How could a sex educator, a bird scientist who calls Alaska home, a dressage and

modern dance instructor, and a geneticist turned non-profit-company leader possibly be

connected? They are all members of my family sphere and are all lesbians.

While growing up my parents never informed me that those aunts and close friends
were homosexuals. Why would they? They never specified that my other two aunts were
straight; or that I’ll get a toy in the McDonald’s happy-meal; or that Dad is going to want a
big glass of ice-cold water after he finishes mowing the lawn; or that the sun will rise the next
day. It wasn’t necessary. It was just the way things were.

People of this era have argued ruthlessly back and forth over whether homosexuality is
caused by nature, nurture or a combination of the two. Like everyone else, I too have an
opinion on the matter, but that’s another story. The important fact is that the open atmosphere
I grew up in taught me that whether gays and lesbians have the same rights as heterosexuals
shouldn’t hinge on the answer to the nature-nurture debate. Whether it’s a choice people
make or innate biology, I grew up knowing that homosexuals deserve the same acceptance
and equality as everybody else. Duh.

And as far as I was concerned, all American children were raised to think this way. I
knew that somewhere, in a far off land, where the people are uneducated or brainwashed,
prejudice against homosexuals might exist. But certainly nobody I knew or who I might
come in contact with would be like that.

It wasn’t until I was 15 years old that I had my eyes forced open and was finally made
to realize there are people I interact with on a daily basis that hold those disgusting beliefs.

The year was 2002, I had just begun dating my first serious boyfriend and satellite TV
was quickly gaining popularity. My boyfriend’s dad was the type of guy who always had to
have the latest, state-of-the-art electronics, so of course they had a satellite dish. He was also
the type of guy who had no hang-ups about stealing channels, so they had an illegal channel
card as well.

One day after school my boyfriend Mike* and I were cuddling close together on his
parents’ sofa, flipping through the myriad of channels and cooing sappy secrets of love into
each other’s ears. Mike’s finger tapped rhythmically on the channel button. Click; wait for
the channel to load; watch for 10 seconds; click; rinse, lather, repeat. My mind was just
getting used to the strobe-light pattern blinking on the TV screen when he abruptly broke the
cycle. After 432 channels of junk he had finally found something that held his attention. It
was Degrassi, a show from Canada that takes place in a high school and addresses many of
the issues and concerns that teens in our generation were facing. We followed the show
intently and tried never to miss an episode.

“Oh! Degrassi!” I chimed as we both simultaneously scooted our bodies into an alert,
upright position. We silently watched it intently for a few minutes before realizing it was a
re-run. Chatting ensued as the show played in the background.

“So, Marco finally came out of the closet, huh?” I said.

 “Yeah, pretty crazy,” he responded.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “What’s ‘pretty crazy’ about it?”

“Marco coming out is pretty crazy, that’s all,” he said with a shrug as if it was
obvious.

“Why is that crazy? He didn’t even tell his parents, just one of his friends.”

The gooey love-eyes and whispery trance we’d been in just moments before had
vanished and a heated discussion had taken its place.

“Of course he didn’t tell his parents! How could he tell his parents? They would
probably disown him.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. No parents would disown their child for who they love,” I
cried.

The room went painfully silent for a moment before Mike spoke up and changed my
view of the world forever.

“I’m pretty sure my dad would.”

The meticulous gears running my brain, which had ticked along so smoothly up until
that point, came to a lurching stop. It was the first time in my life that my mind was made to
deal with the reality that someone I knew, Mike’s Dad, was a person who would discriminate
against a fellow human being, and even more unbelievably, someone who they loved, based
on their sexuality. It made me feel sick to my stomach and disgusted with humanity as a
whole.

I couldn’t believe it. More accurately, I didn’t want to believe it. To think that way
was just wrong, didn’t everybody know that?

Pandora’s Box had been flung wide open and from that moment forward the way I
saw the world around me would never be the same. A sour taste hung in my mouth as I
considered what this meant for me. A million distressing questions swam around in my mind.
Why would anyone, especially someone in your own family, disown you just because of who
you love? How could someone claim to love you one day and then want nothing to do with
you the next over something as natural as your sexual orientation? And, if that is the case,
than obviously their love was pretty transparent in the first place and would you really want
that type of person in your life anyway? Are there people in my life who love me like that;
people who would drop me if I was dating a Michelle rather than a Michael?

It was way too much for me to digest in that moment so I swallowed what I could and
tucked the rest away. I took it out and nibbled on it from time to time, but after several
months of rolling the ugly revelation around in my head I still didn’t get it; I don’t think I’ll
ever understand how people can sleep at night knowing that they judge another person over
who they love. But, eventually, I was able to come to terms with the fact that it was the cruel
reality of the world. At age 15 I was not, however, ready to examine the possibility that
anyone in my family or close circle of friends would dare to think like that. The only way I
could handle the repulsive discovery I’d made that fateful afternoon at Mike’s house was by
telling myself that people like Mike’s Dad were the evil minority and that they certainly did
not exist in my family. The Universe was kind enough to let me to retain this shred of hope
for 6 more bright years.

