When the New York State Senate voted to legalize same-sex marriage on June 24, 2011, I was sitting on the couch with my then-boyfriend, Erik, watching the proceedings on television. We kissed, and then we walked down to Christopher Street, where the happy, sweaty, remarkably family-friendly celebrations were in full swing.
We wandered past some bars, we ran into some friends, and eventually we came back to my apartment, at which point—this is to the best of my recollection, with the caveat that my recollection may not be entirely accurate—we had a screaming fight. (I’d wanted to stay out and see more friends; he’d wanted to go home and be together. Extrovert, meet introvert.)
Before that night, we’d talked about marriage here and there, not so much in the context of “the state should validate our relationship” or even “does this make sense for the two of us?” but rather, homosexually, in terms of “this hotel would be so cute” and “matching ties or coordinated?” Now, for the first time, as New Yorkers, a wedding was a real, legal possibility. By the next spring, and the next nuptial season, we’d split. Read More