From Dear Spike Love Dad

TO OUR LOVE

Dear Spike:

Your mother and I have been married for more than seven years now and although things aren't always perfect, I've never regretted my decision to commit myself to her. She is my hero and my best friend. And I cannot fathom what my life would be like without her.

So it might be strange for you to hear me say that, every now and again, I regret that we got married.

Let me explain.

Today, voters in Maine shot down a law that would have allowed gay couples to marry. In doing so, Maine became the 31st state where voters have decided that the right to marry should be limited to those who look like your mother and I do.

By the time you are old enough to be president, today's vote will be yet another sad footnote in our nation's history. Older Americans, who oppose gay marriage in great numbers, are taking their interpretations of Old Testament scripture to the grave. Younger Americans, those who will be voting for decades to come, simply do not care to mix religion and politics, particularly when it comes to depriving fellow citizens of their rights.

Like segregation and anti-suffrage, this too shall pass.

But today I am sickened. Heartbroken. Angry.

And I am left wondering: What good is marriage?

What good is marriage if it does not represent love?

What good is marriage if it does not represent commitment?

What good is marriage, if it does not represent the will of two people to stand by one another, for richer and for poorer, for better or for worse, forever and ever?

Of course, for most of us — heterosexual and homosexual alike — marriage represents all of those things. Marriage is love and commitment and the will to stand together, through all of life's challenges, because life is too damn hard to stand alone.

But the marriage certificate that your mother and I signed seven years ago? That little slip of paper filed away in a box somewhere in the basement of the Benton County Courthouse in Corvallis, Ore.? That legal testament to our love?

It is meaningless to me. Worthless to me. And perhaps it is fortunate that today we live so far away from the town where we were married, because I feel a burning compulsion to march into that courthouse, demand that piece of paper and tear it up, shred by tiny shred.

Yes, today I regret that we got married. I regret that we felt compelled to ask for a rubber stamp from a government that does not offer that same easy endorsement to anyone who loves the way your mother and I love. I regret that we felt the need to ask permission to love one another from this nation of the people, by the people and for all the jealous, greedy, judgmental people.

I do not regret the way I love your mother. Not one bit.

I do not regret the day I stood, holding her hands and looking into her eyes, and promised to love her, to cherish her, to honor her and to be there for her forever.

I do not regret the dance we danced or the cake we cut or the toasts we made.

Not one bit.

But I'd burn that marriage certificate. By God, I would.

Love,
dad