My grandmother often tells me that one of her fondest memories of my childhood was when I would use the bride and groom from a family friend’s wedding cake and tell her stories using the two characters. I wanted the stories to be dynamic, so I requested that she break the bride and groom apart so that I could have scenes that didn’t include them both. She said this was when she knew that I would be a great writer someday. I was about 3, so as I told her the stories she would silently and quickly jot them down (I wonder where they are now?) I would orate one (I imagine exhausting) love story after another. And she loved it. And I loved it, and it was teaching me and helping me express myself and making my grandmother become so proud of her only little grand-daughter.
The point is: I am still her little girl, and I am still telling her love stories, and she’s still mentally writing them down because I am sharing my hopes and dreams and she is still being a proud grand-mama who grins every time I use a word she doesn’t know but will look up later. My grandmother doesn’t want me to ever be too far away from her. There’s been a bit of a struggle recently about where I should move/settle down later in life. Up until a few months ago I would spout off various cities far away and she would come back with something closer. Me: Alaska, California, Oregon. Her: Atlanta, Savannah, Columbia. And I could see she wasn’t getting it, or at least she wasn’t thinking about the more grim aspects of a future in the South. One day I just had to tell her: “What do you think my life would be like in those states? Maybe in the city I would be okay, but what about when I want to get married, what about when I want to start my family?”
She was quite upset about it, because the maternal instinct in her makes her want her kin to live fulfilling and happy lives, and how can I do that if my core goals in life are proscribed by my state’s constitution? Up until tonight we came to an agreement. “Maybe Asheville. Maybe.” A nice, progressive, beautiful mountain city that was close but not too close. I’ve fought with her over it, but I secretly hoped that is where I would end up. I hoped that I could make us both our happiest and have Thanksgiving in my cabin-style house and my grandmother and mom would cook for my children and then we’d go outside and sit on the porch because it was nippy, but not too cold because we have an outdoor fireplace from IKEA. I wanted to be able to be the bride that I used as my most famous character years ago to my groom or bride. I’d get married at the Biltmore while the Fall leaves fell. I’d be happy. Is that so scary? So nefarious of a lifestyle? I guess so.
A constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage is nothing new, nothing that hasn’t already been written into every Southern constitution, but with every new act like this, my heart sinks.
How could something like this not have an impact on my life in every way? Isn’t it hard enough? Even in the bluest of states there is still a sinking feeling for every same-sex couple when one of them starts a new job, when they attend a parent-teacher conference, when they have a family barbecue in a park. Can we have any happiness? Can we have anything at all?
The tiny death of a dream tonight, I guess I’ll have to have my grandmother help me rewrite a new love story.
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