Thirty years ago gays and lesbians were not so apt to introduce our spouses or partners as such. We were asked if we were "roommates" or "friends" or our obvious relationships were ignored. In fact, looking back, I remember not having the language for how to introduce ourselves- we didn't have the ability to expect respect or recognition. Employment discrimination was widespread, there were no protections for our relationships, and when one partner got sick families routinely swooped in and took the home apart, claiming what they felt they could with no legal standing for the one left behind. We were, in many ways, invisible. There were no real public figures, and in movies and TV we were parodies. In high school I knew public recognition was not a good idea except in small circles, and in college it was only somewhat better.
The problem was that for me, that simply didn't work. I knew who I was, I knew who I was going to be, and if there was nobody to act as a role model, well, then, someone had to step out. I learned that when my dear friend Craig died only a few years after we all graduated. He'd been harassed in school, and he tried to find a place where he could be the talented and loving and slightly different but charming person he was. He could see right through me, and took me under his flaming wing. And then suddenly he was very sick, and then gone- before AIDS was really even named. His mom planned a funeral at a fundamentalist church that condemned gays and lesbians, and his gay friends were not wanted. His death was made public as a sudden illness. I'd just lost the only almost big brother I ever had. And I'd had enough. Craig was president of Key Club. He was president of the fine arts club. He was respected by the Kiwanis in Riverside. He'd made something of himself despite a very tough beginning. And suddenly the thing that made him fight so hard to be independent and make it in this world was being erased. So I called North High School and told them one of their recent bright young graduates had just died. Of AIDS. I called the Kiwanis. I asked them to show up to honor who he was. He deserved to be remembered, not to be hidden like he was a shameful adult.
Craig would have revelled in the rainbow flags so open today. He loved Palm Springs and the freedom he found there. He would have happily had the wedding of the year when Prop 8 was finally and forever terminated as the affront to human dignity that it is. He would have cheered when his bestie Pam's daughter graduated from high school last year, and he would have been our best man. Because that was Craig. He believed in the dignity of all people. He loved kids, especially his niece. He was just like everybody else. He told me long ago that eventually things would change for our rainbow community. That we would eventually have respect and lead "boring, normal" lives. I think, looking back, he was both hopeful and afraid of that- where would he put his flaming self when that happened?
And Craig came to mind today as I mulled over the day in my car today, with a student who is trying to learn the craft of social work, who hasn't a clue about how much words can and do offend, and what an impact they can have. How much someone can say with just the choice of emphasis, a stumble in a title, and a sense of discomfort that is painfully obvious, if only to the receiver. It's been a few years since high school (Okay, maybe decades), and I have learned some discretion in correcting people. I do, however, stand up and ensure I am heard.
"So, when your...ummm... friend was sick she had chemo and surgery?"
No, when my late wife was diagnosed with breast cancer she had surgery and then chemo. Terrible, awful chemo. But she fought it, and she won.
"Your...ummm..uhhh..friend died from cancer?"
No, my wife died, but not from cancer. You heard that capital "W" didn't you? "We were married. She was my wife."
"It must be hard to lose a...friend."
It is. I miss Mari terribly. I miss Craig. They were friends. But Linda was my wife. Married. Such a concept.
"You know, I lost my grandpa to cancer. I was there for parts of it. It was really hard."
I really mean it when I say I am sure it was. But there is a difference. In fact, all losses are different experiences. Who did you grow up with? mature with? Expect to see your kids grow up? With every loss all those expectations, from all sides of the spectrum, have a tremendous impact. The key here is that all those losses have a name. A title. A "who was it I just lost and what does it mean for the rest of my life?" kind of pebble in the pond ripple. Sometimes it's a tsunami, sometimes it a ripple we all await and are almost prepared for.
A little later... "Your new...friend is sick?" Apparently USC is admitting slow learners these days. "No, my partner is sick. We can't be legally married in this state, but we are partners. She is not my friend (well,, she is, but you know what I mean, right?)" We talk for a bit about the impact of illness on hospice families- the exhaustion of caregivers, the need for better services, the lack of them. She gets that part. I am hopeful. She talks about a friend of hers (whom she does not call her spouse, for the record. She can apparently tell a difference between friendships. No italics needed here.) The friend has cancer. She's worried. I talk about Linda's battle, how she fought it and won. How she was back at work in three days after her first mastectomy, because I could not carry her on my health insurance policy because there were, and are, no Domestic Partnerships in Florida. How she survived seven surgeries, chemo, bone marrow loss, all while working full time. How we would drive her to work when she was too sick to drive just so she would not go on unpaid leave. How very glad I am we are back in California, and that I could put Linda, and now Casper, on my insurance like any spouse should. "But why don't ...ummm. people like your friend qualify for In Home Supportive Services when the time comes?" (That's a program based upon Medi-Cal or Medicaid qualification that pays for in home care). "Because we are partners. She does not qualify. " Then the kicker. That which has resonated all night. Past 2 clients in the evening. Dinner. Paperwork. Kids. "But you aren't really married. Why would your income count?"
And that is the kicker. Because we are not really married. We are "Civil Unioned." When you get married the officiant says "Now let me introduce the couple for the first time as ..." There are titles. There is honor. There is dignity. There is applause. There is no title for being "Civil Unioned" or "Domestic Partnered." Worse, calling someone your partner is confusing to others. I have a business partner. In fact, I have two, and they are married. To each other. Talk about confusing introductions! I have partners in crime at work- and I am frequently the ringleader (Imagine that!). Linda was my wife- legally and all the rest. Casper is my wife, but not legally, and I am not about to introduce her as my "Unionater"or my "Civilian."
Making marriage equality illegal means those of us - millions of us- in this position face inane and stupid and hurtful conversations every day. In our cars. In doing insurance paperwork. When we rent cars. When we buy houses. When we are introducing ourselves. Making us "special" or different or putting "Marriage equality" in parentheses, as someone from my high school alumni group did just last week as an intentional affront, makes our marriages less than and not equal. It's been a long time since Stonewall. We should not have to come out to say we are married. We should not be in quotes. No family facing hospice should ever feel they have italics around their relationship. No family should feel that ever. Today was like equality exhaustion- how much longer do we have to keep fighting this?
And so I am forever grateful for the staff in our office, who let me unwind before I faced traffic or another patient, and who were more indignant than I had allowed myself to be. "We are your friends Jill. We'll tell her. Casper is who you sleep with, cuddle with, do... yeah, everything with. We are your friends. You do not sleep with your friends. Go home to Casper. Tell her your friends sent you." I owe them. ( I also owe them paperwork and they are such good friends they will not tell...) Those who count respect us. Those who need education- they will get more, until we are done. It might be that we have come a long way, and Craig would be proud of us, but we are not done yet.
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