Tag Archives: LGBT

The Story of Us (The Early Days), in Honor of Our 15th Anniversary

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Fifteen years ago, I was trying to stave off senioritis long enough to get through the last month of college. Easter fell on April 12, 1998, but it wasn’t a long enough weekend for me to go home to see my family. Instead, I went to the movies with friends. We saw Primary Colors,  and today the only thing I remember about the film was that I recognized Oak Alley Plantation, which was familiar because my high school friend Penelope had taken me to see it when I’d visited her in Louisiana on my spring break the month before.

Penelope and I had known each other since kindergarten, but our friendship had not weathered adolescence well. We’d been best friends through middle school and the start of high school, but then things got rocky. I was unhappy at home and, seeking comfort and belonging, I started hanging out with boys my friends didn’t like and letting my hormones do too much of my thinking. Penelope did not approve. She’s always been smarter and more mature than me, but back then, she was just another judgmental killjoy trying to tell me what to do. We fought more and more often. We said unforgivable things, and then we stopped being friends.

It had been about four or five years since we’d hung out or even spoken to each other when Penelope e-mailed me in the Spring of 1996. She was about to graduate from college and invited me to her senior art show. I was carrying about a bazillion credits that semester and barely had time to shower, much less socialize, so I didn’t go, but I was glad to hear from her. That summer when we both got home from school, we had lunch together, then went for a walk along the Burlington waterfront. I was relieved to find our high school resentments had evaporated, and we were able to talk and joke as easily as we had before we’d parted ways. She had only a few weeks at home before she was due to go to Houston, TX for Teach for America’s teacher training program, and from there to a two-year commitment teaching Special Education in South Louisiana.

When she left, we exchanged letters. I sent her care packages with baked goods and goofy knickknacks I picked up at various shops in Burlington and Northampton. She sent me letters filled with black-ink sketches, snippets of poetry, funny anecdotes about her students, and lyrical descriptions of places she visited and things that she did. Very rarely, we’d be home in Vermont at the same time, and we’d get together for a few hours, but these letters and brief visits soon proved insufficient to nourish the friendship that was rapidly growing more intense than it had ever been in childhood. We started emailing and talking on the phone daily.

We joked about all we had in common. My senior year (her second year in Louisiana), we were both single, but both casually seeing guys who paid far too little attention to us except for the occasional booty call, and even these guys were freakishly similar: their names began with the same letter, they were both artists, they seemed to share many of the same annoying (to us) peccadilloes. (They were not actually the same person: we did not have that much in common!) As Penelope and I bitched together, hour after hour, about these inadequate non-boyfriends, I began to consider whether we wouldn’t be better off just kicking the guys to the curb and taking up with one another, but I didn’t say anything. Penelope had never expressed any interest in women. (As for me, I was at Smith. ‘Nuf said.)

Penelope invited me down to Louisiana to visit her on my spring break. I went, and we had a blast in New Orleans and stayed up late every night talking and snuggling, but though we were closer than ever, we didn’t cross that line. We didn’t even talk about crossing that line.

Back to Easter 1998: When I got back from the movie theater, I called Penelope to share my excitement at recognizing Oak Alley, but she didn’t answer. All weekend, she didn’t answer, and then Sunday night, she called… from Vermont. She’d gone home to visit her dad for Easter, and didn’t have to go back South until Tuesday, and could she drive down and visit me tomorrow? Of course, I agreed, and then I didn’t sleep all night. It felt like our relationship was coming to a tipping point: I thought we were very, very close to becoming lovers, and I’d gladly nudge us over that edge, if only I could be sure she’d be interested. I didn’t want to freak her out and wreck our friendship again. It was better to have her in my life as a friend than not at all.

Monday morning, someone knocked on the doorjamb of the glorified supply closet in the bowels of the art building where I spent nearly twenty hours a week at my work study job, selling art supplies to a parade of eye-popping misfits. (Many Smithies enjoy an eccentric personal aesthetic, but the art majors are a cut above.) I looked up and there was Penelope, having gotten directions from someone in my house. We hugged and laughed about the fact that our trend toward eerie similarity remained unbroken: without discussion, we were dressed exactly alike, in red t-shirts, dark-wash jeans, and black shoes.

