Election reactions

Marriage equality won big Tuesday night, securing the right for same-sex couples to marry in three states and defeating an attempt to amend the Minnesota constitution to ban same-sex marriage. Each of these wins was unprecedented. Any one of them would have been worth celebrating, but taken together, they affirmed that the American public is moving towards recognizing LGBT families as equal.

I was pretty sure we'd win in Washington, though I wasn't confident. As we grew closer to Election Day, I wondered how I'd react to the results. Obviously, defeat would have been devastating. But victory? It's all so bittersweet for me now. I decided not to plan to go to the campaign party downtown, or even to join the revelers in the streets of my neighborhood — at least not until we'd had the results and I could see my response. I didn't want to be the widow in the corner keening while everyone else was drinking champagne and cheering. But neither did I want to feel alone, despondent.

As it turned out, I wasn't keening, or at least not any more than usual. Neither was I excited. No tears of joy or sorrow came to my eyes when I read the results of our referendum or heard the good news from Maine, Maryland, and Minnesota. I felt numb, with a little relief around the edges. My reaction that night was familiar, actually. It was how I felt when I paid off the mortgage last year: what would have been a celebration with Sandy was, in her absence, just another task done. Mortgage paid off? Check. Same-sex marriages legal in Washington state? Check. No more a cause for rejoicing than getting the cats fed or library books returned. That in itself made me sad, and that sadness, the disappointment that I didn't feel like celebrating — that's what eventually led to keening.

December 1996 at the Adobe holiday party

If Sandy were alive, we'd be planning our wedding for December 16, our 17th anniversary. We'd be reserving a place (probably at the Arboretum, indoors because it's winter), arranging for an officiant, inviting people (arguing a little over how many to invite), figuring out what to wear. The plan had always been for my mom to make Sandy a dress from a lovely piece of blue raw silk that Sandy has, but because my mother was in a car accident a few weeks ago and is currently in rehab, I don't think she's up to making any dresses. In fact, she'd probably be attending our wedding by Skype. These are the things we'd be focused on, in among the tasks of daily life. Underlying everything, I know we'd both be elated.

But I don't have the distraction of wedding plans, or the background sense of elation. I still feel vulnerable, even more so after my state voted on whether to recognize my humanity — and worse, voted on Sandy's. How dare they? How dare anyone claim the authority to judge the value of our relationship? Even winning, the vote itself takes its toll on my psyche. When I think about that 46.85% of the state who voted no, it's hard not to take it personally. Honestly, I'm not even trying not to take it personally. It's deeply, deeply personal.

At the same time, I am profoundly grateful to the tens of thousands of people who gave money, volunteered, and made their support for equality visible here in Washington, matched by those in other states who did the same. I am grateful for the generations of lesbians, gay men, bisexuals, and transgendered folks who courageously spoke out about their lives and their love. Sandy rightfully said we needed to be out everywhere we could be to support those who can't be. With each step toward equality, the number of people who can live their lives fully and openly increases. That is a good thing.

Ultimately, on June 30, 2014, our registered domestic partnership will convert to a marriage, retroactive to July 2007, and Sandy will have her deathbed wish. No matter what else I feel, for that I am incredibly grateful.