Yesterday I promised a more personal take on this issue. Here it is.
When the California Supreme Court handed down its decision affirming equal marriage rights this May, I took the opportunity to repost an op-ed piece of mine that was published in the Sacramento Bee and San Francisco Chronicle fifteen years ago. That piece talked about my perceptions of various issues as a straight suburban parent whose kids have through their entire lives enjoyed the love and support of a godfather-figure who is gay.
Three years after that piece was published, I wrote another, similar one addressing gay marriage. I liked the piece but felt it made my grammar school-aged kids -- then 8, 6 and 5 -- vulnerable in a way I wasn’t comfortable with. So I put it in a drawer -- until today when, 12 years later and with their blessing, I am publishing it here for the first time. Thanks, guys.
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The Ring-Bearer's Question
by Jason Warburg
“Do you think Dave will ever get married?”
My eight-year-old son and I are splayed out on the family room floor watching a movie, the very portrait of late spring Sunday afternoon lassitude. I look over at him and see every dream I’ve ever tucked away reflected back at me, his bright face a prism glinting fresh hopes and opportunities across every wall of our home. Sometimes just a smile at the right moment from this treasure chest of innocent wisdom is enough to bring tears to my soggy, overzealous parent’s eyes.
“I don’t know,” I respond, stalling shamelessly.
I am trying to backtrack his thought process... his uncle’s wedding was just a few days ago, and he and his sister and brother each had speaking roles in the joyous, family-centered ceremony. Farther in the past, three years ago, he was the proud ring-bearer for a close cousin’s wedding. I try to imagine what he is thinking right now and see him dressed to the nines again, shoes freshly spit-polished following a tromp through the ivy after some interesting bug, beaming with the knowledge he is about to play an important role in his beloved godfather’s marriage.
My little man understands weddings well. The idea of two people declaring their love for and lifelong commitment to one another in front of their family and friends clicks on all his cylinders. He appreciates both the spectacle and, I honestly believe, the deeper meaning of it all. It is something, though he knows it lies far off in his own still-mysterious future, that he wants very much to experience for himself, and his roles in others’ weddings have been a kind of unconscious dress rehearsal aiming him toward a goal he has long since embraced.
At this point I decide to stumble forward with an answer rather than delaying further. “He might. I think he’d like to be able to, someday. But right now, even if he found the right person and wanted to, he couldn’t.”
My son looks over at me, eyes clouding, brow furrowing. We delve slowly further into the subject. I remind him of a couple of previous conversations we’ve had about his godfather, particularly the one in which we talked at some length about why “faggot” is such a bad word, even though some of his friends -- nice kids, otherwise -- use it occasionally.
“But why couldn’t he?” my son persists.
I answer as best I can, trying to keep my terms simple. “Because if he did get married, he would want to be married to another man. Remember?”
He remembers, we’ve talked this point through before, and yet he continues to protest, his unfettered mind clearly puzzled at the logic which allows people who love one another to marry only if they are of the politically correct genders. I listen with a concerned but mild expression; only inside my head do I let loose my own frustrated answers -- “Because a lot of straight folks don’t seem to comprehend that many gay people want long-term, committed, monogamous relationships, and because some so-called conservatives feel their particular interpretation of God’s will should overrule the Constitution when it comes to every American’s equal right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”
What ends up coming out of my mouth instead is much milder -- a few words along the lines of “it’s just something that people haven’t done very much before, so some grown-ups aren’t comfortable with it yet” -- but it proves to be enough to tide him over for now. I won’t lie to him, but neither will I overwhelm him with a barrage of truths he is too young to absorb.
One piece of unfinished business from our conversation weighs on me, though. I have explained to my son why his godfather -- a warm and vital presence in his and his two siblings’ young lives -- could not today marry someone he loved and wanted to be with for the rest of his life. It has been difficult, but manageable. The moment I fear more may come later.
