The Wedding Party

[August 6th, 2003] It hit me on the dance floor.

At the moment when the bride locked eyes on the groom and they melted into one another's arms, becoming one, their private bond now sealed in a public act, I realized this would never happen to me.

My partner and I spend a lot of time with our extended families at parties. Everybody knows we're together, but some don't focus on the fact we're coupled. It makes me feel like certain relatives (uncles, cousins, in-laws) think we're longtime roommates rather than companions.

I know how to play this role. Like the first time I attended a family wedding with Juan, eight years ago, for his sister. I was so nervous about hanging out with his clan that I pretended to be a photographer. Last weekend, on the occasion of his younger brother's nuptials, I found myself much more at ease, so much so that I felt just like a member of his family.

The wedding was beautiful. Set on a sun-drenched rural estate--next to a women's correctional facility--in Wilsonville, it had all the trappings any couple could hope for: meat kebabs, blue sky and a chubby German shepherd that tugged at the edges of the party.

The day was marred by only one misstep. The coordinator called to say she was running late. Somebody, anybody, was needed to help organize pre-ceremony photo ops.

My success in the past pretty much ensured I had a new temp job. So for the next few hours I lined up various configurations: groom/ring-bearer/parents of the groom, bride/flower girl/ daughter of the bride.... I made sure to include everyone.

Except myself.

I'd fallen back into that old trap of taking pictures so I wouldn't have to be in one, giving this homo a sense of purpose at the quintessential heterosexual coupling ritual.

Toward the end of the session, though, my partner and his sister caught on to the fact I'd kept my mug out of the marriage. That's when they told me to join them in an extended-family group photo.

Sweating profusely, I slid in beside my partner and his mother, Elvira. I was sure I heard gasps coming from a few of the wedding guests. I think I even saw someone point. That's when I wanted to shrink down to the size of my testicles.

The point of this story? My partner and I are not going to be like the couple from the local queer paper, Just Out's Marc Acito and Floyd Sklaver, who whipped up some free press by claiming to be the first Oregonians married in Canada. It all seems too Liza and David for me. Sure, Juan and I could scoot up north, get a piece of paper, toast a couple of paper cups and whiz home.

And then what? Wait for the next Supreme Court ruling to tell us what we already know--that the love between two people doesn't need a certificate and a ring to be seen as a holy union of the souls?

I'm all for marriage--gay, straight, etc.--but this current race to have queer bonds recognized by the state seems like one more way queers are making themselves separate but equal and essentially never the same. I can't bring myself to tie the knot--not the old-fashioned way.

But that doesn't mean I don't believe in the idea of weddings. Watching the groom and his mother dance even made me shed a tear--and not because of the silly chicken dance. I cried because, regardless of whether or not gay marriages are recognized by our government, it's going to be a long time before sharing our love with our family and friends is considered a natural act.