She had brought my Easter basket from home, stopping by my parents’ house and demanding it like a chocolate terrorist, waiting impatiently in the foyer until my mother turned it over, while our dog barked madly. (I hadn’t asked her to do that, but I must have mentioned that my mother had said she’d have a basket waiting for me when next I came home.)

We went to dinner with Penelope’s mom that night, driving up to Brattleboro to meet her. We came back to school and watched a movie until someone kicked us out of the living room because they’d reserved the TV. We went back to my room, and the whole time I was a crazy tangle of nerves and anticipation, wondering if I should say anything, wondering if the change in our relationship felt as imminent, as inevitable to her as it did to me, or if my years at Smith had twisted my perspective on feminine intimacy so that I could no longer appreciate female friendship without sex.

In the end, I don’t remember either of us making the first move. It just happened, organically, inevitably, as it was meant to. Fifteen years ago this very morning, we got out of bed feeling as if the magnetic poles of the earth had shifted and everything was suddenly different, suddenly put to right, and we didn’t have to worry. She flew back to Louisiana that afternoon. She had two more months to fulfill her teaching commitment, and I had one more month until I graduated. Neither of us knew what would happen next, but we knew we’d be together — we knew we had to be together.

Happy anniversary, my dearest love. Here’s to the next fifteen years, and the next after that, and the next after that….

-C.

Word of the day: Tokophobia (fear of childbirth)

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Penelope and I took a childbirth preparation class on Saturday. We took the same class when she was pregnant with Hank, but that was more than two years ago, and since she never actually had a labor, we figured we’d better do it again. That’s right: I said Penelope never had a labor. She developed severe pre-eclampsia and so at 36 weeks the doctor ordered an induction, but even over the course of 24 hours of ever-increasing doses of pitocin, her cervix never softened, dilated, or effaced, and she never really even started having contractions. Her blood pressure was still dangerously high, even with magnesium sulfate in an IV drip, so she had a C-section.

Not to minimize her experience, because she was really, really sick and miserable for that last month or so of pregnancy, and it took her weeks afterward before she felt human again, but the fact that Penelope didn’t labor is sort of a sore spot with us. You see, I’m pretty terrified of labor. Everyone’s afraid of labor to some degree, but I think my fear goes a little beyond the norm and skirts the line between healthy and debilitating. Back when we decided to have a family, part of the plan was that Penelope would have the first baby, in part so that when my own turn for labor came, I’d have seen it before, know what to expect, and therefore (hopefully) be more prepared and at peace with the process.

That didn’t happen, so I’m trying to prepare and educate myself through research. We’ve now taken the childbirth prep course twice. I’ve done a ton of reading. I’ve tried to watch videos, but mostly I “watch” with my hands over my eyes, squinting through a crack between my fingers, cringing and queasy (and I have to say, the videos don’t help me feel any better about the process). I’ve been speaking to friends and family who have been through it. I’ve been doing prenatal yoga, practicing positions that will hopefully be helpful in labor. I’ve been building a “toolbox” of breathing and visualization and meditation techniques intended to help me focus and deal with pain. I guess at this point, I’m about as “prepared” as possible.

Sometimes, I feel optimistic: I think I will do this, my body is made to do this, and like women have done all over the world since the dawn of humankind, I will come through labor just fine. (Only, unlike other women birthing throughout history, I can give birth in a clean, homey birthing suite with access to indoor plumbing and medical intervention if necessary, and not in a hut under a sweltering desert sun or in the back of a covered wagon traversing the Oregon Trail in January.) At other times, I remain terrified that I am the world’s biggest wimp, and evolution be damned, I cannot do this.

Here’s the thing: I can read all I want, and talk to every mother I know about labor, but the bottom line is that every labor is different and every woman handles labor differently, and so there’s really no way for me to know what to expect or how things will turn out. So I have to be prepared for everything.

