by Fay Jacobs
Once we got to the DC ‘burbs we hopped the Metro to the City. Would we know where to go when we got off the train? No problem. Exiting, we were swept up in a roiling sea of young, pierced, tattooed, baby-carrying gay people flowing toward the fest.
Carried by the tide, we witnessed the most incredible diversity of people—diversity within diversity. It was a multi-cultural, multi-ethnic, multi-age mix with as many little old ladies like us as there were gaybies, trannies, drag queens, drag kings, dykes on bikes, leathermen, and all manner of gay families.
We did, of course, rush through dinner at that smoky Dupont Circle bar so we could get back on the Metro and back to our cars and back to Rehoboth without turning into pumpkins.
But my most age-related revelation came last Saturday at the Stonewall Democrats Fundraiser, where Congressman Barney Frank spoke to the crowd with hilarious, yet very moving, stories.
As we stood under the trees in the vast backyard of a home along Silver Lake, Barney Frank reminded the nearly 300 people that although gay rights have come a long way in twenty or thirty years, we shouldn’t be expected to feel grateful; we should fight for and expect full equality.
He told a story of a soldier shot in the neck during World War I, who was told he was lucky to have survived. Yes, he said, but I’m not as lucky as those people who have never been shot in the neck.
Amen. This incipient geezer wants freedom from discrimination and recognition of her long-term relationship (inheritance rights, medical power of attorney, pensions, partner insurance) and all those other things married couples who have never been shot in the neck take for granted.
I don’t give a hoot whether they call it marriage or not, but I want equality before I’m too old to dance at my civil union.
August 2003
GET ME TO THE INSURANCE OFFICE ON TIME
I was absolutely not going to write about gay marriage. Everybody else has been yammering about it for weeks. But a confluence of events left me no choice. First, I got a call from the News Journal asking me what I thought about the whole gay marriage debate. I said something very bland about wanting equal legal rights but not caring whether it was called marriage or not. They quoted me verbatim. Only they added “said Fay Jacobs, gay activist.”
Yipes! When did that happen? I don’t consider myself a gay activist. I’m a columnist who happens to be gay. And I write about my life and things that are important to me.
So am I a gay activist? If so, I’m also a theatre activist and a Schnauzer activist (Paw Power!). Actually, I’m less a Gay activist than a Fay activist. I speak for me. I mean what’s gay about ranting and raving about TV commercials, yoga class or rescuing cats? Okay, the cat thing might be borderline.
Half-smarting and half-proud of the pigeon holing, I went about my business, which happened to be planning an Alaska vacation. Owing to my vast ignorance of geography (If you get a blue question at Trivial Pursuit, don’t look at me) it was weeks into vacation research before I realized our departure city was not Vancouver, USA.
I’m going to Canada? Lots of the current vituperation over gay marriage in this country has been stoked by our progressive Northern neighbor. Hmmmmmm.
“Hey Bonnie, want to get married in Vancouver before we leave for the cruise?”
“Sure. I’d love to.”
Time out. Before I continue, let me weigh in on gay marriage.
1. If gay marriage had been legal, we would have married in 1982.
2. Since my religion (and lots others) already unite gay people in synagogues and churches, is a religion banning gay marriage suddenly our national religion?
3. Why is this a religious issue, when marriage is a civil rite, as in ceremony, performed as a legal contract between individuals and the state?
4. And where was I when the separation of church and state went missing?
That having been said, my innocent question to my girlfriend suddenly became a snowball rolling down the glacier face. It took just a little over sixty seconds to find the Gay Vancouver web site and click onto the flashing Gay Marriage link.
There, I learned exactly how to get the marriage license (walk into an insurance office), what kind of I.D. we needed (just a Passport will do), and how to arrange for a gay-friendly marriage commissioner to do the deed. It turns out that the license office is four blocks from our hotel and a commissioner lives nearby. A few e-mails later, the whole thing’s arranged.
