by Fay Jacobs
We married first in Canada, when marriage equality there became legal. We married again last year, with a big fat Jewish Wedding, recognized as marriage by our religious institution, but only as a civil union in Delaware. So neither ceremony gave us what we need most—a legally recognized marriage equal to our heterosexually married neighbors.
Now, we’re retirees and sadly, just lost our remaining 15-year old Schnauzer. The dogs have been a benchmark for our 31 years. We urge the state to end our long run as lesser citizens with a second class term for our relationship. We need Delaware to pass the marriage equality bill so when the Defense of Marriage Act falls, whenever that may be, we will have the one thing we need, a legal marriage, to qualify for Federal equal rights and benefits.
At the moment we’re debating whether we’re too old for a puppy. Our run with unequal rights has gone on long enough. Please be on the right side of history, and grant all Delaware citizens marriage equality. And we’ll let you know what we decide about the puppy. Thank you.”
Yes, I got a laugh on the line about the puppy. But it’s all too true and too important to be a laughing matter anymore. Frankly, the idea of equality was so foreign to us in the 1970s and 80s as we marched for visibility and protection from discrimination. Sure, we had a hell of a lot of laughs at those grand events. “‘We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it” we chanted. We had our dykes on bikes, our brave drag queens, our military heroes coming out.
So too, was it exuberant, joyous and important to march in 1990’s Pride parades and fight for the right of gay people to serve in the military. Skirmishing for small victories and safe communities was always fun because we came together as a fun-loving, determined community working to build a bridge to the majority; to Create A More Positive Rehoboth (the CAMP acronym) and also a more positive world.
But I woke up today, Letters deadline looming and realized that for all the marching, advocacy, fund-raising, letter writing, speech-giving and emotional investment, to lots of Delawareans we are still THEM.
The vote for full marriage equality in the Delaware House was victorious. Our House of Delegates, led by Speaker of the House Pete Schwartzkopf voted in favor of marriage equality. It was a historic and delicious victory.
But now the vote goes to the Senate, which is not a sure thing. We need 11 YES votes in the Senate. And the difference between full marriage equality and the painful continuation of unequal status for those some call THEM could rest on the senator from our own Sussex County district. This senator has the privilege of representing LGBT constituents in literally hundreds of same-sex households. Will he vote for our equality or to keep us as second class citizens? Will we stay in the THEM column? It may just be up to our own state senator.
Frankly, these THEM are sick of living in sin. We want to be declared legally wed in Delaware. That’s a much better environment in which to raise a puppy.
May 2013
THE AYES REALLY DID HAVE IT
For me, it was the gavel heard ‘round my world.
As I write this, I am still not certain exactly how to describe the events and emotions of Tuesday, May 7, at Legislative Hall in Dover, Delaware. That was the almost-unbelievable day when the Marriage Equality Bill, HB 75, already passed in the Delaware House of Representatives, passed in the Delaware Senate, making same-gender marriage the law in Delaware.
Yes, it’s state law, not yet federal, but I never thought I’d see even this much in my lifetime, and I am still giddy from the wonderful shock.
On the day of the vote I was in Senator Karen Peterson’s small office at Legislative Hall listening to the proceedings on a squawk box. I’d arrived from teaching a class too late to get a gallery seat. Equality Delaware President Lisa Goodman spied me loitering in the lobby and escorted me to the senator’s office. There, I joined several Equality Delaware volunteers and Stonewall Democrats as Lisa rushed back to the Senate floor, where she, attorney Mark Purpura, and Senator David Sokola, among others, started the day’s business of making history.
For three long hours I sat in the senator’s office, listening to the encouraging testimony of marriage equality proponents alternating with the disheartening, infuriating, and often ignorant testimony of the “No Genderless Marriage” team. I squirmed in my chair, listening to their irrational fears and mostly irrelevant arguments, nervous about the upcoming vote and seemingly struck by restless body syndrome. Would all the senators who’d promised YES votes show up? We needed 11 YEAs from the 21 senators. What was about to happen? I fidgeted and fidgeted some more.
While Dixiecrat Democratic Senator Venables droned on about the perils of gay marriage, we learned one of the promised YEAs was missing. “Find him!” came a cry in the hallway, a fellow senator rushing to action.
Bible verse after Bible verse came over the speaker as angry, fearful people testified to their worry that children would be taught gay marriage is, gasp, normal! And what about florists who don’t want to provide arrangements for gay weddings? Or photographers who don’t want to snap pix of gay people?
Senators and Equality Delaware lawyers happily let everyone know that since 2009 there has been a law on the books forbidding discrimination against gay people by the likes of florists, photographers, and any other business accommodating the public. And guess what? There’s been hardly a complaint or a problem since. Another irrational argument trounced.
By this time the missing YES voter was in the chamber and warm, rational words continued to alternate with demeaning, hurtful and just plain stupid ones.
An amazing exchange occurred when Senator Peterson herself answered a question that was both foolish and denigrating to gay people. In a surprise moment, the senator flung open her own closet door in an emotional speech about her 24-year relationship with her partner, saying, “Neither I nor my partner chose to be gay any more than heterosexuals chose to be straight. If my happiness somehow demeans or diminishes your marriage then you need to work on your marriage.” It was a jaw-dropping, applause-invoking moment in the chamber and an eye-popping, “Did she just come out???” moment right there in Senator Karen Peterson’s office.