My two honorary aunts, Meg* and Sarah*-- the Alaskan bird scientist and the
geneticist turned non-profit-company leader -- had exchanged rings and traded vows privately
when I was just 8 years old. At that time I was way more interested in water-balloon fights
and climbing on rocks than I was in weddings or mushy love stuff in general, but as far as I
was concerned Aunt Meg and Aunt Sarah were the two coolest people in the universe; I
looked up to them like some kids looked up to the flawless, popular 8th graders at school, so I
listened intently to absolutely everything they told me about their union. I can still remember
them showing me the sweet engravings on the underside of both their rings as I chowed down
on a burrito at Margaritaville. Neither of them had been at all concerned with having a large,
showy, traditional-style wedding but they did want to pledge their everlasting union and
unfaltering commitment to each other. It was not a state-sanctioned marriage that would hold
up in court, but to them it was equally as meaningful and binding.

My two blood-related aunts, the sex educator/writer and the dressage/dance instructor,
had also had a small, private ceremony when I was younger. But unlike my Aunt Meg and
Aunt Sarah, who had been seemingly satiated with that, my Aunt Maggi* and Aunt Rose* had
always spoke openly about their strong desire of wanting more; of wanting a real,
government-recognized marriage. And who could blame them? So they waited for the US
government to come around; and waited; and waited; and waited; and waited.

And then finally, after much discussion and back and forth flip-flopping, California
legalized same-sex marriage! When I awoke and read the news of California’s long overdue
decision in the morning newspaper I felt elated, relieved, and convinced that now all the other
states would follow suit, tipping like weak domino chips. Oh, how naïve I was. I had seen
California’s decision as a belated eventuality but apparently, sadly, that’s not how everyone
else felt.

Perhaps Aunt Maggi and Aunt Rose had had enough world experience to foresee the
repeal that came several months later, or maybe they were just sick and tired of waiting.
Whatever the case, they made it a point to get married as soon as it was humanly possible,
sprinting out of the stables like horses that had been waiting desperately to run the race; they
were therefore able to sneak in during the brief window of legal opportunity.

It’s extremely disappointing that the legality of their marriage is under fire right now,
but at the time I was ecstatic for them and overjoyed that they could finally wed the way they
had always dreamed.

Planning took off full steam ahead and within the blink of an eye locations were
confirmed, wedding outfits were purchased, cake was tasted and invitations were mailed.
 My grandfather, the dad of my Aunt Maggi, is an extremely strict Orthodox Jew who
basically looks like the Travelocity gnome, minus the pointy red dunce hat and plus a
yarmulke. He has no friends, no close relationships, and has been kicked out of more
Temples than I can count for telling his fellow Orthodox Jews and rabbis that they were not
practicing strictly enough . To say that he is estranged from the family would be an
understatement. He’s never been good at connecting with other people and growing up I
didn’t see much of him. When we were together, however, I got the feeling that he was
honestly trying his best relate to me but that he simply didn’t know how. I could tell from the
tense phone calls between him and my dad that they had a strained relationship and I knew
from overheard fragments of conversations between my parents that my grandfather had been
disturbed when my dad had married my mom, a non-Jew. But until my aunts began planning
their wedding I had always just made excuses for his somewhat odd behaviors and thought of
my grandfather as the kind but quirky hermit relative who prefers being alone. We definitely
weren’t close but it appeared to me that he loved me as much as it was possible for him to do
so, and for that I unquestioningly loved him back.

But when I found out that he had refused to attend the wedding of his only daughter
because she was marrying another woman, I had no idea how to feel about him. My brain
didn’t have a formula for handling this new piece of information that indicated my
grandfather, someone who I love and whose genes are inside of me too, is actually “one of
them;” one of the evil minority I’d learned about when I was 15.

One might think that my grandfather’s decision would have turned me brutally against
him forever, but in truth, no. He was still my grandfather. He was still the guy who had
introduced me to bagel chips, taken me to the comic strip museum to see Garfield, and taught
me to fold my pizza slice in half if you want to eat it right away but you don’t want to burn
the roof of your mouth. I didn’t like the way he felt about my aunts and I certainly didn’t
agree with him, but I also couldn’t just stop loving him.

So I did the only thing I could do to cope with the conflicting emotions; I buried the
event. I let the fact that he was a bigot against my aunt fall away into the deep, dark, black-
hole recesses of my mind never to be looked at again. To this day I can’t even really
remember that my grandfather refused to attend the wedding. I only know it is so because
when I recently talked to my parents about my aunts’ marriage they reminded me that he
didn’t go.

