strangely energized by sadness.

Then someone I loved died. The first death in three that would happen in the span of a year.  A friend, my brother and then my first love.  June, February, June. This one was the hardest.  I called my ex-girlfriend, who really, really cared about me, but she only responded by asking if I knew it was 4 a.m. I wanted to go home for the funeral, but the ticket was going to cost thousands on such short notice.

Things became grey. I now walked to school briskly, walked home the same way every day.  Stopped always at an internet cafe to check on news and morbid details – because the death was confusing and unexplained. To read messages from other people who were shocked and sad, because I was shocked and sad. As with all deaths, I would forget and be distracted and then remember and feel ashamed of my distractibility.  I think this is when I went to my sole museum and saw the statue of David, and the small painting of the Magdalene where she is all ginger hair covering her nakedness – the most compelling visual memory I have of Florence and art.

Down the street were two lovely gay boys. One a law student like me, and the other his boyfriend, along for the trip with no business in particular to accomplish in Florence.  Jay, was the student and Adam, the boyfriend. But we had all decided early on that we would have new names in Florence.  Secret identities. So we were Carlos and Trev and Violet.  And Brandi, Caitlyn and Ingrid.

Trev began coming over at lunchtime when Carlos, and the rest of the dually named flatmates were still at school.  Often, he would find me lying in bed or on the couch. Sleeping or staring. He would entice me to his apartment with promises of Jager and Red Bull, and once there, he would fuss about my hair and makeup and then try to get me excited for some adventure.  We’d go do something random and then stop in the grocery to buy supplies for our communal dinners.  One day, we decided to dye my hair at least three different colors instead of just the two and spent all afternoon, tipsy in various farmacia looking for hair dye and bleach.  Another time, he asked me what would make me feel better and then spent a ridiculous amount of time looking for a yarn store because I just wanted to knit.  By the time we were cooking dinner and the students returned to eat family-style, I was a little drunk and much more prepared to socialize.  Also, better looking.

I try to regret not seeing all the things a student should see in Florence, but the rest of that terrible year had more grief in store, and the scenery was not nearly as lovely or the company so comforting.

And Now I Out Myself…

As one of those Anti-Marriage Feminists Bay Buchanon was prattling on about.

(From the wayback machine: My blog, circa April, 2004.  Present-day endnotes in Italics!)

I think marriage (and the frou-frou we call engagement) is divisive among women. It creates this hierarchy of socially acceptable sexual behavior/reproductive behavior.

Essentially, married = o.k. to be pregnant, not married = not okay.

If you refer to Babydaddy as ‘my fiance’ it makes your in-utero child more legitimate (though not actually legitimate). If you are a single mama, people sigh with relief when you say you now have a fiance; “Ah, she found a good man willing to marry her, all will be right with the world, God will smile upon them, she made the best of a bad situation. But too bad her kid is a bastard.” Men make us socially acceptable. But we never get to stop apologizing.

It is marginally more okay to be shacked up if you are shacked up with your ‘fiance’. This, as with everything, is also mitigated by class. When po’ folk shack up it’s trashy, when wealthy folk shack up it’s sophisticated or ‘European’.

Sadly, our lesbian sisters have no access to legitimacy. None whatsoever. We take our legitimization at their expense, our married privilege only reinforces their lack of privilege, their children’s social illegitimacy.

(As though children can be illegitimate – a Republican must have come up with that notion.)

And I see women using marriage and ‘fiance’ against the world like a shield, something to hide behind. As though we are not acceptable, our children and our sexual choices are not acceptable unless we are in a state-sanctioned relationship. That is so fucked up. And it only reinforces the idea that women and mamas without ‘husbands’ and ‘fiances’ are somehow lesser, lower class. You may not think that, but this culture does.

And it is transparent. When you are poor, when you are at the bank with your kid in tow and you are trying to convince them to cash your welfare check without an account. Saying you did it last week with your ‘fiance’ does not get you respect or your money. It just doesn’t.

And what is wrong here is that you don’t get respect in the first place, that you have to beg.

But please, ladies, please! Let’s stop buying into this bullshit, stop getting our little slice of privilege at the expense of our sisters, stop legitimizing the government’s role in our sex lives, in our children’s lives. It only hurts.

