At the local rally (in
March) for equal rights, I met a heterosexual man who wandered onto the courthouse lawn. We’ll call him Colt. We’ve become fast friends with texts about
random thoughts and abstract realities.
Like me, he doesn’t fear that permanent harm will come from stepping
into the other guy’s position and seeing the world through an antagonist’s eyes. Many people do, and so humans have this
devolution of empathy that runs rampant, circling our planet. (For that reason, I’ve just finished the 5-Act
script for Planet Puster’s Purple Problem
which will explain everything and illuminate erroneous ideologies so that we
can get on with our specie's evolution. If you
want to participate in the grand production of this animation, I need help with everything except
the script—and maybe a bit of help with the script—so, just let me know where you
(and a friend?) want to jump in.)
This past Friday,
Colt invited me to a party to celebrate a gay man’s 60th birthday. They've
been friends since adolescents or some few years after. There were a collection of impressive resumes
and genuine wit at this dinner party. Many of them have been friends for
three or more decades. Two of the
straight couples invited their gay adult child, one brought a boy and one sent a
girl with her girlfriend.
Colt and I met the boy on the night of the rally about the time I was handing him a 2girls card. The young man had
overheard enough of our conversation to follow the impetus in his legs and ask for more of
Colt’s predictions. I
was on my way out when this red head—let’s call him Tré—
interrupted us, so I excused myself and forgot to hand him a 2girls card.
A few months later, at this party, Tré and I
are blocking the aisle to the food and fridge because we are in a heated debate
about gay rights. His mom (who I think
is an attorney) was listening to our socio-political volleys.
“We should have the
right to marry, even if we chose not to exercise it,” Tré says.
“But do we want
this right simply because we can’t have it? It’s not working for so many, why
do we want to enter into something that binds us to laws and costly regulations?”
Trevor continues
his point and I continue to say things that appear to startle his
mom. I’m playing devil’s advocate, but
my ramblings are beginning to convince me that this institution is a pit filled with quick sand.
“With marriage, we
save money,” Tré says.
“Until we give it
to divorce lawyers.”
“We should be able
to have insurance and other securities.”
I applaud this
position, remembering a few speakers at the rally who shared their stories about
medical needs and adopted children. And
then, I confessed that I’ve not known those conundrums, and am not sure that the
prime reason (for gays to marry) should be for medical benefits.
“We should have the
right to marry, even if we chose not to exercise it,” Tré reminds.
“It wasn’t a
marriage certificate that perpetuated any of my former relationships. Every morning when I woke up, I was there
because I chose to be there. More, I knew that my partner chose to be there. For me, that was worth more than a court’s
decree,” I said with resounding idealism.
The truth is, I'm done with this subject. I wish it was
already recorded in the history books with a chapter title, “When Humans Were
Still Selfish.” One of the other party goers—an attorney who swings for our team—popped into the conversation and
said, “It’s only a matter of time.” She
added, “In a few years, it will be like the McCarthy era—politicians who opposed
gay marriage will be back peddling and explaining ‘what they said isn’t what
they meant.’” I toasted, taking a gulp of celebratory spirits.
Tré—a
lawyer or advocate in the making—wasn’t finished with the devil’s advocate in
me. I was pushing down my second Amstel
Light. He must have felt that he’d have
me pinned within a few more ounces. He threw
the subject of ‘parenting’ out where it hovered in the air above the communal butcher
block.
“Wouldn’t it be
better for a child to have two loving fathers, than parents who fight and don’t
care about the child?”
Here, the pseudo-Freudian
in me tried to not focus on the word “fathers,” as I would have thought the default
stereotype would go to mothers. It occurred to me that Tré was
revealing his role in parenting with a male partner. I wanted to stay focused, so I addressed the meat
of what he was saying.
“Gays aren’t
inherently better people. Today, the ones
who choose parenting are grateful. In a
few generations, gays will take parenting for granted.”
I felt a rock land
in the pit of his mother’s stomach. I’m
not sure why my statement had so much gravity, but she thanked me for the
conversation—while I was leaving the party—, and that caused a rock to land in the
pit of my stomach. Was she thanking me
for my rational point-of-view or offering a mother’s sweet hope to a cynic?
She’s been on my
mind all weekend. I keep hearing descriptions
of her own ceremony, and what this particular formality means to family members. I keep hearing "all
things should be equal," and how gays need to participate in the matrimonial
milestone. More, I keep hearing the murmurings of her desire. Who wouldn’t want to see Tré—this
beautiful idealist—hold hands before God and his family? I imagine that she waits to hear the other man say, “I
promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of
my life.” I would want that for Tré. What mother wouldn’t want to add this moment to her life's experiences...with each and every one of their children? She waited and listened, holding her fortitude until I came around— though, it took me a couple of days.
On this day, I thank
moms for the (random) sweet hope they instill in idealists…and cynics. Without you, we couldn’t perpetuate this necessary evolution or remember what this earth experiment is all about.
