Dear John, I Love Jane: Women Write About Leaving Men for Women (8 page)

The female lead singer held center stage, but I found my gaze moving to the left, where the real force behind the band pounded out chords. Cheryl was dynamic; she played and sang with such passion and intensity, I couldn’t look away. There were two other players: a male drummer, and a guy who played violin and mandolin. I kept my eye on the guitarist. At the break, I went up and talked to her. I told her we’d be playing there next weekend. I was trying to figure out if she was gay or straight. It seemed like we were flirting, but I couldn’t be sure. She laughed at the idea of playing loud music in a bookstore and said something about being careful not to disturb the dictionary-browsers that made me laugh right back. I stayed for the whole show but didn’t have the nerve to approach her again after they were done.

The following Saturday, when I saw her from the stage as I played my drums, I was elated. I kept asking my band mates if they thought she might be attracted to me. They were pretty sure she was. Cheryl played it cool and said she was just coming to check out the music, but it wasn’t long before I knew—and she will occasionally confess when we recount this tale—she came back for me.

I probably would have married Cheryl right away had that been an option. We started building a life together from our first date on. One thing that works for us as a couple, I think, is that we’re in different fields—so we each bring something of our own to the table—but we complement each other and share a set of core values. At my house, when I showed her what was left of the record collection and told her there was much I missed, she assured me I would get back everything I had lost. As luck would have it, she’s a collector by vocation, a record producer in the music business, and her collection even then was by far much bigger than the one my ex carted off—and it’s grown exponentially over the years. She, in turn, couldn’t believe her good fortune in meeting a woman who actually cared so much about records. To make things even sweeter, we found that we had remarkably similar taste in music. She’s a whip-smart historian of tunes—a walking encyclopedia with a detailed knowledge of artists, bands, and records across all genres. The preservation and archive work that she engages in is actually quite similar to academic endeavors. I learn from her, and she opens my ears to new sounds. She’s also a talented writer, with a regard for the written word that matches my own. We both have deep respect for what the other person does, and we always root for one another to be as creative, motivated, and energized as possible.

In terms of gender roles, I’m definitely more of a femme, whereas she inclines toward masculine qualities—in a rock ’n’ roll kind of way. I like dresses, makeup, and heels. She prefers jeans, tour T-shirts, and sneakers. She’s athletic. I throw like a girl. We tease each other about our differences, but they don’t become barriers between us. At first it troubled her that my name hearkens back to my failed marriage, but I believe I’ve made it my own, and she understands. She doesn’t want me to take her name, something she might very well ask if she were a he.

Quite frequently I forget we’re in a socially stigmatized group. We live in greater Los Angeles, a place where same-sex couples don’t stand out as much as they do in other parts of the country. When we’re out in public, though—whether for a walk in our neighborhood or on a city street—if we hold hands or show affection, we have to be aware of our surroundings. An approaching car or stranger can feel hostile. Because I spent so much of my life unconsciously benefiting from heterosexual privilege—and because when I’m out on my own I am probably perceived as straight, as femmes often are—I continue to be surprised and deeply wounded by disgusted looks and the occasional comments when they occur. Straight couples, when they attract attention at all, tend to be applauded and celebrated. Mostly, they’re invisible, just part of the way things are.

Same-sex couples like us have to fight to claim the privileges straight ones typically take for granted. Just getting people to take you seriously as a couple can be a challenge. On more than one occasion, Cheryl has had to deal with men who want to know if I have a boyfriend because they think I’m straight—I’m not with a man, so I must be single. The labels available to us when we first got together didn’t help. Acquaintances might identify us as roommates or friends, and it was often hard to tell whether people fully got the reality of our connection. Even those who said girlfriend, partner, or life partner often seemed to do so in scare quotes. Coming out was a seemingly endless process.

We’ve committed to one another in a variety of ways. The year after we met, we exchanged wedding bands we’ve worn ever since. We contemplated a ceremony but couldn’t decide what such an event would add to our relationship. When San Francisco issued same-sex marriage licenses in 2004, we decided against taking the plunge because it seemed improbable that these unions would withstand dissolution—they didn’t—and we didn’t want to ride that roller coaster. The next year, the state of California granted virtually all the legal rights of marriage to domestic partners, and we registered as such. This gave us tax benefits, and required a bit of paperwork, but otherwise, it wasn’t such a big deal. It seemed like a separate-and-partially-equal category.