I was thinking of writing a blog about how I learned to stop worrying and love the Banns.  (Too Ethan Frome? Well, I endorse torture of the language in this instance, as national security requires a literary/cinematic hybrid pun…)


Just for the sake of full disclosure, I decided to go dig out this gem written for a Con Law class my senior year as a Non-Traditional Student Undergrad.  I was full of the fire of feminism, partnered long-term with a man (going on Year 11, as I recall), and quite angry about the Gay Marriage question.  


I thought that the bit would be more cringe-inducing to post here in the present tense, but actually I find I still mostly agree with this girl.  (I thought I had even announced ceremoniously that I wouldn’t get married even to a woman if I could. Luckily not, though I am sure I said it somewhere, and loudly.  Oops.)


This girl isn’t as strident or judgy as I recall, and in essentials, I think she is right.  People marrying in the full light and privilege of the State should consider how they can contribute to the cause of those who can’t. And most of all, let’s think of the children. But I am one dead-heterosexual-partnership and one years-long-battle over the assets of that partnership older now and I see that by choosing not to marry, I was choosing to lose financially if the partnership ended.  It did, and I lost a beloved home, the decent credit rating needed to buy another, the benefit of all my unpaid or underpaid work to build my family’s security, and my son became the fatherless child of a poor single mother.  Again.

Like many women, the price of  my leaving meant dropping back under the poverty level just when I had finally risen above it. And like most men leaving a long-term relationship, my former partner only benefitted financially from our split.  He left with a Master’s Degree and a middle class income.  I had nothing to show for the 9 years of our relationship that he spent earning his curriculum vitae because I had been working low-wage, no-benefit jobs to pay the bills and be present to raise our son.

I can’t see telling women who have access to more financial protection than I had to forego it merely on principle –  because women and poverty already have a far-too-cozy relationship as it is in this country.  Women also are overwhelmingly the primary caretakers of children after a split, and so the reduced resources of the non-married woman impact on her children and increase their chances of living in poverty.

I am sad that I am too jaded to ignore reality these days and urge a marriage boycott, because I do believe that straight people of good faith have a huge responsibility to force marriage equality down the throats and into the churches of the minority of bigots who hold the line and block progress.  I wish I could believe in a country where people with privilege will demand it be extended to everyone, to the point of refusing to accept that privilege until it is universal.  Sadly, I think the cost of giving up the Marriage Benefit would fall where social costs almost always do – on women and children.

 

Perpetual Coming Out Machine

I suffer from what I like to call straightface.

No one ever registers my queerness on sight.  Jill says she did, but she has superpowers.

I get that ‘passing’ has its advantages, in places like rural rest-stops, for example.  For just going about one’s business without feeling or hearing casual hatred.  I get that when I wander a grocery store with kid in tow, I am smiled at benevolently by my more conservatively-minded neighbors. They see me as a mother with an incredibly cute child, not as one of the chief catalysts for the end of Civilization, and someone who should have her parental rights removed.  By force, if necessary.

But straightface has its own pitfalls, and as someone who has never had any desire to be closeted, I have to say –  I fucking hate coming out constantly. Daily.  Perpetually.

Once, I endured – politely – a lecture by a local LGBT Activisty type on how hard it is for lesbians to get quality sexual healthcare.

I was thinking all the while about how I had erroneously been diagnosed with an STD because the brand new doctor at the clinic was so rattled by my response to “do you use condoms for oral sex?” that he summarily pronounced me infected without any lab testing.  Turns out I had a fever blister.  In my mouth. LGBT Activisty Type assumed I benefitted from the straight privilege of not making your Doogie Howser M.D. blush and stammer.  My relationship with my ex did not benefit from me needlessly accusing her of cheating, I can assure you.

Or how about listening to a law-school gay patiently explain to me that I should swallow my objections and vote for John Kerry, despite his move to block gay marriage in Massachusetts, because if he, as a gay man can see his way past that to support the common good, then why would a straight person like me be so condescending as to take up his cause without his consent?

