Open Letter to My Friend Who Opposes Gay Marriage

Open Letter to My Friend Who Opposes Gay Marriage
By: Terry Allen-Rouman

Thank you for your message, which I’m keeping private at your request, and for your honesty. But I disagree with you. People say that just because they are against gay marriage doesn’t mean they are homophobic. I agree that they do not necessarily “fear” gays, as “phobic” implies, but they are absolutely demonstrating that they feel gays are somehow inferior. My being gay is defined by my being in love with a man rather than a woman. If someone does not see my relationship as equal to a non-gay relationship, I can only conclude they somehow feel, even if subconsciously, that I am inferior.

Marriage in the United States is actually two different institutions, civil marriage and religious marriage. Many couples enjoy both, while others have only one or the other.

Civil marriage legally confers over 1,400 legal rights on a couple, things such as the right to file joint taxes, the right to visit each other in the hospital, the right to inherit each other’s property without lengthy and expensive additional processes in place. In addition to state rights, the federal government confers over 1,100 rights to married couples and up until recently recognized each state’s civil marriages to confer these rights – now they single out same-gender marriages for exclusion of these rights. Some states, including California, grant many, if not all, of the same state rights as civil marriage under a separate umbrella, such as domestic partnership. But as with other civil rights struggles, separate has proven not to be equal. First and foremost, not all rights are granted to these other types of relationships (especially federal rights in this case). And perhaps as important, at least to me, many people in society simply don’t understand the other types of relationships – everyone understands marriage. With one word, husband, I am able to convey and receive respect for my lifelong commitment to my husband, a “right” that you enjoy, probably without a second thought.

Religious marriage is an institution defined separately by each religion, church, or synagogue. Many religions do not recognize each other’s marriages. I absolutely honor your decision to belong to a religion that does not sanction same-gender marriages. But other religions do sanction same-gender marriages. And at least in the United States, our laws are not supposed to be driven by one religion over another, and certainly are not supposed to suppress any religion. Your church defines “marriage” one way – and I am not trying to change how your church defines it. But I deeply resent Californians voting for, and even being allowed to vote for, changing how my religion defines “marriage.”

Not long ago, interracial marriage was outlawed in many states, using remarkably similar arguments as those used today by those opposing same-gender marriage. Interracial marriage was against many people’s religions at the time, and it was argued that allowing interracial marriage would undermine the entire institution of marriage. Luckily, the U.S. Supreme Court struck down laws against interracial marriage, ruling in 1967 that “marriage is one of the basic civil rights of man.”

Jason and I had our religious wedding in 1993, well before we were allowed to have our civil marriage in 2008. Now, although our marriages remain valid, the voters of California have decided not to allow other same-gender couples to enjoy this same right, and the California Supreme Court has agreed. For the first time in history, the majority of voters have rewritten a state’s constitution to discriminate against a minority. This is a dangerous precedent. I find it interesting that although 52.3% of voters voted for Prop. 8 in November, this represents only 30.2% of eligible California voters, and only 19.0% of all Californians. So less than one in five Californians is all it takes to eliminate a group of people’s rights.

Luckily, our country continues to define equality more and more broadly. And history has never looked back kindly at those who have stood in the way of equality. More and more Californians and more and more Americans support gay marriage each year, realizing that equality needs to include everyone. I look forward to the day when it does.

karma?

Walking into Starbucks, I silently groaned at the line ahead of me. Two feet into the doorway and I'm already stopped. There are at least six or seven people in front of me waiting their turn. I stand there unhappily and begin the judgment. "Seriously people? What are you doing here at five to ten on a Friday morning? Don't you have to work? And if not, should you really be spending your money on overpriced coffee and pastries?" Of course, I was exempt from this judgment. I was there after spending the first couple hours of the morning at the County Clerk's office looking over a client's file- of which the only thing I had actually learned was that he probably was not going to pay us. (Three other private lawyers had been discharged and two cited that they were withdrawing for the client's failure to pay his bill. Thank you, court records.)

There was the woman at the register who suddenly forgot what it was she came to order and decided to painstakingly review the entire menu on the wall in the desperate hopes of triggering a memory of her drink. Then the young mother who, juggling child, oversized-designer purse, car keys to her SUV, oversized-designer wallet, and sippy cup, chatted away on the cell phone about how stressful her financial situation was to a compassionate friend who clearly understood her position. Then two men in suits who stood close, but not too close, and made remarks about the college basketball games the night before in a lame attempt to mask the awkwardness of having to wait in line with one another, without having really anything to talk about.

Man 1: "You watch the game last night?"

SHORT PAUSE.

Man 2: "Yeah."

PAUSE.

Man 1: "Cal is terrible."

LONGER PAUSE.

Man 2: "Yeah, they were really flat."

PAUSE.

Man 1: "But did you see the UConn score."

