I like the way the smoke rises from my pursed lips, a whisper, a ghost, joining the fog in the fall air. It's cold on my front walkway, the parking lot empty. In another life, I would be in Colorado. His dad vapes too, I know this because last Thanksgiving he traded hits with my ex's friend as they argued about rappers.
The man who lives next door, who is now nothing more than a stranger, was once in love with me enough to invite me too. I met his father two weeks before we broke up, but I think I realized then I would never fully be chosen, at least not enough to be family. I was pregnant with his baby then though, and lost it in a failure that cemented the loss of the family we had hoped for. His white ford escape has not been in the parking lot since Saturday, and even though he is still blocked on spotify, I figured I'd listen to the road trip playlist. I didn't know he'd gotten a new tattoo as well. I was supposed to go with him.
I inhale the smoke not because it tastes good, or feels good, but because I want the metal in my lungs. There isn't anything left to live for, not really, but the ghosts within me won't let me let go.
I can keep myself here by killing myself slowly, only a little bit faster than the grief would.
One of my roommates has a pink rocking chair that lives in our entertainment corner, adjacent to the dining room and kitchen in a way that feels more like home than a lot of houses do. Our cat loves this chair as much as I do, and will perch on the arm of the chair as I write these journal entries or work on papers. She sometimes curls up across my chest or in my lap like every cat in the movies does.
I lost my baby on my own, a not-quite death in a non-quite reality; a story I hate to tell but think of more than once every breath. I sometimes imagine the weight of her on my chest to be similar to that of a child, but never mistake her for anything beyond a comforting presence and quiet calm.
The ruckus inside my head is a secret, more because people don't have the time to ask, or the heart to understand. My partner is not the kind to fight his battles in the open, a soldier of a different and stronger variety than I could ever be. The socialization is different, and his heart tends to shut down before he begins to hurt out loud. There is no amount of tears that could convince me of his weakness, and no amount of kissy noises at our cat I wouldn't forgive.
I don't know how to tell him I love him, or convince him to care about me in a way he could be comfortable sharing his pain. He holds me tighter when it hurts; I notice enough to understand the comfort of a heartbeat or hand to hold.
I want my body to feel like home to him, I want my heart to feel like an open letter about the ways of his place in the world. He does not have a cat to lay on his chest when the world is cold, in the same way his pain is not the same as mine and his coping mechanisms do not punch through air in the sound of screams. Sometimes even though we love each other we are both alone, and that is the hardest part of falling in love.
A decade away from now, I hope to have my own rocking chair that feels of home and full hearts. I will have to find a cat to fill it, one who is truly mine and not the ghost of an apartment from another lifetime. I wonder, in ways beyond that of the world I occupy now, where the grief goes when I grow around it; I wonder what path I need to travel to find solace in his pain and a place to hold him tightly enough he is safe to cry. I wonder if we will last long enough I can hold a child of our own in my body again, or if a decade from now I will be in pain remembering the only thing I have ever lost before I knew how much I loved it (and I don't want it to happen again).
This is my mom's first time being alive too, even though she's been here longer that does not excuse the heartache and hard times in the same way she is not immune to new wonders and the morning sunrise.
To think she was once my age, in an apartment not unlike my own, meeting new friends and falling in love with people who were not yet my father. I knew some of her college crew, wrinkles and grey hairs decades removed from toilet papering friend's cars and traveling to the lands they studied. Arabic majors some of them; political scientists, engineers, artists, teachers, and chemists others. I imagine their laughs, younger and not unlike those of my own roommates.
We too are people living for the first time, experiencing things not even out parents could imagine, and laughing in much the way generations of our forefathers have. I do not imagine previous iterations of ourselves as dour, I do not believe men did not love their wives and children did not laugh and dance and make mistakes as we do. Yes, of course some things might have been different, but in the same way we are all human I believe the humanity would be mirrored.
My grandmother told me once her favorite year of her life was 19, before the responsibility had fully hit but the independence was enough there she could explore the world. Her childhood was spent on a farm built on the backbreaking labor of generations of her forefathers, and kept in the family though the stubborn will of her father -- the man of the family at just ten years old. That land still remains in the family, and when we visit for picnics she reminds us of the good times and the growing up.
