Dateline: Portland

In a few weeks, stories of Oregon's homegrown gay and lesbian weddings will seem as poignant yet routine as all those Canadian and San Francisco ceremonies. To capture the energy of this particular moment in history, we present the stories of three Oregon couples, now same-sex newlyweds, in this special edition of Hitched, a column devoted to telling bold truth about true love.

Kara Bertsch and Christine Pearson

MARCH 3, 2004

When you hear about Kara Bertsch (above left) and Christine Pearson's relationship, it's a story shot through with fate. In fact, in the retelling, even their first meeting--at Portland's legendary dyke bar, the Egyptian Room--now seems inevitable.

And that's despite the fact that neither of them really wanted to be there on the eve of the Pride parade in 2001.

Kara, 26, and Christine, 27, both attended college in the Midwest, and looking back now they realize they attended some of the same concerts. Each moved to Portland around the same time, in late spring 2001. It's amazing, they say, that their paths hadn't crossed before that first meeting.

Each went to the bar with a separate group of friends. Each was a little bored that evening.

Christine wandered through the club, even stopping for a dance with a drag queen, before landing near the pool tables--exactly the spot where Kara ended up. Conversation followed, and so did the exchange of cell-phone numbers, and the promise to rendezvous at the Pride Parade the next day.

Of course, all was hectic along the parade route. But before Kara could call Christine, she looked left and saw her. Luck? Maybe. Fate? More likely.

Less than six months later, the two were selecting rings at the Saturday Market just before Thanksgiving 2001.

More than two years later, on the last weekend in February, the women talked about making a trip to San Francisco or Canada to get married. The only thing stopping an immediate trip--aside from fate, of course--was that Kara, a civil-engineering student at Portland State University, wanted to wait until her finals were over. Christine, a kindergarten teacher, says a weekend getaway would have been too difficult.

Intervention came Tuesday, March 2. When Kara returned home from school, her very excited partner was waiting. "Did you hear? Did you hear?" Christine shouted from the stairs of their Hillsboro home.

The next afternoon--schoolwork and kindergarten be damned--the two were married just outside the Multnomah County office where, moments before, they were issued their marriage license.

On that day, the fate of their relationship was sealed with a ceremony on the corner of Southeast Grand Avenue and Hawthorne Boulevard.

Jeff Heine and Don Horn

MARCH 3, 2004

On the third floor of the Keller Auditorium, Don Horn might have been directing the biggest production of his 49- year life. Horn, artistic director of Triangle Productions!, had props in the form of tulip and balloon bouquets, but the groom refused to take off his shoes for his wedding.

That's odd, because Horn is famous in the town's theater world for his permanent tan and winter cutoffs, as well as his penchant for going almost everywhere barefoot. "I promised I wouldn't!" he shouted across a crowded room filled with news cameras, ministers and--at one point--Mayor Vera Katz. (See Queer Window, page 55.)

Horn made that promise to Jeff Heine, 42, the man he married last week after a 19-year relationship.

Back in 1985, Don Horn, then a 29-year-old divorcé and father of two, didn't know much about the world of gay dating. One night, while dancing at Embers, Don began talking to Jeff, then 23. They didn't exchange phone numbers, and even after Don secured Jeff's phone number, it took him another six months to call.

Their first date wasn't the most romantic: dinner, slices at Sunshine Pizza, and a movie, Beverly Hills Cop.

These days, the couple says the road to the altar might have been long--even a bit winding--but their trek wasn't complicated by the reactions of Don's sons. From the beginning, Jeff says, they accepted him.

"I always felt like their brother," he says. "I was the one to sit down and watch wrestling with them in the basement."

It was his sons, Don says, who called him on Wednesday morning to give their blessing. Jeff, an Oregon native, says he's considered himself married for more than 10 years, though he never wanted to marry unless it was in his home state. He made good on his word Wednesday afternoon at the Keller Auditorium.

As for a honeymoon, leave it to Don Horn to direct his own--and that was before he even tied the knot. The couple left for a planned vacation to Greece, where they have a house, on Monday.

And that's one location where going barefoot might just be a requirement.

Chris Christensen and Mary Tansill

MARCH 3, 2004

Lon Mabon doesn't know it, but he's partly responsible for the success story that is the 22-year relationship between Chris Christensen and Mary Tansill.

The women--married Wednesday amid the frenzy at the Multnomah Building--haven't always been the image of an out-and-proud lesbian couple.

"We've had to evolve as society has evolved," Chris says. Now a 55-year-old county employee, Chris cites Lon Mabon and Measure 9, the failed 1992 ballot initiative against gay rights, as crucial to her personal development.

"I felt persecuted," she says. "I had to come to a turning point."

And so, with the help of a group of supporters, Chris came to terms with her place in the world. She quit her job working as a bookkeeper where she couldn't be herself.

Through it all, "Mary has been my rock," Chris says.

The two first met at a lesbian discussion group, called the Lesbian Forum, in July 1982. Chris recalls that the title of the night's discussion was "Will the real lesbian please stand up?" She remembers an open seat and asking the person next to it, "Is anyone sitting here?"

The response? "You are." The person? Mary Tansill, then a 38-year-old artist. After the meeting, the two went out for beers. "We wanted to try [a relationship]," Chris recalls. "We knew that we liked each other."

After five years, they exchanged rings, a milestone that Mary credits Chris for commemorating. "God bless her," Mary says, "she's always been the one to recognize our anniversaries and times together."

When a cousin in Beaverton tipped the women off to the Multnomah County decision last Wednesday, they got in the car, intending just to get a marriage license. "We wanted to be a part of history," Mary says.

They changed their minds when they overheard the vows being exchanged by another couple. Moved to tears, the women lined up to be married.

Just days after the ceremony in the lobby of county headquarters, Chris reflects back on the ballot measure that changed her life--just not in the way Lon Mabon and crew intended.

"This is an incredible time to be alive," she says.

Incredible, indeed.

WWeek 2015