PAUSE.

Man 2: "I know. Wow"

I was mid-judgment of some giggly teens when I noticed the man in front of me. Probably mid-late 40's, maybe early 50-s. Taller fellow, longish hair, beard. Not dirty but not tidy either. His clothes were ragged and worn. As he stood there, he bounced his knee a bit which made me think he was nervous or unsure. He gently shook his fist next to his bouncing leg as he waited. Faintly, I heard the sound of change rattling. I watched him as the line shrank in front of us. He was careful to not look at anyone directly and kept his eyes to the menu on the wall behind the register. As he got closer to the front, right before it was to be his turn, he stepped over to the right, effectively getting out of the line. The cashier and I made eye contact. I turned my head to the right to now look at the man. She took the clue and called out to the guy. "Sir? Can I get your drink started for you?" Still not making eye contact with anyone, his only response was, "I'd like a coffee."

It was painfully clear, he did not know the proper Starbucks protocol. Intrigued, I stepped closer to hear their conversation. She replied, "what size would you like?" Again he looked up to the menu board, searching for an answer. "Uh, how much is the large?" Without hesitation, she responded "155" and waited. Silently he now moved from the right of the register to the far left. All the way past the glass display case, down to the counter where they handed you your egg sandwich and told you to have a nice day. He put his fist, knuckles down, to the counter and slowly opened it. Change spilled out. He began to parse out nickels and dimes and quarters, all the while counting in a low, rough whisper.

The next clerk, astute in her duties and determined to not be distracted by the homeless man, called out to me. "Ma'am, can I get your drink started for you." I stepped up and years of experience kicked in. "Yes please. I'd like a grande, decaf, soy latte, all the way to the top." While she efficiently filled in the corresponding boxes on the side of my 30% post recycled cardboard cup, I glanced down the bar to my left at the man still counting his change. I looked into my wallet and began to pull out money for my $3.60 order.

That's right about when the Catholic guilt kicked in. Like embarrassment, I could feel it creeping up my neck and into my face. My heart started racing and I could feel sweat in my armpits. I hate this feeling. I hate embarrassment. I hate feeling over-privileged and hate that I hate being fortunate. In the midst of my self-hate, I noticed the man coming back towards the register, still not making eye contact. He was now next to me and without thinking, I put my left hand gently on his right shoulder. I managed to quietly spit out, "Can I get your coffee for you?" He didn't seem to notice or hear me and still tried to pay. The clerk stood there astounded. She just stared at me. A little louder this time, I said, "why don't I get your coffee today and you get me next time?" He turned and looked at me. I noticed that he had light blue - almost pale - eyes and when he smiled, he was missing most of his teeth. That being said, we didn't make eye contact. I couldn't. I heard him say "thank you" but I had turned back to the clerk. I didn't see him again but then again, I wasn't actually looking.

Still shocked, the clerk who took my order said "that was SO nice." Overemphasis included. I responded, "could I also have a sausage and egg sandwich?" Honestly, I didn't want the sandwich. All I really wanted was to shut her up and manage to get out of there without being noticed. Thinking I hadn't heard her, she tried it louder. "That was REALLY nice of you." I gave a quick nod of acknowledgment, a tight smile and asked if the sandwich had cheese on it. She took the cue and placed my order. I paid and walked to the far right towards the coffee counter.

As I waited for my latte and egg sandwich, a woman approached me. "I just saw what you did. That was very generous of you." I mumbled something about good karma points and began to stare death rays at the barrista. Inside I was screaming at him to steam the damn soy milk faster. My new friend pondered aloud, "I never think to do things like that." I hmmed and began to pull napkins from the dispenser.

The truth was, I don't know what caused me to do it. I knew I didn't want to embarrass the man or make him feel like it was charity. I know I never want to feel that way. Was it really my Catholic guilt? Did I want praise from the other coffee drinking strangers? Did I think that my gesture would give him the encouragement he needed to change his current situation? Was I buying my cosmic karma points for not trusting or believing in the client who I was checking up on?

Probably a little of all of the above. But somewhere along the line, I have learned that people are more accepting of help if they feel like they are doing the favor for you. Few ever want to feel that they are incapable in someway or that anyone feels sorry for them.

Whether it's family, a client, our boss or a stranger at the coffee shop, treating everyone with respect is not nearly as noble or easy as we lead ourselves to believe.

Today

Today I am 30 years, 1 month and 3 weeks.  