I can't imagine her at my age, not in the same way I can imagine my mother. Neither is all that different from me, but the uncertainty of the ages I have yet to be has already passed from their minds. It is as much my first time being alive as it is theirs, but only recently have my hands been more steady at threading a needle than my grandmothers' and my eyes been better at reading small print than my mom's.
I wonder if I am becoming them, in the easy smiles shared between friends and plates of snacks awaiting visitors at the door. I wonder if my first time being alive will be as settled as theirs have been, if I will find my person and settle down somewhere as safe as the houses with open doors and warm hugs; if my porchlight will ever be left on for grandchildren and long distance friends.
I sometimes forget that everyone is alive for the first time, and my journey is not unsettled, it's just at a different point. I sometimes forget the uncertainty will not leave me, but that the joy will always remain -- and if I have to choose one, why not laugh my way through life like those that have come before me?
Pay attention to every bill or executive order. Don't ask how it'll benefit the country. Ask how it'll benefit the one trying to get it passed. You'll start noticing the whispers.
To those who say, "Stop reading between the lines." No. Always read between the lines. Never take a politician at face value. This goes for all politicians regardless of party.
Look at their history, listen to their words, and ask yourself, "How is this benefiting them?"
My apartment is not the nicest, there is mildew in the bathroom and raucous parties are held next-door every weekend. Not even five minutes from campus but free enough of parents and adulthood we can act like children with drinking permits on the weekends.
This Saturday night is quieter, the stillness after the storm of drunken students ushering the weekend in with a rush of cheap beer and cheaper laughs. My roommate's cat lays snuggled on my lap as he plays piano in an adjacent bedroom, the soft lilting notes matching the warm lamplight streaming out of an apartment across the way as a young couple dances inside. Occasional drunk conversation outside my front door breaks the silence, but it is sporadic and almost peaceful by virtue of the familiarity.
The dancing couple stops, gazing into each other's eyes, and the girl turns to let her partner brush her hair and put it into a loose braid that falls out as soon as he takes his hands away. They laugh, and she hugs him, grabbing the loose fabric of his red fleece quarter zip. Their building is a nicer brick, with a beautiful blue door and an oil painting on the wall. I sometimes see him cleaning the windows, or her leaving for class, and I wonder what it would be like to be loved so much so early; to have a person to share the soft piano song of Saturday nights.
The cat curls up into my arm, warm and reassuring, understanding the apartment we live in is as filled with love as theirs is -- just of a different kind. We have colorful hair and hopes and dreams beyond the small town we live in, so much beauty in contrast to the worlds of religion and politics held next to those we exist in. Four people with different faces, histories, homes, and stories but as much a family as any other.
Someday I will live in an apartment with lamplight and dancing and oil paintings, but today I am with my friends and would not trade the family I have now for the family I will build someday. There is time in this world to meet the person who I will fall into couches with, hair wrapped around hands and skin tingling with forevers. Tonight, I will laugh with the people who will take me there, my heart intertwined with theirs underneath a starlit map of humidity and the hopes we will grow here.
He draws the blinds and turns off the porch light, stepping out onto the darkened grass in front of the complex. A fire flickers towards the silhouetted bowl of a pipe, and smoke billows out of his mouth and toward the February sky. He waves to her through the window, and she opens the door to lean on the frame and watch until she shivers. He is alone again, then with a last puff toward the stars, disappears back inside behind her. I think if I believed in a god, it would be both the man smoking on the porch and the cat purring into my elbow.
Their window is dark now, and the night fades back into murmurs.
Not everyone is lucky enough to understand when they are home, when they are in a place they will come into themselves; but I do tonight.
I will breathe tonight into my lungs from the pipe of the universe, listen to the piano play and the murmurs of a party. I will never be this young again, and I will never have this night back. I will never be this much myself again.
dear usamerican high schoolers looking for a way to resist fascism: sit through the pledge of allegiance.
no getting up. no looking at the flag.
everyone will be looking at you. you'll be sweating like a fucking hippopotamus. your teacher will sternly tell you to get up. you'll feel stupid and that maybe its not worth it because you're just a kid in a classroom. but I'm here to remind you that there are no real life consequences to detention. there are however real life consequences to resisting a thoughtless performance of nationalism.
