Mourning the Revocation of our Marriage
By Flying99Fingers
I was driving home yesterday and heard on the news that the Oregon State Supreme Court had ruled our marriage license, and thus our marriage, unconstitutional.
My partner and I decided last year, almost on a whim, to drive from Seattle to Portland to stand in line for a marriage license and tie the knot. We had different reasons for going - she, to be part of history. Me, to make a political statement. We agreed that it had little to do with committment -- we had just celebrated 16 years of togetherness the month before and were firmly committed to a full life with each other.
Much to our surprise, our whimsical action turned into a deeply meaningful and empowering celebration of our love and our lives. Friends and family drove down; coworkers arranged for a minister and rings; and voila -- a day later we had a beautiful ceremony in the Rose Garden. It meant something to us -- exchanging vows, signing the marriage certificate, sharing the celebration with friends, being congratulated by strangers in the city.
It was overwhelming -- and filled an empty place in our hearts that neither of us knew we had. We had been affirmed by society. Sure, not everyone affirmed us. But the spirit and joy and welcoming atmosphere in our hotel, our restaurant, the park and even the flower shop filled us with something we never knew we were lacking: acceptance.
We always knew the license could be revoked. Law suits were filed. Religious figures postured and pontificated about the ruination of marriage. We ignored it all. We had the paper. It's on our bedroom wall. It didn't matter. We told ourselves it didn't matter if the courts overturned it. We thought no one could diminish the surprising joy we felt.
We were wrong.
My partner, my spouse, my wife, is four states away visiting her parents. She took with her a beautiful photo of our wedding, which was to take its place next to her siblings' wedding pictures in her folks' photo gallery. She delivered it to them yesterday. Probably at almost the exact same time that the ruling from the courts was delivered.
Null and void. Is our committment changed? Absolutely not. Is our love any different than it was before last year's wedding, or after the wedding? No way.
So why do we both feel so bereft? We talked on the phone tonight about it. Both of us carried a small lump of sorrow around with us today -- she, as she spent time with accepting, but not understanding parents. Me, as I spent the workday with my wonderful co-workers who were so supportive of our wedding.
We compared notes and realized that we didn't talk with anyone about the ruling. It's a quiet, almost private kind of sorrow. Nothing is really lost, right? We still love each other. We're still committed.
But, in the eyes of Oregon's courts, we don't count. We don't matter. We aren't equal. We've been disenfranchised -- again. Maybe that's it. The ruling probably wouldn't have mattered to either of us if we hadn't had that unexpected rush of joy, the giddiness of affirmation, the gurgle of love and acceptance from strangers.
I would do it again, if I could. Actually, I guess now we can. We can go to the next county or city or state that is brave enough and just enough to realize that lifelong committment should be given equal protection under the law.
Perhaps the best we can hope for is that by the time we celebrate our 20th anniversary, we can have been married and unmarried all over the country. Sooner or later it has to stick, doesn't it?
I was driving home yesterday and heard on the news that the Oregon State Supreme Court had ruled our marriage license, and thus our marriage, unconstitutional.
My partner and I decided last year, almost on a whim, to drive from Seattle to Portland to stand in line for a marriage license and tie the knot. We had different reasons for going - she, to be part of history. Me, to make a political statement. We agreed that it had little to do with committment -- we had just celebrated 16 years of togetherness the month before and were firmly committed to a full life with each other.
Much to our surprise, our whimsical action turned into a deeply meaningful and empowering celebration of our love and our lives. Friends and family drove down; coworkers arranged for a minister and rings; and voila -- a day later we had a beautiful ceremony in the Rose Garden. It meant something to us -- exchanging vows, signing the marriage certificate, sharing the celebration with friends, being congratulated by strangers in the city.
It was overwhelming -- and filled an empty place in our hearts that neither of us knew we had. We had been affirmed by society. Sure, not everyone affirmed us. But the spirit and joy and welcoming atmosphere in our hotel, our restaurant, the park and even the flower shop filled us with something we never knew we were lacking: acceptance.
We always knew the license could be revoked. Law suits were filed. Religious figures postured and pontificated about the ruination of marriage. We ignored it all. We had the paper. It's on our bedroom wall. It didn't matter. We told ourselves it didn't matter if the courts overturned it. We thought no one could diminish the surprising joy we felt.
We were wrong.
My partner, my spouse, my wife, is four states away visiting her parents. She took with her a beautiful photo of our wedding, which was to take its place next to her siblings' wedding pictures in her folks' photo gallery. She delivered it to them yesterday. Probably at almost the exact same time that the ruling from the courts was delivered.
Null and void. Is our committment changed? Absolutely not. Is our love any different than it was before last year's wedding, or after the wedding? No way.
So why do we both feel so bereft? We talked on the phone tonight about it. Both of us carried a small lump of sorrow around with us today -- she, as she spent time with accepting, but not understanding parents. Me, as I spent the workday with my wonderful co-workers who were so supportive of our wedding.
We compared notes and realized that we didn't talk with anyone about the ruling. It's a quiet, almost private kind of sorrow. Nothing is really lost, right? We still love each other. We're still committed.
But, in the eyes of Oregon's courts, we don't count. We don't matter. We aren't equal. We've been disenfranchised -- again. Maybe that's it. The ruling probably wouldn't have mattered to either of us if we hadn't had that unexpected rush of joy, the giddiness of affirmation, the gurgle of love and acceptance from strangers.
I would do it again, if I could. Actually, I guess now we can. We can go to the next county or city or state that is brave enough and just enough to realize that lifelong committment should be given equal protection under the law.
Perhaps the best we can hope for is that by the time we celebrate our 20th anniversary, we can have been married and unmarried all over the country. Sooner or later it has to stick, doesn't it?
posted by LNewsEditor at 3:09 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home