In 2008, during that brief window when same-sex marriage was declared legal here in California, we finally tied the knot. We were too busy doing what we do best to put time into wedding planning; and with our large circle of friends, there was no way to imagine a simple ceremony. Having gone through that drill once before, and having given much thought to the way the Wedding Industrial Complex puts couples through their paces, I didn’t see the point in making too big a fuss over the display. Marriage, I knew from long experience, takes place in the details of everyday life. We signed papers across the table from our minister friend and his husband, and then went to see the movie
Mamma Mia
.

Among the many perks of being a married couple, getting to claim the word “wife” is a daily source of pride. Not only is it far preferable to labels like “partner,” “girlfriend,” and “lover,” it instantly clarifies our status when we refer to one another out in the world. When I say “my wife” to someone I’ve just met, it’s like coming out on speed—they have to get it right away. I’ve also noticed a profound shift in how I think of the meaning of “wife.” Whereas when I was married to a man, the word seemed like the necessarily subordinate half of a male/female-oriented binary, now it is much more powerful—not genderless, but unmoored from a system that privileges men—and, on a day-to-day basis, it’s a cause for celebration. In many ways, I’m more of a wife to Cheryl than I was to my ex-husband, and she’s more of a husband to me than he was (although I don’t use that word to describe her). I do most of the cooking and take pleasure in tending to and nurturing her. She manages our budget and keeps the house in check. She has a job that puts her out in the world more than mine; I’m happiest when I’m working at home. She makes more money and gets greater recognition for her work than I do (she’s a two-time Grammy nominee), and she moves in circles of powerful and influential people, where I’m often identified as a “plus one.” Yet I don’t feel diminished by such things that in a heterosexual marriage might be viewed as just par for the course if she were in fact a man. Her power and status aren’t the by-product of gender—the music business is still an old boy’s club—and our household interactions revolve around decided preferences and skill sets, rather than prescribed traditional roles.

In an interview I conducted with the English novelist Jeanette Winterson for
The Paris Review
in the late ’90s, I asked her to talk about heterosexuality versus lesbianism. “Men,” she said, “can really get in the way when you are trying to sort out your life and get on with it. Because they just take up so much space.” She continued, “There was a part of me which instinctively knew that in order to be able to pursue my life, which was going to be hard anyway, I would be much better off, either on my own or with a woman. A man would simply get in the way, and I would have to use up energy that I didn’t have to spare.” In my experience, being with a woman does create more space for my life’s adventure, and gives me more energy than I felt when I lived with a man. Even though men are the ones with cultural power and prestige, women are expected to support and protect the male ego in the home. Cheryl and I don’t follow that script. We’re more fully partners. We run alongside one another.

Thanks to the California Supreme Court decision that upheld marriages performed in 2008 before Proposition 8 took effect, I’m legally married with a wife of my own, and every time we say “wife,” Cheryl and I feel proud and affirmed. We’ve moved beyond the fences that restrict individuals to pre-ordained roles. Lesbian marriages like ours defy outdated notions of women’s inferiority to men. We elevate the word “wife” from its subordinate status and transform it into a badge of honor.

Leap of Faith

Libbie Miller

H
ey, lady! How are ya?” asks Lori, my perfectly coiffed hairdresser. She bears a striking resemblance to a young Loni Anderson.

“I’m all right. Could be better, could be worse,” I reply.

“Just all right? That’s the best you can muster?” she teases. Both Lori and I hail from Middle America, where steak and corn are dinnertime staples, and conversation is honest and straightforward. Lori has no trouble filling the conversational space that transpires over a cut and color session. “You know, not once have you ever said you’re doing great, or even good,” she says. The inflection of her voice changes from carefree to deeply concerned and her volume drops considerably. She circles from the back of the chair, removing the mirror from our discussion, and grabs the armrests of my chair as she looks me right in the eyes. “Are you depressed, Libbie?” I make incoherent noises, meant to be the beginnings of an appropriate response, but I’m coming up empty as I squirm awkwardly in my chair, looking around for the nearest possible escape. A lump rises in my throat as I feel wetness permeate the corners of my eyes. My face reddens as I realize I’m about to cry . . . in public. I flounder for a response that doesn’t come. Her delicate, manicured hands rise to her mouth as she slowly shakes her head and says, “Oh, Libbie. I’m so sorry, sweetie.” I’m quiet, and so is she, for the duration of my appointment, although my head is swimming with thoughts.