Knowing that, we have what must be the world’s most flexible birth plan. Other couples write reams about what music they want playing, what comfort items they want in the room, what the lighting should be like, what labor positions or aids they intend to use, what photographs they want to take, etc. Not us. Our birth plan consists of just three goals for the big day:

1. Healthy baby

2. Healthy mama

3. Medical staff to treat Penelope/our relationship/our family with respect

If we come through labor and delivery with those three goals accomplished, we will be sublimely satisfied, no matter how we get there.

That said, I remain pretty anxious about pain and pain management. I’ve been lucky enough so far in my life not to have experienced much by way of pain. I suffer from debilitating migraines, but labor pain is not at all the same thing. I’ve never broken a bone or even suffered a major muscle injury. (Knocking on wood.) I had a bad grease burn on New Year’s Day that nearly made me pass out, and I hate getting slivers more than just about anything, both of which make me afraid that my pain tolerance must be pretty low, but again, I’m told labor is a totally different kind of pain.

ImageMy dad had this Peanuts comic on his fridge for a long time, because he and I are both total wimps when it comes to having slivers removed.

Knowing that I’m afraid of pain, friends have told me there’s no shame in an epidural. Surely not, but I don’t want to be so afraid of pain that I request an epidural before I really need one, because epidurals can lengthen labor, make it harder to push, and make childbirth seem a detached and out-of-body experience. I don’t have much experience with prolonged pain, but I do have experience with myself on pain meds: I had my wisdom teeth out a few years ago and I was loopy for days. I’m not a glutton for punishment by any stretch, and I’m not philosophically opposed to medical intervention (including pain meds), but since childbirth is something I expect to do only this once, I’d like to fully experience it to the extent that I can.

Ideally, pain management will be a game day decision, and I will be able to make a moment-to-moment assessment of where I am and how I’m doing with the pain, and be able to request medications as necessary. You hear and read about those poor women who wait too long to request the epidural and then can’t have it, though, and sometimes their birth experiences are more frightening, painful, and exhausting than necessary. I keep going back and forth on the natural vs. medicated debate in my mind (such that sometimes I hope circumstances evolve in such a way as to take the decision out of my hands), and not coming up with a satisfying, reassuring plan.

I suspect that I have long since given in to my tendency to over-think things. I need to go back to our birth plan (healthy baby, healthy mama, respectful treatment), and remind myself that the goal is simple, and that the details are out of my hands: baby will come when he comes, and how he comes, and he is in charge (and He is in charge), but I am not in charge.  

Breathe.

-C.

The Political Has Never Been So Personal

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I count among my family and friends people all across the political spectrum. I don’t mean that I have a crotchety old uncle who has never voted for a democrat in his life, but he’s family so we tolerate him anyway; or that I have a neighbor I barely talk to who has a Romney bumper sticker — I mean I have several loved ones and friends, people who attended our civil union out of love for us (even though our relationship made them uncomfortable), people who celebrated the birth of our son and who adore him as much as we do, people I honestly respect and admire, who are staunch conservatives. As the election season heats up and the campaign gets increasingly negative, and the populace seems ever more polarized, I confess that it’s sometimes hard to recall that respect and admiration. I try to always be civil and respectful in political debates, and remember that the people I am sparring with are friends and colleagues, but it’s hard because the critical issues in this presidential election are so personal, if you’re not on my side, you are not just against my candidate: you are against me, my gender, my family, my lifestyle, and my planet.

A lot of the conservatives I know say they vote Republican because they believe in small government and they care about the economy, and they don’t pay too much attention to the social issues. I care about the economy, too, but I can’t afford not to pay attention to social issues, because the G.O.P.’s position on social issues is a personal attack on everything I hold most dear. Think I’m being overly dramatic? Here are concrete examples of what I mean:

1. Marriage Equality

Romney and Ryan both support amending the U.S. Constitution to outlaw same-sex marriage. That is, they would outlaw my marriage. How can I not take that personally? Penelope and I have jumped through so many hoops to make our family secure for ourselves and our kids — by joining in a registered domestic partnership in Chicago in 1998, by having a civil union in Vermont in 2001, by marrying in Vermont in 2009, by making sure both of us were listed as “parent” on Hank’s birth certificate, by doing a second-parent adoption of Hank in 2011, by keeping our wills, advanced health care directives, and durable power of attorney documents current — how could we dream of voting for a ticket that wants to unravel all that we have built? And honestly, how could our friends and family dream of doing that to us through their votes, no matter how sluggish the economy?