Wednesday I find out if my best friend is dying, and for the first time I'm starting to understand why people believe in a god -- or rather why they want to.
In all the soft Saturday afternoons together, I can only hope he is enough at peace with the world to leave it when he needs to. I trust he will stay as long as is safe, and when he goes, if we need to assist all that will remain is the love he has been given.
There will be hay and bananas in heaven, I hope, and if god is real he must understand the innocence in a good rabbit's heart. I am human and without the same moral cleanliness, but hopefully I'll see you again soon enough sweet boy.
By this time tomorrow, I think I'll know if we'll make it, and I think I'll know how my world falls apart. I like to think this is the timeline I fall in love, have an easy life, and bask in the light of a thousand beautiful days. In a more real sense, this is the life I spend figuring out who I am and who I am meant to be. This is the life I never find quite the right fit, but keep falling in love until I die so I'm practiced enough for next time.
The man currently in my thoughts is Buddhist, and I hope if I lose him in this timeline we find each other again as grasshoppers or children so we can have a lifetime together in whatever is left of the world. I think if I lose you in this timeline I will spend the rest of my life trying to find a part of you to hold onto a little longer. I think you will always be a part of me, in all the hurt and holding hands at the water tower. In all the days I spend mourning my lost child and all the mornings I won't wake up with you.
If this is the last night I'm allowed to love you, let my words be full of hope and joy, because you are full of goodness and grief I wish I knew how to love enough it didn't grow on you. If this is the last night I'm allowed to love you let it be the beginning of better things for you, a world that does not end when I cease to be here.
By this time tomorrow, I think I'll know how my world crumbles; if I have to wander, pouring all my love into places that remind me of you. Maybe this is the not only existence in all the universes I wander by myself, but still I think I will search for you wherever you are not. I'll always wind up missing you.
Say the things they are not safe to say. Make sure the communities who cannot speak safely are heard. Needless to say, I am not telling you to take credit for their words but to make their voices heard above the noise. If you can afford to be arrested, get yourself out there. Stand up before there is no one to stand up for you.
Change is not achieved by peace when the policymakers are not giving us the option to be peaceful.
To encompass my relationship with myself would be to admit the complexity I face daily in my identity -- or identities. The Red Clay Strays prefer to be called rock n' roll, but they have a lot of the same sound as country artists I listened to fresh out of the religion I was raised in and looking for an identity.
I would highly recommend listening to the full song, even (and especially) if Christianity is a complicated subject for you. I feel a lot of us who have not found warmth in the arms of churches can understand and relate to the desire to just belong somewhere.
When I left, I was 12. I did not initially decide not to have a relationship with organized religion or god (in whatever form that deity takes) but the lack of inclusion of groups who experience significant marginalization tore my heart to pieces. I did not learn what being gay was until middle school, and I didn't understand why it was such a horrible shame when my church leaders publicly denounced it. I didn't understand why a good god would let people hate other people, or let them die for burdens they were not born to bear. I could not believe I was loved by a god who did not love other people the way he loved me, and for that injustice, I walked away.
As a neurodivergent, I lost the entirety of my sense of myself, and the only community I had. I was "weird", had a tendency to rock in my seat because sitting still was a struggle, and in the hyper-religious context of my personality, often couldn't make connections with my peers. To those who understand, I am so sorry you had to endure the loneliness, and to those who made it through before me, thank you for paving the way.
In my search for self, I tried a lot of different "things" to give me a place in the world, or to help me find friends -- country music being one. I eventually found my place at the LGBTQIA+ lunch table, and they soon became my people. The "queers" were kinder and more welcoming than any religious group, and stuck up for me when I was bullied by the "religious" kids because the group of mismatched queers understood how it felt to be an outsider and protected the downtrodden and marginalized with a gentle ferocity christianity should emulate.
I could have become bitter, and hateful, and resentful towards everyone involved at my former church and school, because I was hurt and hurting. I was in a position many others have been in, and where they chose hate groups or extremism I did not. I did not choose a bad path because the people who could have ignored me became my fiercest allies (and I, theirs.)
