Beren deMotier * writer * artist * human  

They Can’t Take This Away From Me

copyright March. 2004 Beren deMotier

            I was married in the morning.  There were no rose petals to walk on.  No bridesmaids all in a row.  No dress I’d spent six months searching for, and then another three having buyer’s regret over.  No mothers-in-law bickered before our big day.  In fact, I went down the aisle holding a toddler and said vows covered in cracker crumbs.

            It was a great day.

            It all started the night before when my spouse of seventeen years got a call around six from our good friend and neighbor, also a lesbian, who said she’d heard our county, Multnomah County, was going to start issuing same-sex marriage licenses the next morning.  It was a call to arms for my wife, who’s always been reluctant when it came to the whole wedding thing, didn’t want to have a commitment ceremony, but has always said that if they made it legal, she’d be one of the first in line.

            She put her money where her mouth was.  No sooner did she hang up the phone and give me the news than she was calling around to find out what we needed to get a license.  Then she called our friend back and said she was going to go down and see if there were forms in the lobby, did she want to go?  She did, they piled into our van, and then they picked up another close friend eager to pledge her troth, three “grooms” off to check out the licensing situation.

            The rest became history.  There were no forms available, only a locked door when they got to the county building.  But reporters were already there and while the three of them were standing there, one of the reporters asked if they were the first ones in line.  They looked at each other and without speaking made a decision.  “Yes!” they responded, “We are.”

            As one of them said later, who’d have thought three middle-aged women would have been first on that dime.

            The brides were called and provisions were brought down, along with children to visit.  Then yet another friend arrived, and the four of them spent the night waiting, not for rock concert tickets, or for the sixth Harry Potter book, but for the opportunity to make their marriages legal.  Mind you, these were no fly by night couples, early in love, and jumping into a life of wedded bliss (not that I would deny anyone the opportunity to do so).  Between us we have eight children and seventy years of committed relationship.  That’s something to celebrate.

            While the “wives” took the children home and tried to snatch some sleep, reporters interviewed my wife and our friends, filmed them singing “I’m Getting Married In the Morning”, and matched them up mistakenly in news reports (creating cross-breed couplings that would never work). 

I got the call at five a.m. that we needed to be part of this experience.  So I slapped on my face, equivocated for thirty seconds over what to wear, woke the children, bundled them up in layers for the forty-two degree cold and caravanned down with the other brides-to-be.  Our twelve year old was thrilled to miss school.  Our nine year old was pretty excited about the Krispy Kreme donuts being delivered by excited supporters.  Our one year old was confused but surrounded by friendly faces he recognized.  They, and all the children were deliriously happy we were getting married.  We didn’t let the protesters get us down, though they were loud.  But there was too much love, hope, and excitement in the air as the line of couples stretched around the block and the supporters kept the donuts, coffee and flowers flowing, to let anyone rain on our parade.

            Finally they let us into the building, couple by couple.  We knew that it was official.  That the news conference had been held by the County announcing the decision, and that we weren’t going to be fobbed off at the last moment.  But it was still surreal.  A sleepless buzz ran through us as we handed over our filled-in forms, paid the sixty dollars and received in return the right to marry.  Which we had every intention of doing as soon as possible.

Everyone was smiles.  Our kids were beaming.  We were on a cloud nine that carried us past the protesters and down to the Unitarian Church where we and our friends were married in a hastily brought together ceremony that couldn’t have been more perfect.  Our dearest friends were there with us already.  The church ladies made us bouquets to carry.  Our sons carried the rings, our daughters bunches of flowers.  The minister was crying.  We were crying through our friends’ ceremonies.  Two of our mothers were there, and they were crying.  The vows felt just right.  We meant every word and more, as if our entire history had led to this day when we would declare our love.  It was exactly right to be covered in crumbs, in our jeans, and not exactly sparkling clean, because that’s just what happens when you love someone and become the mothers of three.

            Whether the legal marriage stands is another question, which we will eagerly follow, doing all we can to hold it in place.  But whatever happens, whatever the voters, the lawyers, the state Supreme Court and our anti-gay marriage Governor decide, they can’t take this, our experience, away from us.