When the seemingly endless ugly testimony finally stopped, I could feel tension wash over the room as if one of our famous coastal fogs had just rolled in. A young Equality Delaware staffer leaned on Senator Peterson’s desk and, as the roll was called, checked off names with Yea or Nay. Along the way, we had a surprise YES from Senator Bethany Hall-Long of Middletown, and by vote’s end there were 12 in favor, 9 against.
When the Senate president announced the passage of HB75 there was a stunned silence and a collective intake of breath as our small group then broke into cheers and applause. One second later, the din delayed by distance, we heard the thunderous cheers, whoops and hollers from the Senate chamber and gallery.
“We’re all supposed to go to the Governor’s office,” announced the young staffer. “He’s going to sign the bill right now.”
Because of where we had been holed up, we hit the grand staircase in the building before most people and practically ran up to the Governor’s office. My knees were jelly, and elated butterflies danced in my stomach. This was really happening! In Delaware!
Bonnie and I had just arrived at the outer office door when a grinning Governor Jack Markell came through it—and we were among the first people the governor hugged and congratulated.
It brought me right back to years ago when then-state comptroller Markell spoke up early and often, at his own political peril, for our cause; when Speaker Schwartzkopf first ran for election as an underdog in our district and he bravely made the decision to fight aggressively for our rights; to when Steve and Murray first started CAMP Rehoboth, fighting for simple safety and respect for LGBT residents. Look how far we’ve come thanks to all our political allies, tireless activists and incessant advocates.
For me, it was a stunning moment, and thrilling as this transplanted New Yorker realized she lived in such a small state that the go
vernor was able to call out “Fay! Bonnie! Congratulations!”
With more than 200 marriage equality supporters standing on the grand staircase and around the balcony on the second floor, we heard a smiling Governor Markell tell us, “I do not intend to make any of you wait one moment longer. Delaware should be, is and will be a welcoming place to live and love and to raise a family for all who call our great state home.”
I stood with my wife on the state house staircase and knew that Delaware considered our marriage truly equal to all others.
And with that, a small table was placed on the staircase landing so the governor could stand amid many of the senators who voted yes, the activists from Equality Delaware, and other marriage equality supporters and sign the bill that had passed only a few minutes before.
I’m still having trouble believing it. As you know, I’ve always adored my hometown of Rehoboth Beach for its embrace of its gay residents and visitors. But now the whole state, tiny as it may be, is onboard with our civil rights. Pretty darn amazing.
May 2013
IT’S TIME FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER
Well, the rumors are flying!
Friends here in town and even down south have been peppered with calls. “Are Fay and Bonnie moving?” “Are they running away in the RV?” “Are they going to live at Jellystone Park with Yogi Bear?” I guess they saw the FOR SALE sign on our weed-riddled lawn.
NO!!! We are NOT leaving Rehoboth. That would break our hearts. But the rumor mill has been churning ever since we began a hunt for the perfect retirement dwelling. You know what they say in this town—don’t worry if you don’t know what you’re doing, someone else will. Or guess, fabricate, or surmise. So here’s the real story.
Where once we (the Royal WE) enjoyed gunning our pet riding mower over turf on the homestead, we no longer feel the thrill. We do feel the sciatica. We are sick of paying to open and close the watering system, when we could be using those funds at our favorite watering hole. Personally, we resent spending our martini money on mulch.
So recently, we woke up, smelled the Starbucks, and saw the forest for the trees. Trees, I might add, we lovingly planted in 1999 when this place was the little house on the prairie. By this time they’re a threat to the roof. So after 14 years of mulching, pruning, watering, feeding, and otherwise giving aid and comfort to the greenery, I had to kill them. It was enough to make me want to chug Round-Up.
And we got sick of spending the equivalent of several gourmet dinners just to recoat the driveway every year. Likewise money spent on crawl space ventilation and weed whacker string. Uncle!!! So it’s time to put yard work and exterior maintenance out to somebody else’s pasture. We’re going to downsize, or as the PR flaks say, “rightsize.” We have whacked our last weed.
It’s been 18 years since we first docked in Dewey in our floating home. News of our arrival was detailed in the pages of Letters from CAMP Rehoboth, and every move we’ve made since then has been documented there as well. From the boat to a condo, then a second condo and finally to our house in the “suburbs” of Rehoboth. Then came the RV as an additional guest cottage.
So it’s time for the next chapter. For a brief shining moment we considered coming full circle, renting a slip in Dewey and living aboard a boat again. But we came to our senses. Leaping on and off a rocking boat on a windy night was a challenge when we were in our forties, but now we’d have to line the dock with granny grab bars and still risk an occasional cold bath. Besides, the gentle roll of the boat that used to lull us to sleep, will now just exacerbate the reflux. The final nail in the gangplank was picturing 3 a.m. pee breaks, perched on a moving target. No thanks.