I say all of this to illustrate both a part of my personality, but also the intersectionality of religion and rights -- the complexity of identities. I think the sense of soul searching in religion is similar to that of the queer experience; it is not possible to understand the wholeness yourself without also understanding those who have come before you, and while religion is not necessarily the place for a lot of people to do that, I think there is common ground in experiences -- as soon as people are willing to have those difficult conversations. There will be queer people in every space for perpetuity, whether or not they are publicly recognized, just as religion will always be an aspect of American culture.
I feel strongly there is common ground for us to stand on, as Americans, and to show up for the common experiences we have as people. This is not a class issue, this is not an identity issue, this is an issue of loving those who need love and supporting those who need support. Period. Even if you disagree, you should show up, because the powers that be want us to do anything but.
We fight by existing as the best, most generous versions of ourselves. We don cowboy hats and sing country while welcoming those of all nations to join us. We do not become bitter, though it is not unreasonable to feel bitterness, because we are too busy reaching out to those who need to belong. We become a home for those who need to be loved by reaching past prejudice and welcoming people into the fold. We fill the spaces hate can grow with all the love we have to give, and then we give more.
We need to understand the most revolutionary thing we can be is kind.
Twenty years ago, February 15th, 2004, I got married for the first time.
It was twenty years earlier than I ever expected to.
To celebrate/comemorate the date, I'm sitting down to write out everything I remember as I remember it. No checking all the pictures I took or all the times I've written about this before. I'm not going to turn to my husband (of twenty years, how the f'ing hell) to remember a detail for me.
This is not a 100% accurate recounting of that first wild weekend in San Francisco. But it -is- a 100% accurate recounting of how I remember it today, twenty years after the fact.
Join me below, if you would.
2004 was an election year, and much like conservatives are whipping up anti-trans hysteria and anti-trans bills and propositions to drive out the vote today, in 2004 it was all anti-gay stuff. Specifically, preventing the evil scourge of same-sex marriage from destroying everything good and decent in the world.
Enter Gavin Newstrom. At the time, he was the newly elected mayor of San Francisco. Despite living next door to the city all my life, I hadn’t even heard of the man until Valentines Day 2004 when he announced that gay marriage was legal in San Francisco and started marrying people at city hall.
It was a political stunt. It was very obviously a political stunt. That shit was illegal, after all. But it was a very sweet political stunt. I still remember the front page photo of two ancient women hugging each other forehead to forehead and crying happy tears.
But it was only going to last for as long as it took for the California legal system to come in and make them knock it off.
The next day, we’re on the phone with an acquaintance, and she casually mentions that she’s surprised the two of us aren’t up at San Francisco getting married with everyone else.
“Everyone else?” Goes I, “I thought they would’ve shut that down already?”
“Oh no!” goes she, “The courts aren’t open until Tuesday. Presidents Day on Monday and all. They’re doing them all weekend long!”
We didn’t know because social media wasn’t a thing yet. I only knew as much about it as I’d read on CNN, and most of the blogs I was following were more focused on what bullshit President George W Bush was up to that day.
"Well shit", me and my man go, "do you wanna?" I mean, it’s a political stunt, it wont really mean anything, but we’re not going to get another chance like this for at least 20 years. Why not?
The next day, Sunday, we get up early. We drive north to the southern-most BART station. We load onto Bay Area Rapid Transit, and rattle back and forth all the way to the San Francisco City Hall stop.
We had slightly miscalculated.
Apparently, demand for marriages was far outstripping the staff they had on hand to process them. Who knew. Everyone who’d gotten turned away Saturday had been given tickets with times to show up Sunday to get their marriages done. My babe and I, we could either wait to see if there was a space that opened up, or come back the next day, Monday.
“Isn’t City Hall closed on Monday?” I asked. “It’s a holiday”
“Oh sure,” they reply, “but people are allowed to volunteer their time to come in and work on stuff anyways. And we have a lot of people who want to volunteer their time to have the marriage licensing offices open tomorrow.”
“Oh cool,” we go, “Backup.”
“Make sure you’re here if you do,” they say, “because the California Supreme Court is back in session Tuesday, and will be reviewing the motion that got filed to shut us down.”
And all this shit is super not-legal, so they’ll totally be shutting us down goes unsaid.