At that point, we alerted our travel buddies, Robert and Larry, to our plans and they decided to take the leap too. Now it’s to be a double wedding.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s keep this quiet until we get home. We’ll surprise everybody.”
Yeah, right. One whispered comment to a friend led to another and we had to call our whole address book and tell them, lest they take umbrage at being out of the loop.
As for our families, not only are they pleased, but they’re glowing. My father is sincerely thrilled about the wedding, and also, I suspect, that he doesn’t have to pay for it. There’s a Jewish mother in Florida announcing her son’s plans to the whole canasta group.
My sister, who’s sweet, but not always up on current events, accused me of eloping so she couldn’t be there. Uh, Gwen, same-sex marriage is not legal in the U.S. “Oh, I forgot,” she said. “Well, you’re the only one.” I replied.
Telling our family and friends was wonderful and we are all lucky to have so many people really happy for us. But I certainly had no intention of publishing our plans until that cute and hilarious columnist Marc Acito pre-empted us in the last issue of Letters.
Right in the middle of my wedding planning I opened Letters to read that Marc and his boyfriend crossed into Canada from the state of Washington to be hitched. Congratulations, Marc and Floyd!
But when Marc was planning his wedding I bet the commissioner had heard of Washington State. The first person I talked to actually sounded like that joke “Dela-Where????” I had to explain I was calling from a small, but important state on the east coast of the United States.
“Oh, is it near North Carolina?” he asked. The two of us could use a good atlas.
So what with Marc bringing the subject up, and the rest of the world’s news focused more on gay marriage than Iraq or the Terminator, it felt right to join the conversation.
Our quartet will leave for Vancouver on Thursday, August 21. Our rehearsal dinner will be airline food. The wedding is set for Friday morning. We get on the cruise ship for our honeymoon that afternoon. It remains to be seen if we raise our hands when the Captain asks newlyweds to identify themselves. After all, we don’t want to add to reports of hundreds of passengers coming down with the vapors on a cruise ship.
As for tradition, we’ll be taking SOMETHING OLD: Us!!! SOMETHING NEW: the latest copy of Letters to pose with it at our wedding; SOMETHING BORROWED: yeah, like the whole trip from MasterCard; and SOMETHING BLUE: hmmm…My varicose veins? The Planter’s Peanuts bag from the flight? Me, when I think that I have to leave my own country in order to celebrate something so important and joyous.
Somebody call to see if we qualify for the Guinness Book of Records for the world’s longest engagement.
We’ll report more when we return. In the meantime, I am not an activist. I’m a bride-to-be. Or is that Bonnie?
September 2003
WE DID, WE DID.
It must have happened, I read it in The Washington Post. There it was, right smack in the middle of the Weddings page on September 10, 2003, photo and all.
Vancouver Nuptials for Bonnie Quesenberry and Fay Jacobs
Fay Jacobs and Bonnie Quesenberry were married August 22nd in a civil ceremony at Le Soleil Hotel in Vancouver, British Columbia. Marriage Commissioner Karen Ell officiated. Ms. Jacobs, a graduate of American University, Washington, D.C., is executive director for Rehoboth Beach Main Street, a non-profit organization in Rehoboth Beach, DE. From 1982 to 1999, she worked as director of communications for Montgomery Village Foundation. Her p
arents are Mort Rubenstein and the late Shirley Rubenstein. Her father and stepmother, Joan Windell Rubenstein reside in Somers, NY. Ms. Quesenberry, a Baltimore native owned and operated Quesenberry Dental Lab in the area for more than 20 years, where she was affiliated with Johns Hopkins Hospital among other clients. In 1999, she relocated the lab to Delaware. She is also an accomplished designer of hand-made gold jewelry . Her parents are Natalie and Ray Quesenberry of Frederick, MD, formerly of Baltimore. The couple has been together for 21 years.