Okay, so where could we live, keep the trappings and privacy of a single family home but avoid mowing and mulching? After much mulling and financial planning, we decided to sell our house and buy a manufactured home. A linear estate. A mobile home that stays put. Once we sell our house, we will be moving to a beautiful mobile resort community, still here in Rehoboth Beach.
Oh, I know the jokes. You might be trailer trash if: the Salvation Army declines your furniture; you offer to give someone the shirt off your back and they don’t want it; you have the local taxidermist on speed dial; you come back from the dump with more than you took; or you have a complete set of salad bowls and they all say “Cool Whip” on the side.
Well, the truth is, you may be ripe for a manufactured home if you want a place where your annual tax bill is lower than dinner for two (seriously); your house is registered at the DMV (honest); there are gorgeous cherry trees and pretty landscaping all over and you don’t have to mow it, mulch it or feed it; you have a pool and exercise room without needing a gym membership; and finally, you can lock the door and travel without a care in the world.
So that’s the plan. Our new home will be Base Camp Rehoboth so we can enjoy the beautiful months here at home and travel in the RV when there’s ice and snow on the boardwalk.
Not that the transition will be easy. The new place is tiny. The office where columns like this will be written is so small (how small is it?) you need to go out in the hall to change your mind; you put a key in the door lock and break a window; you trade your desktop computer for a laptop. And for that matter, does anybody reading this want a gorgeous roll top desk? It won’t fit through the door.
So the task before us, unlike the new house, is huge. We have to downsize; de-accessorize and pick our way through 14 years of accumulated possessions. How did we collect all this? The Mother of All Yard Sales (Part I) will be next week on our driveway. By then we will have made painful decisions about what to keep and what to let go.
The next great adventure begins. In the meantime, you might be manufactured home material if you want a house where you can party on and let the good times roll without using all your disposable income for yard waste bags shredded mulch. I’m ready.
June 2013
WALK, DON’T RUN
About the only thing associated with walking I haven’t done lately is taken a long walk off a short pier. But, I suspect I’ll get to that come August.
In a completely uncharacteristic move, I have taken up walking for health. I walk between one and two miles a day and oddly enough, I like it. Since January I haven’t missed a day.
Now that also might have something to do with my diet and exercise-obsessed best friend who will verbally eviscerate me if I skip a day. But frankly, scary as that prospect is, and as oxymoronic as this may sound, I enjoy the exercise.
Not that it’s been easy. At first, I dutifully schlepped along with my mile mentor and got pains in my shins, medically known as shin splits. That’s positively the only thing I have ever had in common with a ballerina. Trust me.
Then I had to build up my stamina. For a person who got winded walking to the mail box, this was a chore. Initially, I only had enough air to either walk or talk, not both. Consequently, I schlepped along quietly, which frightened the drill sergeant beside me. Me not talking is like me not breathing. But luckily, I soon built up to walking and grumbling at the same time. Much better. Walking and chewing gum was still in the future.
“It’s time you got a pedometer,” announced my relentless self-appointed guru.
“Why?”
“So you can know exactly how many tenths of a mile you’ve been complaining.”
Okay, so I bought the pedometer. The directions said I could attach it to my belt, pocket or shoe laces. Shoe laces seemed easy.
Days went by and I consistently got credit for far more miles than I walked. What the heck? It wasn’t until I was watching television one night and looked down to realize that a shoe is really not the proper place for a pedometer if you have restless leg syndrome. I was eating popcorn and watching Mad Men and the pedometer thought I was doing a 5K.
A person’s weight and the distance you walk determine the calories you burn from walking. A rule of thumb is 100 calories burned per mile for somebody my weight. But all I have to do is eat a cookie the size of m
y thumb and there goes the benefit. For last week’s dinner at Rehoboth’s famed Blue Moon Restaurant penance is an extra 27 miles.
So obviously, watching your calories goes hand in hand with walking for weight loss. I’ve been watching my calories for years—watching them go directly into my mouth without actually bothering to count them. Now, I’m a little more attentive. While it’s hard to crave a Hershey Bar when you know you have to walk to Virginia to burn it off, sadly I can still do it.
Since my walk on the wild side began, I have strolled two miles on a Florida beach, twenty blocks at a time in Manhattan, and frequently the two miles up and back on the Rehoboth Boardwalk. I try to walk early in the morning, before the Funnel Cake place has time to open.
Once, doing my mile on a trip to Maryland, I came to understand how lucky we are not to have a measurable hill in all of Delaware. The same distance I breeze through at home is like climbing Kilimanjaro there. A Sherpa with oxygen tanks and Gatorade would have helped.
On most days I take an iPod along but I have to be careful. Anything with a disco beat has me walking and pointing like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Persons not hearing the music see this and think I have imaginary cooties. Show tunes are even worse. It’s amazing how frightened people can become seeing somebody exhibiting Ethel Merman body language. Listening to Cats could get me picked up by animal control.
Actually, one day last spring it was a very good thing I was in fighting trim for a walk. I was near the boardwalk enjoying a martini (96 calories) when it started to rain. Then pour. Then deluge. I had to be at the Convention Center in twenty minutes and, having no raincoat or umbrella, my only choice seemed like arriving wet and wild and not in a good way.