2. Employment Discrimination

Penelope and I are both working mothers, and our family is very dependent upon both of our incomes. Therefore, I am troubled by the G.O.P. platform on employment discrimination on two fronts: equal pay and discrimination based on sexual orientation. First, Romney won’t go on record as supporting the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act, the first legislation that President Obama signed into law, which extends the statute of limitations to give women a fair opportunity to challenge pay discrimination in court. Second, Romney does not support including sexual orientation and gender identity within the protections of the federal Employment Non-Discrimination Act. In 29 states, people can be fired from their jobs just for being gay, and they have no recourse to sue for wrongful termination. I am lucky enough to live in one of the other 21 states, but most Americans are not so fortunate. Again, how could I support a ticket that doesn’t support my right to get paid fairly for the work I do, or that would have me live (and work) in the closet out of fear that I could be fired because of who I love?

3. Reproductive Rights

Since Missouri Congressman Todd Akin’s cataclysmic comments on “legitimate rape” last month, there has been a lot of press about the G.O.P.’s platform and how it would ban abortion without exception for rape, incest, or even to save the life of the mother. Now, thankfully, my hard-fought pregnancy was very much wanted and expected, and I’ve never had to face the agonizing choice of whether or not to have an abortion — but many, many women are not so lucky. (Also, I am just now realizing that the results of my prenatal testing are not yet in, so perhaps I had better not count my chickens….)

Reasonable minds are always going to differ about abortion, but the G.O.P.’s prurient interest in the goings-on of our uteruses doesn’t stop there: both Romney and Ryan support “Personhood” amendments that would define life as beginning at conception. (Romney told Mike Huckabee so last October, here; and Ryan infamously co-sponsored with Akin a federal bill that would have done the same.) Maybe life-beginning-at-conception doesn’t sound so bad to you, but make sure you’ve thought it through. If the fertilized blastocyst has all the rights of a full-fledged human being, your IUD, or, fellas, your girlfriend’s birth control pills, are suddenly illegal, because they prevent that little blastocyst-citizen from implanting in the uterus (aka “murder”). Maybe you are having trouble conceiving, and you’ve been saving up for years to afford IVF — too bad: that procedure is also illegal.

I’ve been on birth control pills at several times in my life for reasons that have nothing to do with wanting to be free to cat around with men, and our own dear Hank was conceived by IVF, so again, how could I support a ticket that, while ostensibly all about small government, wants to legislate intimate decisions which rightly should stay between me, my wife, and our doctors? How could these friends of mine who are so sweet to Hank and so accepting of our family vote for a party that would so threaten our ability to have future children?

4. Climate Change

Two weeks ago, listening to highlights from Romney’s energy plan on NPR made my blood boil, because it was so over-reliant upon fossil fuels and did not even acknowledge the specter of global warming. Last week at the Republican National Convention, he added insult to injury by openly mocking climate change when he said, “President Obama promised to begin to slow the rise of the oceans” (pause for smirk and eye roll) “and to heal the planet. My promise is to help you and your family.” I’m sorry, but that was unforgivable.

Reasonable minds can (and forever will) differ on abortion, but there is no longer any legitimate intellectual debate on the issue of climate change. A few biased “experts” bankrolled by big energy corporations notwithstanding, 97% of American scientists believe that global warming is real and that it is caused by human activity. Here in Vermont, most of us have no doubt that global warming is real: the evidence is all around us. In 2011, we had two 500-year floods, defined as a flood with a 0.2% likelihood of occurring in any given year. Think about that: a 0.2% chance, and we got hit with two of them! Season after season of mild winters are decimating our ski industry and our maple syrup harvest, both of which are critical to our state’s economy, and even more critical to its identity. Here in Vermont, climate change is not a punchline.