And, I might add, as soon as we were pronounced wife and wife, Canada did not fall into the sea. Actually, getting the announcement in The Post was more difficult than getting married. At first they wanted to publish it under “Celebrations” since they called it a civil union.
“Oh no,” I said, “We have a marriage license from Canada.”
“Okay then,” said the clerk, “fax it to me and we’ll run it with weddings!”
As for the wedding itself, Fay and Bonnie, and Bob and Larry, arrived in Vancouver, BC on the evening of August 21. Awaiting us were two bride’s bouquets and two groom’s boutonnières sent to our hotel by our adorable son-the-actor. We all had jitters as we dined out at our rehearsal dinner.
On Friday morning at 8 we walked a few blocks to the insurance office where marriage licenses are bestowed. “Oh, yes, come right back here,” said the clerk, whereupon the boys sat at one desk and the girls another. “Oh, I see,” said the clerk, without judgment. In fact, she apologized as she crossed out the word groom on our application and hand-wrote a second “bride.” She added, “the new paperwork hasn’t come yet.”
With shaky signatures we signed on the dotted lines, paid our license fee and, clutching our marriage licenses (!) walked back to the hotel.
“We’re getting married at 10 a.m., is it possible to use this back lobby of the hotel for the ceremony?” we asked the cute, blond, earring-wearing boy-toy concierge. He lved the idea, and told us he’d try to keep people from loitering and throwing their luggage back there.
Marriage Commissioner Karen Ell was waiting for our call and we asked her to meet us in the lobby at 10. “My husband will join me, to take pictures if you’d like,” she said. We liked.
They arrived, all smiles, and following a flurry of signatures, Bob and Larry indicated that Bonnie and I should go first. At this point I have to say that my memory gets a little foggy. All I know is that instead of the sterile civil ceremony I expected, it was an incredibly sweet and personal few minutes.
We stood looking at each other, glancing at our stalwart witnesses, repeating after Karen, smiling, fidgeting with the rings, and soaking up every minute of the event. I certainly remember savoring the words as I repeated after the Marriage Commissioner “I solemnly declare that I do not know of any lawful impediment why I, Fay, may not be joined in matrimony to Bonnie.” Emphasis on lawful.
The brides kissed and made way for the second part of the daily double. Near the end of Bob and Larry’s ceremony—a ceremony different from, and equally lovely as ours—a tear ran down Robert’s cheek, followed by Larry misting up; then Bonnie went and I followed. One of the best photos shows us all falling apart. Even Karen the Commissioner started to sniffle.
The lobby formalities concluded, several heterosexual couples came up to congratulate us, and Bonnie and I tossed our bouquets to two little girls who were there with their parents. Gee, I wonder if they will grow up to marry lesbians?
We did notice that the handsome young bellhop who had stopped work to watch the ceremony grinned from ear to ear as he went back to work.
We ended the morning with a champagne brunch reception for four at a lovely restaurant along Vancouver’s English Bay. Our friendly concierge had made the reservations and sent us congratulatory canapés.
It was a splendid and surprisingly lovely affair—and our only regret is that our friends and family could not have been there to share it with us.
I know I’m not doing my usual complement of whining and snarling, and I apologize for the mush. But we’re Sadie, Sadie Married Ladies now and we can’t stop smiling.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Fay Jacobs, a native New Yorker, spent 30 years in the Washington, DC area working in journalism, theatre and public relations. She has contributed feature stories and columns to such publications as The Advocate, OUTtraveler, Baltimore Sun, Chesapeake Bay Magazine, Washington Blade, The Wilmington News Journal, Delaware Beach Life, and more.
Since 1995 she has been a regular columnist for Letters from CAMP Rehoboth, and won the national 1997 Vice Versa Award for excellence. Her writing is also included in the 1998 Alyson Publications’ anthology Beginnings.
She and her spouse Bonnie relocated to Rehoboth Beach, DE in 1999. They have two Miniature Schnauzers and a riding lawn mower.