00000
We don’t get in Saturday. We wind up hanging out most of the day, though.
It’s… incredible. I can say, without hyperbole, that I have never experienced so much concentrated joy and happiness and celebration of others’ joy and happiness in all my life before or since. My face literally ached from grinning. Every other minute, a new couple was coming out of City Hall, waving their paperwork to the crowd and cheering and leaping and skipping. Two glorious Latina women in full Mariachi band outfits came out, one in the arms of another. A pair of Jewish boys with their families and Rabbi. One couple managed to get a Just Married convertible arranged complete with tin-cans tied to the bumper to drive off in. More than once I was giving some rice to throw at whoever was coming out next.
At some point in the mid-afternoon, there was a sudden wave of extra cheering from the several hundred of us gathered at the steps, even though no one was coming out. There was a group going up the steps to head inside, with some generic black-haired shiny guy at the front. My not-yet-husband nudged me, “That’s Newsom.” He said, because he knew I was hopeless about matching names and people.
Ooooooh, I go. That explains it. Then I joined in the cheers. He waved and ducked inside.
So dusk is starting to fall. It’s February, so it’s only six or so, but it’s getting dark.
“Should we just try getting in line for tomorrow -now-?” we ask.
“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.” One of the volunteers tells us. “We’re not allowed to have people hang out overnight like this unless there are facilities for them and security. We’d need Porta-Poties for a thousand people and police patrols and the whole lot, and no one had time to get all that organized. Your best bet is to get home, sleep, and then catch the first BART train up at 5am and keep your fingers crossed.
Monday is the last day to do this, after all.
00000
So we go home. We crash out early. We wake up at 4:00. We drive an hour to hit the BART station. We get the first train up. We arrive at City Hall at 6:30AM.
The line stretches around the entirety of San Francisco City Hall. You could toss a can of Coke from the end of the line to the people who’re up to be first through the doors and not have to worry about cracking it open after.
“Uh.” We go. “What the fuck is -this-?”
So.
Remember why they weren’t going to be able to have people hang out overnight?
Turns out, enough SF cops were willing to volunteer unpaid time to do patrols to cover security. And some anonymous person delivered over a dozen Porta-Poties that’d gotten dropped off around 8 the night before.
It’s 6:30 am, there are almost a thousand people in front of us in line to get this literal once in a lifetime marriage, the last chance we expect to have for at least 15 more years (it was 2004, gay rights were getting shoved back on every front. It was not looking good. We were just happy we lived in California were we at least weren’t likely to loose job protections any time soon.).
Then it starts to rain.
We had not dressed for rain.
00000
Here is how the next six hours go.
We’re in line. Once the doors open at 7am, it will creep forward at a slow crawl. It’s around 7 when someone shows up with garbage bags for everyone. Cut holes for the head and arms and you’ve got a makeshift raincoat! So you’ve got hundreds of gays and lesbians decked out in the nicest shit they could get on short notice wearing trashbags over it.
Everyone is so happy.
Everyone is so nervous/scared/frantic that we wont be able to get through the doors before they close for the day.
People online start making delivery orders.
Coffee and bagels are ordered in bulk and delivered to City Hall for whoever needs it. We get pizza. We get roses. Random people come by who just want to give hugs to people in line because they’re just so happy for us. The tour busses make detours to go past the lines. Chinese tourists lean out with their cameras and shout GOOD LUCK while car horns honk.
A single sad man holding a Bible tries to talk people out of doing this, tells us all we’re sinning and to please don’t. He gives up after an hour. A nun replaces him with a small sign about how this is against God’s will. She leaves after it disintegrates in the rain.
The day before, when it was sunny, there had been a lot of protestors. Including a large Muslim group with their signs about how “Not even DOGS do such things!” Which… Yes they do.
A lot of snide words are said (by me) about how the fact that we’re willing to come out in the rain to do this while they’re not willing to come out in the rain to protest it proves who actually gives an actual shit about the topic.
Time passes. I measure it based on which side of City Hall we’re on. The doors face East. We start on Northside. Coffee and trashbags are delivered when we’re on the North Side. Pizza first starts showing up when we’re on Westside, which is also where I see Bible Man and Nun. Roses are delivered on Southside. And so forth.
