When I was twelve years old, I watched National Velvet and fell to pieces at the sight of Elizabeth Taylor. Those eyes! That hair! If only I could be like her. But I resembled her as much as a frog resembles a unicorn.By Lesléa Newman
When I was twelve years old, I watched National Velvet and fell to pieces at the sight of Elizabeth Taylor. Those eyes! That hair! If only I could be like her. But I resembled her as much as a frog resembles a unicorn.
Now, thirty-six years later, at last Liz and I have something in common: we married the same person twice. Though unlike Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, my beloved and I did not divorce before we wed again.
Our first wedding was perfect in every way. September 10th 1989 was sunny but not too hot, humid enough to make my hair curl but not frizz. I felt like a movie star in my suit with its three-quarter length cream-colored jacket and black miniskirt. My intended looked exceptionally handsome in a dashing off-white silk shirt and crisp black pants. I wore something old (my grandmother’s bracelet), something new (my suit), something borrowed (a bobby pin from my best friend) and something blue (a garter). My love and I stood under a huppah surrounded by sixty-five of our nearest and dearest as Rabbi Rebecca recited the traditional seven blessings. We signed the ketubah (Jewish marriage contract) and exchanged rings before my betrothed broke the glass underfoot. Then we were lifted up on chairs and paraded around by our guests with great joy. At the end of the afternoon, my face ached from smiling so much. The food was delicious, the deejay splendid, and the photographer outdid herself. There’s nothing about my wedding day I would do differently. So why go through it again?
Because times have changed.
From September 10, 1989 until May 17, 2004, my marriage held no legal status. Because the person I pledged to spend the rest of my life with and I are both women, our vows meant nada when it came to the law. But we live in Massachusetts. And our day has come.
On November 18, 2003, the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court decided that same-sex couples have the right to civil marriage. But it wasn’t over. The court ordered the Massachusetts Legislature to adjust the state laws to be consistent with their decision within 180 days. There was talk of lawmakers trying to amend the state Constitution with a Defense of Marriage Act.
Still, ever the optimist, I brought our wedding outfits to the cleaners.
The court upheld its decision. Mary and I are both hopeless romantics, and we wanted to marry again on September 10th. Since the application is only good for sixty days we didn’t fill one out right away.
Nevertheless, when May 17th arrived, I made my way to City Hall. History was about to be made, and I wasn’t going to miss it. The sun shone brightly over my adopted hometown of Northampton, a small city known for its large lesbian population. As I walked up Main Street, I remembered the first Gay Pride march I attended in Northampton in 1983. Some marchers wore paper bags over their heads, for fear of being recognized and losing their jobs. A minister stood beside a coffin he had dragged out to the street, brandishing a hand-lettered sign reminding us we were all going to hell. And now with pride and joy, gay men and lesbians were streaming up this same street toward City Hall to fill out marriage license applications. Who ever thought this would happen in our lifetime?
The City Clerk and her two assistants stationed themselves in the Municipal Building behind City Hall all set to open the doors at 8:30 a.m. At 7:00 a line of couples started forming, and within an hour it spilled onto the street. A woman walked down the line looping plastic rainbow-colored Hawaiian leis around couples’ necks; a man stood in the parking lot holding a sign: “And they lived equally ever after;” a child wearing a shirt that read “I love my two mommies” handed out bubble blowers shaped like miniature wedding cakes. Slices of an actual wedding cake baked by an unknown chef were being passed about. A musical group called the Raging Grannies serenaded the crowd with their own rendition of “Going to the Chapel.”
As each of the 113 couples (112 of which were gay or lesbian) emerged from the Municipal Building, they were applauded and pelted with bird seed. Even the reporters swarming about had tears in their eyes. The very air hummed with joy, and next to my own wedding day, May 17th was the happiest day of my life.
Until September 10th, 2004 arrived.
Again the day was picture-postcard perfect. With no witnesses, save the flowers in our own backyard, I stood beside the woman I have loved for sixteen years. Except for her once jet-black hair which is now streaked with silver, Mary looked the same as she had on our last wedding day. Together we faced J. Mary Sorrell, who is known about town as “J.M. the J.P.” Wearing the same outfits, we exchanged the same rings and said the same vows we had spoken fifteen years ago. Mary broke a glass underfoot and then J.M. who is also a lesbian, said with a quiver in her voice the words we never dreamed we’d hear: “By the power vested in me by the state of Massachusetts, I hereby pronounce you legally married.”
There was no need to say, “You may now kiss the bride(s).”
©2005. Lesléa Newman. Please see www.lesleanewman.com.
Lesléa Newman will be leading a workshop March 31 - April 2. Click for more info.