If you believe in global warming, you know we can’t afford an administration that doesn’t care about healing the planet. A Romney presidency won’t do me and my family any good if it doesn’t make a meaningful effort to reduce our nation’s dependence on fossil fuels and to reverse the environmental damage caused by climate change, something Romney has shown no interest in doing. I care very deeply about the world my children will inherit, and I cannot imagine voting for a man who apparently thinks environmentalism is a joke.

There: I’m done. There are other reasons I won’t be voting for Romney, but that was never in doubt: this post is about why I hope the people who care about me and my family won’t vote Republican, either, because your vote will have a very real, very personal impact on my life. I have tried to be respectful, and I’ve tried to post links to authority for any assertions of fact. If you leave a comment, please do the same.

-C.

Hey, Wait, I Got a Real Complaint

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Tomorrow is Tax Day. Well, technically, Tuesday is Tax Day, because tomorrow is Sunday and Monday is a holiday no one outside of the District of Columbia has ever heard of (Emancipation Day — other states celebrate Emancipation Day, but not on April 16). But because I have a full time job, tomorrow might as well be tax day: I’ve got to get these suckers done today.

Now, lest you all think I am a terrible procrastinator, I want to note for the record that I filed our federal tax returns way back on February 2, the day the last of the W-2′s arrived in the mail. All that remains is our Vermont taxes, and my problem is not that I am a procrastinator, but that I am passive aggressive. Filing my Vermont taxes pisses me off, and not because I’m anti-taxation or anti-government, or because I’m not expecting a refund, or any of that. No, it’s because I’m gay.

Wait! You’re thinking, “Isn’t Vermont one of those pinko commie hippie fringe states where the gays marry and have babies and all that?” Why, yes, it is: Vermont was the first state to enact civil unions back in 2000, and the first state to legislate marriage equality (in 2009), and not have it decreed by judicial fiat. I was actually a spectator in the State House the day the House of Representatives voted to override then-Governor Jim Douglas’s veto of the Marriage Equality bill, and I don’t think I have ever been prouder to be a Vermonter.

So I know I shouldn’t be so snarky about my State taxes. I know my wife and I are blessed to be able to file our taxes as a married couple, and if I am going to be passive aggressive about anything, I should aim my wrath and frustration at the IRS. It’s just that it’s so much work. I have to file our federal taxes first, dividing up the various deductions and credits to which our family is entitled so that we can maximize our refund. That usually means calculating the taxes several times over, figuring out whether it makes the most sense for Penelope or I to file as head of household, which one of us gets to itemize the mortgage deductions, which one of us gets to take the child tax credit, and so on. It’s time consuming, and if we could file as married and just lump all of our various deductions and credits together, I’d be happy to do it, even if we didn’t get quite as much money back.

Then, I write letters of protest to include with our Forms 1040, explaining that while we are signing the forms “under penalties of perjury” and declare the financial calculations to be “true, correct, and accurate,” we cannot warrant that “all statements” are true and correct because we know our filing status (“single” and “head of household,” respectively) to be false. I’ve enclosed these letters with our tax forms three years running, but so far I’ve never gotten a response from Uncle Sam.

Anyway, after I do all that, I have to do it all again for the Vermont taxes. There is a box on the Vermont Tax Return form that says “Check here if using Recomputed Federal Return information,” and what that means is, I have to check that box, draft fake federal returns as “married filing separately,” and base all of our State tax information based on these “recomputed” federal returns.

I have spent a lot of time over the years bitching and moaning about the injustice of it all, and periodically, someone will interrupt my rant to ask why I don’t just pay someone to do my taxes like everyone else. The answer is that it is offensive enough that I have to waste my own time drafting FAKE tax returns: I’m hardly going to spend good money to pay someone else to do it.

-C