Ballsy, Lori. Ballsy indeed, but dead on,
I think to myself as I start my car’s engine. It took a blond, size 4, Loni Anderson look-alike to point out the obvious: something I knew was there but dared not address. But now I have no choice. The lid is off and the contents are leaking out uncontrollably. It’s time to confront this thing once and for all. I can’t continue to ride along as a complacent passenger to my own life. I can see the edge of the cliff that drops into the unknown. I can’t keep backing away. And so here comes the burning question. The question that scares the living shit out of me every time it floats to the surface, only to be quickly squelched by something else. Anything else. Ice cream, that marked-down Crate & Barrel sofa, whether I need to pick up dog food. Anything that doesn’t start the question with “am” and end in “lesbian.”

Inappropriate Things

I remember one day walking through Omaha’s Westroads Mall, at the age of fourteen, when my mother and I passed two women holding hands as they peered into a Benetton store window display. We stared at them as we approached and passed them by. My mother hissed, “My God. Get a room,” loud enough for only me to hear. I stared at my mother blankly. “It makes me sick to see those people being so inappropriate in public places . . . out there for everyone to see,” she said, with such contempt in her voice that it still chills me to the bone. In that moment I wanted to ask her why two women holding hands was any different than a man and a woman holding hands, but instead, I remained quiet and just kept walking.

Sure, my mother mentioned gay male friends of hers who were hairdressers, or fun, flamboyant coworkers every now and then, but not once did I ever hear her use the word “lesbian.” Being a lesbian was unfathomable. I was raised in a conservative household; homosexuality was about as far from appropriate as you could get. Though gay men seemed harmless, even humorous, providing the color to some of my mother’s more entertaining stories, lesbians were another subject entirely. They were far too inappropriate to recognize, let alone talk about.

The moment in the mall was about as much as she’d ever said, but it was more than enough for me to understand that being a lesbian was a vulgar thing. And that moment is undoubtedly the reason my mother stepped in to create distance between Karen, my best friend in high school, and me. I shared a more intense connection with her than anyone I’d ever known.

I lived to make Karen happy, and wanted to be around her as much as I possibly could. We spent almost every day after school in her bedroom listening to Dave Matthews Band, Bush, Candlebox, Oasis . . . the list goes on. Karen’s love for alternative music sparked my own; a passion that still lives in me to this day. We talked about the prettiest girls in school, and obsessed about Craig, Karen’s crush, as we lay side-by-side in her bed, slowly rubbing each other’s arms in what we called “tickle-scratchies.” “Do my back?” she requested one day as she removed her Phish T-shirt, rolled onto her stomach, and reached behind to unlatch her bra. With my hands trembling and my heart racing I reached for her beautiful naked back, taking in the warm glow of her olive skin. “You can sit on my legs if you want,” she said as her big brown eyes met mine. There was a Fourth of July fireworks celebration happening in my underpants. It was exhilarating . . . and dangerous.

I didn’t spend much time dwelling on what those afternoons with Karen meant. I knew they touched on the borders of highly risqué behavior, but that made it even more exciting. The intensity of the time we spent together was only matched by the secrecy surrounding those afternoons in her bedroom. We never discussed it with anyone else, not even to this day. I just knew that it was the one thing I looked forward to as I watched my seventh-period classroom’s clock hover on 3:00 PM, and thought of how I would die if she ever stopped inviting me over to her house after school. My mother didn’t know what was happening during those afternoons in Karen’s bedroom, but she knew I was with her when I wasn’t at home. “I think you’re spending far too much time with Karen. It’s unhealthy to be so attached to another girl,” my mother said. Her face flashed a look of absolute disgust—the same one I saw three years earlier that day at the mall. And it was the same look of disgust I would see many years later after I came out to her—the look permanently burned on my brain whenever I think of that intensely uncomfortable, nakedly vulnerable visit. Her disapproval catalyzed a crippling, ominous filter in my mind that remained well into my adulthood. It caught daydreams that meandered to the surface before they could settle into the fabric of my thoughts. These daydreams and questions had lurked in the shadows of my mind for so long, but went no further.