Musings of a New Husband



“You can’t marry another boy,” they told me.

“Why not?” I asked, confused. “You said I could do anything. You said I could grow up to be President.”

“You can’t marry another boy!”

“But you said I’d grow up, and fall in love, and get married.”

“You can’t fall in love with another boy!”

― Excerpt, Unbroken

My father followed me into the kitchen. “I like Stanley,” he said. “He is the kind of person I imagined for you. Do me a favor. Keep this one.”

I was startled for two reasons. One, my father doesn’t talk much, certainly not about anything of a personal nature. At least not to me. Second, he’d always hated all my boyfriends. Until that moment, until that conversation, I’d always assumed that he’d hated my boyfriends for their sex. Now I understood he’d hated them because he thought they weren’t good enough for me, that I deserved better. In all honestly, I had dated quite a collection of losers and lunatics.

“I will, Space,” I promised. “I will.”

Yesterday, more than 18 years after that conversation with my father, 25 years after we first met, on our 17th anniversary, on the 45^th anniversary of Stonewall, and 38 days after Judge John Jones III’s historic decision, I kept that promise; I married Stanley, the best man I know, the one man my father approved of.

I’ve written on this blog about being the sissy triumphant (December 2013) about turning “nos” into “yeses” , (May 2014) but yesterday I said the biggest yes of all: “Yes, I do.”

It was a small, intimate affair—just us and six of our closest friends. But it was everything I dreamed

my wedding would be. Stacey Thomas of The Philadelphia Wedding Chapel not only got us married on the date we wanted, she made the service personal. We felt protected, cared for.

As we walked the short distance to the front where Stacey waited for us, a distance which, short as it was, had taken 45 years to get to, I thought of those long ago drag queens, mostly black and Hispanic, who tired, had started a riot that changed the course of history. As I walked forward tightly gripping Stanley’s hand. I knew I could never stand in their high heels but I could walk in their footsteps.

In one surprisingly hilarious moment, Stacey asked our friends if they would support us and stand with us. They answered in unison, “We will.” Their words settled on my skin. I realized that these six friends had our backs and always would. We, as individuals, as a people, and as a nation, have come so far. I know we have so far to go but I wanted to stop in that moment to rest, to live in that moment for just a moment longer.

Earlier in the day, my friend Shirley, who has never married, questioned the importance of marriage, saying it was just a piece of paper. She said, “After, you won’t be any different, or look any different.” I joked that I would look different, I would glow. She informed me one only glows when pregnant.

Now, officially married, Stanley’s kiss still lingering on my lips, I felt different. Maybe because we were now protected—no one could ever deny me access to his bedside; if anything happened to me, the taxes on my estate wouldn’t force him to sell our home. Maybe because, by getting married, we’d told each other: “I know you and I love you anyway.” And maybe this was just what equality felt like.