00000
We have Line Neighbors.
Ahead of us are a gay couple a decade or two older than us. They’ve been together for eight years. The older one is a school teacher. He has his coat collar up and turns away from any news cameras that come near while we reposition ourselves between the lenses and him. He’s worried about the parents of one of his students seeing him on the news and getting him fired. The younger one will step away to get interviewed on his own later on. They drove down for the weekend once they heard what was going on. They’d started around the same time we did, coming from the Northeast, and are parked in a nearby garage.
The most perky energetic joyful woman I’ve ever met shows up right after we turned the corner to Southside to tackle the younger of the two into a hug. She’s their local friend who’d just gotten their message about what they’re doing and she will NOT be missing this. She is -so- happy for them. Her friends cry on her shoulders at her unconditional joy.
Behind us are a lesbian couple who’d been up in San Francisco to celebrate their 12th anniversary together. “We met here Valentines Day weekend! We live down in San Diego, now, but we like to come up for the weekend because it’s our first love city.”
“Then they announced -this-,” the other one says, “and we can’t leave until we get married. I called work Sunday and told them I calling in sick until Wednesday.”
“I told them why,” her partner says, “I don’t care if they want to give me trouble for it. This is worth it. Fuck them.”
My husband-to-be and I look at each other. We’ve been together for not even two years at this point. Less than two years. Is it right for us to be here? We’re potentially taking a spot from another couple that’d been together longer, who needed it more, who deserved it more.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” Says the 40-something gay couple in front of us.
“This is as much for you as it is for us!” says the lesbian couple who’ve been together for over a decade behind us.
“You kids are too cute together,” says the gay couple’s friend. “you -have- to. Someday -you’re- going to be the old gay couple that’s been together for years and years, and you deserve to have been married by then.”
We stay in line.
It’s while we’re on the Southside of City Hall, just about to turn the corner to Eastside at long last that we pick up our own companions. A white woman who reminds me an awful lot of my aunt with a four year old black boy riding on her shoulders. “Can we say we’re with you? His uncles are already inside and they’re not letting anyone in who isn’t with a couple right there.” “Of course!” we say.
The kid is so very confused about what all the big deal is, but there’s free pizza and the busses keep driving by and honking, so he’s having a great time.
We pass by a statue of Lincoln with ‘Marriage for All!’ and "Gay Rights are Human Rights!" flags tucked in the crooks of his arms and hanging off his hat.
It’s about noon, noon-thirty when we finally make it through the doors and out of the rain.
They’ve promised that anyone who’s inside when the doors shut will get married. We made it. We’re safe.
We still have a -long- way to go.
00000
They’re trying to fit as many people into City Hall as possible. Partially to get people out of the rain, mostly to get as many people indoors as possible. The line now stretches down into the basement and up side stairs and through hallways I’m not entirely sure the public should ever be given access to. We crawl along slowly but surely.
It’s after we’ve gone through the low-ceiling basement hallways past offices and storage and back up another set of staircases and are going through a back hallway of low-ranked functionary offices that someone comes along handing out the paperwork. “It’s an hour or so until you hit the office, but take the time to fill these out so you don’t have to do it there!”
We spend our time filling out the paperwork against walls, against backs, on stone floors, on books.
We enter one of the public areas, filled with displays and photos of City Hall Demonstrations of years past.
I take pictures of the big black and white photo of the Abraham Lincoln statue holding banners and signs against segregation and for civil rights.
The four year old boy we helped get inside runs past us around this time, chased by a blond haired girl about his own age, both perused by an exhausted looking teenager helplessly begging them to stop running.
Everyone is wet and exhausted and vibrating with anticipation and the building-wide aura of happiness that infuses everything.
The line goes into the marriage office. A dozen people are at the desk, shoulder to shoulder, far more than it was built to have working it at once.