My wife and I have three children, two boys and a girl. Assuming somewhere around five to ten percent of our population is gay, there is roughly a 15 to 30 percent chance that someday one of my children may again ask me the question which launched this exchange. Except he or she won’t be asking it about a godfather, or cousin, or friend from school or work. She will be asking it about herself. My child will be asking me why he can’t marry the person he loves with all his wondrous heart.
And I won’t have the slightest idea what to tell him.
by Jason Warburg
“Do you think Dave will ever get married?”
My eight-year-old son and I are splayed out on the family room floor watching a movie, the very portrait of late spring Sunday afternoon lassitude. I look over at him and see every dream I’ve ever tucked away reflected back at me, his bright face a prism glinting fresh hopes and opportunities across every wall of our home. Sometimes just a smile at the right moment from this treasure chest of innocent wisdom is enough to bring tears to my soggy, overzealous parent’s eyes.
“I don’t know,” I respond, stalling shamelessly.
I am trying to backtrack his thought process... his uncle’s wedding was just a few days ago, and he and his sister and brother each had speaking roles in the joyous, family-centered ceremony. Farther in the past, three years ago, he was the proud ring-bearer for a close cousin’s wedding. I try to imagine what he is thinking right now and see him dressed to the nines again, shoes freshly spit-polished following a tromp through the ivy after some interesting bug, beaming with the knowledge he is about to play an important role in his beloved godfather’s marriage.
My little man understands weddings well. The idea of two people declaring their love for and lifelong commitment to one another in front of their family and friends clicks on all his cylinders. He appreciates both the spectacle and, I honestly believe, the deeper meaning of it all. It is something, though he knows it lies far off in his own still-mysterious future, that he wants very much to experience for himself, and his roles in others’ weddings have been a kind of unconscious dress rehearsal aiming him toward a goal he has long since embraced.
At this point I decide to stumble forward with an answer rather than delaying further. “He might. I think he’d like to be able to, someday. But right now, even if he found the right person and wanted to, he couldn’t.”
My son looks over at me, eyes clouding, brow furrowing. We delve slowly further into the subject. I remind him of a couple of previous conversations we’ve had about his godfather, particularly the one in which we talked at some length about why “faggot” is such a bad word, even though some of his friends -- nice kids, otherwise -- use it occasionally.
“But why couldn’t he?” my son persists.
I answer as best I can, trying to keep my terms simple. “Because if he did get married, he would want to be married to another man. Remember?”
He remembers, we’ve talked this point through before, and yet he continues to protest, his unfettered mind clearly puzzled at the logic which allows people who love one another to marry only if they are of the politically correct genders. I listen with a concerned but mild expression; only inside my head do I let loose my own frustrated answers -- “Because a lot of straight folks don’t seem to comprehend that many gay people want long-term, committed, monogamous relationships, and because some so-called conservatives feel their particular interpretation of God’s will should overrule the Constitution when it comes to every American’s equal right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”
What ends up coming out of my mouth instead is much milder -- a few words along the lines of “it’s just something that people haven’t done very much before, so some grown-ups aren’t comfortable with it yet” -- but it proves to be enough to tide him over for now. I won’t lie to him, but neither will I overwhelm him with a barrage of truths he is too young to absorb.
One piece of unfinished business from our conversation weighs on me, though. I have explained to my son why his godfather -- a warm and vital presence in his and his two siblings’ young lives -- could not today marry someone he loved and wanted to be with for the rest of his life. It has been difficult, but manageable. The moment I fear more may come later.
My wife and I have three children, two boys and a girl. Assuming somewhere around five to ten percent of our population is gay, there is roughly a 15 to 30 percent chance that someday one of my children may again ask me the question which launched this exchange. Except he or she won’t be asking it about a godfather, or cousin, or friend from school or work. She will be asking it about herself. My child will be asking me why he can’t marry the person he loves with all his wondrous heart.
And I won’t have the slightest idea what to tell him.
*
(c) Copyright 1996 Jason Warburg
(c) Copyright 1996 Jason Warburg
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