Always a Bridesmaid

Starting this week, same sex couples in Washington State can sign up for a limited "Domestic Partnership," which I am trying to muster up some happiness about. My partner and I can now make end-of-life and other health care decisions for each other; theoretically, the little plastic card the State of Washington will be sending us will serve as a "pass" guaranteeing that neither of us will ever have to face the horrifying reality of being excluded from the other's hospital room in a time of crisis, or treated as "less than" the family members we are in the event of a health emergency. Hip, hip, hooray. Right?


I can't help the incredible frustration I feel about it, though. It's less than what we want. It's less than marriage. Hell, it's still a lot less than the "civil unions" and "domestic partnerships" that a few other states offer to gay and lesbian couples. But, I just don't feel like we've won some huge victory here. I know, I know. The passage of the law that allows for this limited domestic partnership possibility took countless hours of work, strife, and was only achieved by the thousands and thousands of hours contributed to the various activities leading up to it -- like the marriage equality case (which ultimately failed in WA), and the de facto parentage case (which succeeded for many while falling short for the petitioner and the child in who's name the case was brought). So, I get it. This is a big deal, a big step, and I should be thrilled.

But, mostly, I am sad. I just read the latest post over at Orangette, in which Molly waxes beautifully poetic about the last days counting down to her wedding, and it makes me want to cry. Sure, in some respect the tears are because her words are moving and any joy like that will touch a person and evoke emotion. But, for the most part, my tears are of frustration, anger, and from being excluded from a tradition and a process that is instantly recognizable the world over. I admit it. I am a feminist, and a lesbian. And I want a wedding, I want a marriage, and I want the rest of the world around me to recognize it and, more so, to share in the joy of it.

I can't have that. My partner and I have been together, in an exclusive and committed relationship, for over 11 years. My partner is wonderfully funny, smart, and brings a zest to my life that otherwise would not exist. But she and I can't get married. We can have a ceremony, and I am sure our friends would come and be happy and it would be lovely. But it wouldn't be a wedding, and the world wouldn't recognize us as married. Instead, I read the New York Times wedding announcements and fume over the couples who have been together 3 years, 2 years, 6 months, and yet they can get married. They aren't any more committed or in love than I am. They're just straight. That's the only difference between us. And yes, OK, so the NYT includes gay couples and lesbian couples. But unless those couples live in and have a ceremony in Massachusetts or another country where marriage equality exists, they are not getting married and cannot get married.

This is compounded by the fact that my partner and I had a ceremony once. In Portland, Oregon, during the short window that Multnomah County issued marriage licenses for same sex couples. It was beautiful, in the backyard of the woman officiating -- we'd only just met her, in our attempt to find someone with some Jewish affiliation to preside -- and at the time, we thought it was a wedding. We signed papers. We took pictures. My mom was there, and my partner's parents were present via speakerphone. We registered. Good friends and lovely family members sent us gifts. Of course, some short months later our marriage -- and that of thousands of other couples who flocked to Portland to "make it legal" -- was invalidated. Simple as that. One day, we were married (well, whatever that meant -- we were "married" maybe in the State of Oregon but our marriage was unrecognized anywhere else), and then another day, we were not. I was driving back to my office from the courthouse in Seattle, after a hearing, and the NPR announcer interrupted the regular scheduled programming to tell me that the Oregon Supreme Court had ruled that my marriage, and all the others from that brief sweet window of time, was invalid. Invalid. It didn't exist; they didn't exist. Multnomah County sent us our money back.

Now, years later, I fill out a one-pager listing my name and address, and I pledge that my partner and I are both over 18, that we live together, that we aren't married to or in a domestic partnership with anyone else, that we are not related by blood, and that we are both the same sex. For my trouble, and my $50 fee, I will have some assurance that should my partner's chronic illness flare up, and should she end up in the hospital, I will get the pleasure and the privilege of reenacting that scene from "Terms of Endearment" when, inevitably, my dear one's medication comes later than the latest wave of pain. Or, maybe I won't...I mean, what if the emergency room visit takes place in Podunk nowhere, WA, where the one nurse on duty is a lifelong member of the Christian Coalition or Focus on the Family? Or across state lines in Idaho or Montana, or in another state that does not recognize domestic partnerships, civil unions, or anything homo? It means nothing then. Not worth the paper it's printed on, I'm sure.

I'm worn out. I have little other response than It isn't fair. How can I muster up happiness at being allowed the maybe-ability to make very specifically named medical decisions for my partner, when the mere fact of being "allowed" such limited rights is a constant reminder of the many, many rights we are denied? How can I be happy, and smile, and buy one more gift off one more registration for the next couple of straight friends who decide to get married, when they are joining a club from which my partner and I are specifically excluded?

My partner and I have woken up next to each other, taken care of each other, laughed with each other and fought with each other for over 11 years. We would ace "The Newlywed Game." We know what book the other person is reading, and we know what programs to record for the other person from cable TV. We know what the other person will order from a menu without saying anything. We are a couple -- no more and no less than any of those straight couples in last Sunday's New York Times. No more, no less than Molly and her groom over at Orangette. Just not recognized in the same way. And maybe it won't ever be in my lifetime.

So, for now, I will have a little plastic card that I can carry in my wallet which will hopefully ensure that (God forbid) if one of us ends up in the hospital, the other one won't be excluded from decision-making or from the hospital room. I know it will remind me that we can't get married. I am hoping, though, that the former will mean more.

Thank you to PinkCakeBox for the loan of this lovely photo. If you are in the New York / New Jersey area, get a cake from her!