I didn't make a big deal about turning 30. Adolfo took me to the city and treated me to a wonderful weekend at the Palace Hotel. (For reference, I did throw him a small surprise party for his 30th and managed to sneak his closest friends and family up from L.A. without his knowledge, so he felt he should "go big or go home" for my b-day.) We hoofed it around the city, watched the Chinese New Year parade, drank sangria at Limon, indulged in shabu-shabu, relaxed,... we just.... were us (just us in a nicer venue). Nothing too fantastic. No big fanfare. No gala celebrations or expensive party with 300 of my closest friends.  To me, turning 30 didn't seem like a big event and Adolfo understood that. It didn't seem right to overly celebrate my birth, when I surely didn't do anything of note to be here. Not that I'm complaining mind you, but... just go with me on this. 

That Sunday, my mom met us at the Palace and the three of us had brunch in the Garden Court. (If you've ever been there, you understand. If not, please do next time you are in SF. Sunday brunch in the Garden Court is an event where those who love to eat, EAT.) I greeted Mom at the top of the escalator of BART with a bouquet of flowers. After all, she did all the real work and was the one who really deserved the weekend. Alas, as it would not be proper for my husband to take my mother to the city for the weekend... but I digress. I had a bloody mary and raw oysters. Ceviche and noodles. Sushi. Croissants. Fresh fruit. And every type of chocolate dessert I could get my hands on. We listened to the jazz and reminisced. We laughed and talked and enjoyed the meal. We returned to reality (and a life sans raw oysters) back in Walnut Creek. To my surprise, one of my oldest friends had sent me tulips that awaited me on the doorstep. It was a most welcome gift! Genuine and sweet. That's the kind of birthday stuff I enjoy. Nothing over the top. Just a smile and a few kind words. Maybe a few laughs. That's what my birthday should be. After all, I didn't feel different.

It was really a harsh reality when I realized I was now a card-carrying member of the "over 30 club". That happened today. On my 30th year, 1st month, 3rd week of life. Adolfo and I had just gotten out of the car and were at the start of a walk around the Lafayette reservoir when we ran into a family friend. This is a girl who I've watched "grow up". She's a freshman now at Campo and is excited about life and all that being a freshman entails. She's a really good kid, was the altar server at our wedding and I love her family as my own. (Her uncle and I grew up together and he's probably one of the only people in this world who have actually seen me cry but more on that later.) Anyways, she giggled a lot, as 14 year olds are known to do, particularly when talking to adults. She'd just finished up her soccer season and was now beginning softball. She and her friend were running around the reservoir, working out everyday for their upcoming season. Our conversation was brief (after all, there's honestly very little we have in common) and we parted on "talk to you later" as family friends tend to do.  

About 1.2 miles in to the 2.7 trek, I commented how I envied my young friend's position in life. Regaling him yet again with my glory days of high school, at 14 or 15 years old I could have whipped around the reservoir twice without really thinking too much of it. For cross-country it was nothing for us to pound out 7 or 8 mile runs and sustain on little more than a gatorade and a bagel. (Now, it is a mental battle to just get in the car and drive over to the reservoir. Mind you, we live an astoundingly long 4+ miles away.) "Oh to be her age again," I flippantly said. Adolfo stopped mid-stride. He looked at me as if I had just told him I was thinking of quitting our life and becoming a circus performer in Northern Siberia. He said, "No way. I'm in the best shape of my life. I'd never want to be that young again." That's when it hit me. 

I'm 30. 

No shit. 

I'm really 30. 

I'm not sure what I expected 30 to feel like. But, I'm pretty sure it wasn't this. I'm certain that at 30, I didn't want to feel like I envied 15. 

The rest of our walk we talked about our summer plans and upcoming family events. No further mention of my desire to regress to uniforms, math homework and everyday high school angst. Somewhere at about mile 2, my mind drifted. I thought about family and growing up. I thought about where I am in life, the successes and failures I've had and those I've yet to have. I realized that at some point, we'll have kids of our own that we bring here. We'll drag them around the reservoir like my mom did with me and this 2.7 miles will REALLY feel like an eternity.  But today, this 2.7 miles is the same 2.7 miles that my young friend had to get around and the same 2.7 miles that I ran when I was her age. 

This revelation hit me as we rounded the last bend on the path. I happened to look at my watch and mention that the time on our parking meter had expired a couple of minutes before. That's when we saw him. The parking cop. (On a Sunday, no less!) We both broke out in a bit of a jog and then a sprint as we realized our car was only two or three cars away and he was wrapping up a ticket. As we ran, we giggled because we knew we'd gotten lucky to avoid the consequences. We'd cheated the clock and won. As we climbed into the car, I looked at Adolfo and smiled. 

30 feels like *this*. 

To me, it feels like yesterday happened only moments ago and tomorrow will never get here.  I realized I don't want to be 14, or 15, or even 21 again. Heck, I don't even want to be 27, 28 or 29. 30 is where I'm at now. And even if I'd wanted to, I can't go back. I'll never be the girl I was back then. I'm 30 now. But I've come the distance and can look back over the course I've completed.  

Today, I am 30 years, 1 month, 3 weeks (and now 1 day). And it feels good.