A Sister of Perpetual Indulgence is directing people to city officials the moment they open up. She’s done up in her nun getup with all her makeup on and her beard is fluffed and be-glittered and on point. “Oh, I was here yesterday getting married myself, but today I’m acting as your guide. Number 4 sweeties, and -Congradulatiooooons!-“
The guy behind the counter has been there since six. It’s now 1:30. He’s still giddy with joy. He counts our money. He takes our paperwork, reviews it, stamps it, sends off the parts he needs to, and hands the rest back to us. “Alright, go to the Rotunda, they’ll direct you to someone who’ll do the ceremony. Then, if you want the certificate, they’ll direct you to -that- line.” “Can’t you just mail it to us?” “Normally, yeah, but the moment the courts shut us down, we’re not going to be allowed to.”
We take our paperwork and join the line to the Rotunda.
If you’ve seen James Bond: A View to a Kill, you’ve seen the San Francisco City Hall Rotunda. There are literally a dozen spots set up along the balconies that overlook the open area where marriage officials and witnesses are gathered and are just processing people through as fast as they can.
That’s for the people who didn’t bring their own wedding officials.
There’s a Catholic-adjacent couple there who seem to have brought their entire families -and- the priest on the main steps. They’re doing the whole damn thing. There’s at least one more Rabbi at work, I can’t remember what else. Just that there was a -lot-.
We get directed to the second story, northside. The San Francisco City Treasurer is one of our two witnesses. Our marriage officient is some other elected official I cannot remember for the life of me (and I'm only writing down what I can actively remember, so I can't turn to my husband next to me and ask, but he'll have remembered because that's what he does.)
I have a wilting lily flower tucked into my shirt pocket. My pants have water stains up to the knees. My hair is still wet from the rain, I am blubbering, and I can’t get the ring on my husband’s finger. The picture is a treat, I tell you.
There really isn’t a word for the mix of emotions I had at that time. Complete disbelief that this was reality and was happening. Relief that we’d made it. Awe at how many dozens of people had personally cheered for us along the way and the hundreds to thousands who’d cheered for us generally.
Then we're married.
Then we get in line to get our license.
It’s another hour. This time, the line goes through the higher stories. Then snakes around and goes past the doorway to the mayor’s office.
Mayor Newsom is not in today. And will be having trouble getting into his office on Tuesday because of the absolute barricade of letters and flowers and folded up notes and stuffed animals and City Hall maps with black marked “THANK YOU!”s that have been piled up against it.
We make it to the marriage records office.
I take a picture of my now husband standing in front of a case of the marriage records for 1902-1912. Numerous kids are curled up in corners sleeping. My own memory is spotty. I just know we got the papers, and then we’re done with lines. We get out, we head to the front entrance, and we walk out onto the City Hall steps.
It's almost 3PM.
00000
There are cheers, there’s rice thrown at us, there are hundreds of people celebrating us with unconditional love and joy and I had never before felt the goodness that exists in humanity to such an extent. It’s no longer raining, just a light sprinkle, but there are still no protestors. There’s barely even any news vans.
We make our way through the gauntlet, we get hands shaked, people with signs reading ”Congratulations!” jump up and down for us. We hit the sidewalks, and we begin to limp our way back to the BART station.
I’m at the BART station, we’re waiting for our train back south, and I’m sitting on the ground leaning against a pillar and in danger of falling asleep when a nondescript young man stops in front of me and shuffles his feet nervously. “Hey. I just- I saw you guys, down at City Hall, and I just… I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of what you could do. I’m- I’m just really glad, glad you could get to do this.”
He shakes my hand, clasps it with both of his and shakes it. I thank him and he smiles and then hurries away as fast as he can without running.
Our train arrives and the trip south passes in a semilucid blur.
We get back to our car and climb in.
It’s 4:30 and we are starving.
There’s a Carls Jr near the station that we stop off at and have our first official meal as a married couple. We sit by the window and watch people walking past and pick out others who are returning from San Francisco. We're all easy to pick out, what with the combination of giddiness and water damage.
We get home about 6-7. We take the dog out for a good long walk after being left alone for two days in a row. We shower. We bundle ourselves up. We bury ourselves in blankets and curl up and just sort of sit adrift in the surrealness of what we’d just done.
We wake up the next day, Tuesday, to read that the California State Supreme Court has rejected the petition to shut down the San Francisco weddings because the paperwork had a misplaced comma that made the meaning of one phrase unclear.