These are funny little anecdotes, more about the hubris of exercising prejudice in defense of eradicating it.  The real sore stuff is when my revelation about my relationships occurs after – and often because – someone I am getting to know, and like so far, says something hateful about me, my family, or my community. That is the hardest coming out of all.  “Oh, by the way, I am in one of those relationships that you pronounced are nothing like a real marriage and make you feel pity for the children stuck paying the price.”  So, I guess my status as your new favorite employee/student/intern/co-worker/neighbor/fellow parent  may be reconsidered, right?

And then the awkward apologies and spin.  Which actually has me feeling sorry for the person who just outed themselves as a bigot.  And despite all my bravado about being out and proud, I often find myself telling them “it’s o.k., I understand…” as I back slowly out of the room, flush-faced and teary.

Damn it, some days, I don’t want to be the spokesmodel for Check Yourself.  I just want to buy my fucking groceries, finish a day of work, make idle chat with the person standing behind me in line, make new friends and influence people – not delicately attempt to win over some ignorant person who mistakes me for one of their own.

Then I think about another girl who writes blogs, a Straight Activisty type, who plays the pronoun shell game when writing about her ex.  Who presents a picture of straightest-straightness, and wonders disingenuously why her short hair got her mistaken for a lesbian. So she grows it out. And she supports the gay, in that not-narrow way. I can’t be that girl.  I can’t use passing to hide.

And hey, I get it.  I empathize.  Daily life is much easier that way. But in the end, it sounds like fucking misery.

Vowed

Me:

Dear Jill, okay that’s dumb. Dearest Jill: When I met you, I’d relented. I was cynical. I was cynical about love and the benefit of lovers. In fact, I had determined to become a spinster. I had cats. I started watching television.

All through my growing up years and into adulthood, I had this dream where suddenly, I could not speak so that anyone could understand me.

I would speak and I understood what I was trying to say, but no one else did. Awkward … and lonely.

Being with you means I have someone who always hears me when I speak. It’s a relief and a comfort.

Here’s what I have to offer: I will always orient toward where you are. You are my comfort and my home.

I will always rely on the best in you and assume you are the woman I know you to be.

I will trust that your love for me, the thing I am most sure of, will always win over details.

I will treat your enthusiasms with reverence, because I know that your sense of joy guided me to you.

I will trust your instinct to make me happy; it is more true than my drive to sacrifice my self.

I will love your true love, which is to say — I will put family first and be a mother along with you.

No one was as born to mother as each of us in our own ways.

I will never treat you as a friend; you are not just a companion, you are my consort.

You will always be mysterious and wonderful to me.

More than anything else I can articulate, this is truth: You are singular in the way you make my life worth the struggle. Together we are so much more of all the most and best than apart.

Will you marry me?
Will you stay with me?
Will you feed me ice chips when I’m dying?
Will you actually hear me every day for the rest of my life?

Her:

The little man in the voodoo shop explained about his pythons, about
the spells he cast with them. But I was already alight with magic. I
walked down a cobbled street and phoned you. I’d taken you everywhere
in New Orleans, through the markets and cafes, along the water. I’d
read to you. I had your letters in my pocket, and went over them as
though they were maps. But this day, the day with the pythons, you
told me a story about your list. About the things you had learned must
not be compromised in a relationship. I stopped walking. The rain
fell, and a wind kicked through me and I listened. Your relationship
is supposed to nurture you. To make you more capable. More likely to
thrive. I had stopped at a garden surrounded by a wrought-iron fence.
I held onto the gate and listened as hard as I could. I could see my
life, like this city, the haunted decay of it. I felt you pull me,
through the phone, you drew the best of me out. Love was a physical
force: it prickled; outside that locked garden, it hummed through the
city. And I knew I’d marry you. I knew it. I saw it as clearly as I
saw my child before he was born. I recognized you at last.

I was so sad before we met. This grave little thing. You are my act
of faith. Who doesn’t love a good redemption story? You are my
favorite defiance. My purest rebellion. I promise to love you as
though there were no injury. I promise to love you as though there
were no disappointment. I promise to love you. To keep faith with you.
To be your counterpart, this half of the circle. I promise to feed you
ice chips. To worship and adore you. I promise to work, to bring you a
new and earnest heart each morning. I promise to get it wrong, and get
it right, and start again. I promise to be your guard against
cynicism. To be supersonically silly. I promise to dance with you.
Our bodies were built for joy.

(Also posted on her blog: www.jillmalone.com)