I believe that my grandfather refused to go to the wedding for the same reason that I
can’t remember him not going: love. I loved my grandfather so I couldn’t hold onto the
memory that he is ‘one of them.’ My grandfather loves my Aunt Maggi, but he believes that
his religion tells him to blindly hate homosexuals. And so, the only way he can allow himself
to continue loving his daughter is to ignore the fact that she is one of his ‘one of them.’ If he
had gone to the wedding he would have been not only admitting to himself and everyone else
that Aunt Maggi is a lesbian, but he’d be showing his acceptance of her lifestyle as well. And
that is something he just couldn’t do.

Maggi’s lifestyle is, even within the homosexual community, considered to be on the
fringe and very erotic. At the wedding there were two sections of guests: those who ran in the
same open, erotica community as my aunts and those who were related. It did not take
Sherlock Holmes to help deduce who was from which group.

My Aunt Maggi stood anxiously next to the female rabbi at the front of the wedding
hall in her black, two-piece tuxedo and red tie waiting for Aunt Rose to saunter down the
aisle. A pianist began keying Here Comes the Bride and then moments later an off-white
form appeared in the galley. Heads turned 180 degrees to see Aunt Rose drifting forward.
Those who were friends with the brides reacted by flashing large smiles and whispered coos
in her direction; those who were family worked hard to swallow their shock. The lacey, egg-
shell white wedding gown looked like your typical wedding dress from the waist down. As
Aunt Rose walked a short, conservative trail swept the ground beneath her feet and a slim,
form-fitting bodice hugged her waist. But where it mattered most, something was definitely
missing. Literally. Covering Aunt Rose’s breasts was, well, I guess that was the problem;
there really wasn’t much covering them. Nothing more than a couple feet and a shear mesh
lining separated the spectators from Aunt Rose’s peachy-pink nipples.

Under his breath my father subtly exhaled a sound that was a mix between a chicken’s
cluck and a chuckle and lightly wagged his head back and forth to show both astonishment
and reluctant acceptance. What else should he expect from his crazy, wild sister and sister-in-
law?

I, unfortunately, could not attend the wedding due to college exams, but when I heard
of the, ahem, “surprise adornment” from a still red-faced-with-embarrassment father I
couldn’t help but laugh out loud from the pit of my stomach with pleasure. I loved it! How
great it must be to feel so comfortable with your body and sexuality to be able to do that. She
is and so she did! Within their circle of friends her dress had been completely acceptable and
even adored. It had only been the 6 or 7 relatives there that flushed red and felt
uncomfortable. And after talking to another relative witness other than my shy dad, I got the
feeling that most of the awkwardness passed as soon as they looked around and realized that
nobody else was uncomfortable. They shrugged their shoulders and figured if all the other
guests felt ok with it then why shouldn’t they; when in Rome, right?

Weddings in general can be a fertile breeding ground for stress and tension; Daddy is
losing his little girl -- Mommy doesn't think the partner is good enough for her only son or
daughter -- people who don’t usually spend much time together are all packed into one room
-- the bride thinks this should be the absolute, perfect day -- the bride's maids hate their
dresses and are jealous they weren't picked to be the maid of honor -- 13-year-old Johnny
drank the spiked punch…oh, the perfect day!

But at my aunts’ wedding none of the relatives who were at the ceremony had had the
impression that any stress or tension was going on behind the scenes and it certainly wasn’t
going on front and center. The friends of my aunts all seemed chipper, relaxed and happy,
and the relatives were grouped together quietly, forever waiting to see what would happen
next. Perhaps my Aunt Maggi was sad that her dad did not come to the wedding, but if so,
she certainly didn’t show it. But then, what bride isn’t sad about something on her wedding
day? I’d guess that 99% of all brides cry or at least tear up about something on the big day.
For some it’s the cake, for some it’s their doubt, and for my Aunt Maggi it’s possible that it
was the fact that her dad had refused to come. But at the end of the Jewish ceremony, when
Aunt Maggi played the role of the groom and broke a glass under her foot, we all knew it was
probably for the best that my Orthodox grandfather wasn’t there.

My childhood taught me quite simply that marriage is about making a lifetime

commitment to the person you love. It has taken me years to realize and cope with the fact
that many people see marriage as also having an asterisk at the end, which leads to the small
print stating “between a man and a woman.” The desire for love, affection, closeness and
security transcends sexual preference; whether you are in a heterosexual relationship or a
homosexual relationship you long for the same healthy bond. It’s very sad that in addition to
all of the normal struggles that every couple goes through as they try to walk side by side
together through life, that quite often homosexual couples are also saddled with the added
burden of having to justify their relationship. But it is my fervent belief that as more gay and
lesbian couples join their hands in union, society as a whole will learn to embrace it as many
individuals already do.

Congratulations to all of you on having found love! I wish you all many years of
shared happiness together. Cheers!