The State Supreme Court would proceed to play similar bureaucratic tricks to drag the process out for nearly a full month before they have nothing left and finally shut down Mayor Newsom’s marriages.
My parents had been out of state at the time at a convention. They were flying into SFO about the same moment we were walking out of City Hall. I apologized to them later for not waiting and my mom all but shook me by the shoulders. “No! No one knew that they’d go on for so long! You did what you needed to do! I’ll just be there for the next one!”
00000
It was just a piece of paper. Legally, it didn’t even hold any weight thirty days later. My philosophy at the time was “marriage really isn’t that important, aside from the legal benefits. It’s just confirming what you already have.”
But maybe it’s just societal weight, or ingrained culture, or something, but it was different after. The way I described it at the time, and I’ve never really come up with a better metaphor is, “It’s like we were both holding onto each other in the middle of the ocean in the middle of a storm. We were keeping each other above water, we were each other’s support. But then we got this piece of paper. And it was like the ground rose up to meet our feet. We were still in an ocean, still in the middle of a storm, but there was a solid foundation beneath our feet. We still supported each other, but there was this other thing that was also keeping our heads above the water.
It was different. It was better. It made things more solid and real.
I am forever grateful for all the forces and all the people who came together to make it possible. It’s been twenty years and we’re still together and still married.
We did a domestic partnership a year later to get the legal paperwork. We’d done a private ceremony with proper rings (not just ones grabbed out of the husband’s collection hours before) before then. And in 2008, we did a legal marriage again.
Rushed. In a hurry. Because there was Proposition 13 to be voted on which would make them all illegal again if it passed.
It did, but we were already married at that point, and they couldn’t negate it that time.
Another few years after that, the Supreme Court finally threw up their hands and said "Fine! It's been legal in places and nothing's caught on fire or been devoured by locusts. It's legal everywhere. Shut up about it!"
And that was that.
00000
When I was in highschool, in the late 90s, I didn’t expect to see legal gay marriage until I was in my 50s. I just couldn’t see how the American public as it was would ever be okay with it.
I never expected to be getting married within five years. I never expected it to be legal nationwide before I’d barely started by 30s. I never thought I’d be in my 40s and it’d be such a non-issue that the conservative rabble rousers would’ve had to move onto other wedge issues altogether.
I never thought that I could introduce another man as my husband and absolutely no one involved would so much as blink.
I never thought I’d live in this world.
And it’s twenty years later today. I wonder how our line buddies are doing. Those babies who were running around the wide open rooms playing tag will have graduated college by now. The kids whose parents the one line-buddy was worried would see him are probably married too now. Some of them to others of the same gender.
I don’t have some greater message to make with all this. Other then, culture can shift suddenly in ways you can’t predict. For good or ill. Mainly this is just me remembering the craziest fucking 36 hours of my life twenty years after the fact and sharing them with all of you.
The future we’re resigned to doesn’t have to be the one we live in. Society can shift faster than you think. The unimaginable of twenty years ago is the baseline reality of today.
And always remember that the people who want to get married will show up by the thousands in rain that none of those who’re against it will brave.
As a high school kid in the late 80s I didn't think I'd see it in my *lifetime*. Gay/lesbian sex was illegal, it was the height of the AIDS crisis, which we were told was God's punishment. The military had people assigned to ferret out and eject people for having a same sex relationship.
It still blows my mind how different things are now.
I like to think of a world where the mere thought of me is enough to make mountains relax and wind storms turn into a soft exhale. There is no consolation for cruelty, at least none worth the hardship -- and I'm glad my hardships have not made me a cruel being.
I like to think of a world where I am the person who makes life a little bit easier for the people like me -- to let them know they are loved.
you guys made luigi mangione trend for days and I need to see the same energy for brianna boston. she is a 43 year old mother of three who ended a phone call with blue cross blue shield (after being denied a claim) “delay deny depose, you people are next” and is now being held under a 100,000$ bond and could face FIFTEEN years of prison if charged. she has no weapons, her record is clean, and yet she is being held behind bars. they are afraid of the public and are trying to subdue. do not let them!!!! be outraged that our freedom of speech is being threatened!!!!! deny defend depose! free brianna boston!
Pomacanthidae @pomacanthidae - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
