UPDATE:
As you may have heard, the U.S. Supreme Court has struck down two discriminatory laws against same-sex couples: Proposition eight, which banned marriage between couples of the same sex in California, and the Defense of Marriage Act, which denied federal benefits like tax rebates or immigration rights to gay couples married in any one of the states where marriage is legal to all couples of consenting adults.
For Milena and me this means that she will be able to come to the US to live with me. We will marry, and she will be able to apply for legal residency and work permits. She will work and pay taxes like everyone else. And she will live free of the fear of deportation, and of separation between us.
It is a good day for love, indeed!
My small world is in for a surprise. My neighbors, co-workers, family and friends are about to learn that I am not a married woman with a husband and two children. Instead they will behold a divorced lesbian with two children.
I saw that change coming from the moment in 2001 when I acknowledged the same sex attraction I had felt on and off since adolescence, depending on how strong my fears and my impulse to self-repress were at a given moment.
Since then I’ve worked on understanding who I am. I also tried, against all odds, to salvage my marriage. But last year I came to terms with the fact that there was no marriage to salvage. As I left behind a period of deep confusion I began dropping the heterosexual identity that fit me so poorly, and manifest the one that is really me. It was like learning to breathe. Twelve years—shedding the layers of self-denial I smothered myself in took that long. I went through all while holding down a high-stress job, nurturing my kids and watching them grow.
The conclusion to this process is not surprising: sooner or later I had to find a way to live my identity without hurting my loved ones. I am in that process and, with the help of wise therapists, I’m confident my kids, my ex and I will come through in one piece.
Enter the love of my life
The part I could not foresee twelve years ago as my body and my heart started insisting I was gay was when, how and with whom I would fall in love next. Yes, it would be a woman, but the person and the circumstances were unknown. Not anymore. I am in love with a beautiful, kind, witty, talented artist and carpenter who lives in Northern Europe. And all we want is to be together.
I met her through the Internet—oh the wonders it does for closeted people whose small town neighbors perceive them as part of a loving, successful heterosexual couple.
I had been on sabbatical, living in Southern Europe for some time when I met Milena. She read one of my essays where I laid bare the story of my life with all its passion and equivocation, its surprises, its solitude and hope. You can read it in the current issue of Sol Literary Magazine.
Several people had responded sympathetically to my story. But no one had understood it as profoundly as Milena did. We became pen pals. Very soon our communications became sincere, deep, and very frequent—several times a day. We fell in love. We visit each other every other month—thank goddess for Ryan Air.
Meanwhile my ex and I have worked hard to stay respectful and understanding of each other. We notified the children of the impending separation, and I have given them hints of my sexuality. It has been a hard period, but I am managing. Soon we will be back in the US. I will find a house and restart my life.
The rare art of binational nest building
Milena and I are planning on marrying.
One of the first things I told her—I have children; I can’t live far from them. So she offered to leave her beautiful town crisscrossed by canals and dotted by all manner of sailing vessels. She is willing to leave her family and friends, her close-knit community, the ancient culture she is so rightly proud of. She will pack her tools into a container for the Atlantic crossing, just to be with me. She is willing to take her cats, risk her livelihood and start her business anew in a land where no one knows her. I am grateful for the sacrifices she is willing to face so we can be together. And naturally, I want for her all the protection she can have.
Fortunately I live in one of the few U.S. states where gay people can legally marry. Milena and I will as soon as we can. What we do not know is whether the Federal government will recognize our marriage. Whether Milena can apply for legal residency like all foreign spouses of American citizens or legal residents—except for those of the same sex. We are waiting impatiently to hear from the Supreme Court’s decision on the ill-named Defense of Marriage Act. Sometime this month the court will decide our future.
Mister Kennedy, tear down this closet!
Will I, on my return to the US this summer, be myself for the first time in my life? Or will Milena and I be thrown into another closet—a very different one, but just as stifling?
All of it depends on nine justices. Experts say it really hinges on one man: Anthony Kennedy.
If the Supreme Court repeals DOMA Milena will be plain and ordinary. After our wedding she will start the lengthy process of applying for a work permit and legal residency (the famous green card. Mine was actually pink). She will get her driver’s license and set up her workshop. She will work and pay taxes like everyone else. Eventually she will be eligible to apply for citizenship. A process I started twenty, and completed ten years ago.
But if the Court upholds DOMA Milena will not be allowed to work legally. Like thousands others in her position, she might have to return to her country every three months to renew her tourist visa, risk being discovered as a non-tourist, and deported. Will she get a driver’s license? Does she have a hope of setting up her business legally? Will she be able to travel in and out of the country?
Or will she be a second-class citizen—rather, a non-citizen, because our marriage is valid in my state, but not in Washington?
How long will we manage to live like this?
As I walk out of the closet and shed the sexual identity my society erroneously assigned me—will my lovely Milena be thrown into another one?
It all hinges on nine justices. Or one—Anthony Kennedy.
