During a year-long stretch in 2008, John and Jay's house felt like my second home. It was better decorated, of course. It was perpetually spotless, (I think John's hands might have their own lemon-fresh scent.) And, it was always there for me.
"Well . . . got any plans tomorrow?" John would ask while I was pulling on my sneakers to leave in the afternoon.
"Nope. You?" I'd smile.
"Just cleaning the house. . . . Want to go shopping? Or, you know, it's been a while since I've seen a zombie movie . . ."
The next day, usually around ten in the morning, the silver Jetta would stop in front of my house and I'd jump inside. John and I would make our way to Scottsboro, to see what strange, misplaced luggage was on sale that month at the Unclaimed Baggage. (Our most memorable find: leather underwear, complete with chain-link buckles and attachments. We left it for a more adventurous customer.) Or we'd battle over the cheapest bargains at the area flea markets and antique stores. We only ever bought a few things: the tiny Le Creuset dish that I couldn't believe John found, the Crafsman-style plant stand that I grabbed even though John swore he saw it first. Mostly, it was just something to do.
We were unemployed together. I was new to the city, and while Emily and Jay were working, John and I could only apply for so many jobs. We would drive around for hours, usually while I watched the scenery pass without a clue where we were. We'd hit Big Lots and Goodwills, wineries and plant nurseries all over southeast Tennessee. We had adventures and misadventures--the time the gas pedal broke somewhere past Dunlap and we could only drive about five miles an hour, and John still managed to make me chase him down after I jumped out for a quick bathroom break; The weeks we droe to Lookout Mountain to pilfer chunks of the rock face from the side of the road to complete his fabulous rock garden.
I got to learn about places like Chattanooga and Nashville, and John got to keep busy. His previous job as a disability benefits specialist, where he was asked to deny people insurance coverage, left a mark on his conscience that caused him to leave, and his resulting unemployment didn't make it any better. I felt like we were helping each other along.
We'd grab a bit to eat (always an interesting challenge in the middle of nowhere for a vegetarian). Then we'd arrive back to their house and I would settle into a familiar spot on the couch. John, or Jay if he had gotten home, would hold up a glass.
"What would you like?"
Wine or cocktails in hand, we'd compare and show off any good fins and turn on Hitchcock or Romero, or fall into familiar discussions about our hopes for the next election and our gentrifying neighborhood.
It had been our proximity and our politics that brought us together in the first place, so those conversations came up a lot. After eight years of G.W., we had plenty to talk about when it came to politics. And whenever we brought up our neighborhood there were some hearty grievances to discuss too. The housing crisis had stalled the "up" in our "up-and-coming" area, which meant more crime, more slumlords, more prostitutes, and more malaise. We complained about ratty yards with trucks parked in the grass, trashy tenants who drank 40oz's all day in the street, which neighbors used to be involved with the neighborhood association and now weren't, who could be and who couldn't. Basically, we gossiped.
"Well, you know, we used to be close," John would inevitably say about a dozen or so of the neighbors that had seemed to fall off the earth at some point in the past few years.
"They came to our commitment ceremony," Jay would chime in. They would both nod and be silent for a moment.
The ceremony came up a lot when we discussed our neighborhood. On October 11th a few years earlier, John and Jay gathered with about thirty of their good friends. They had their ceremony on their anniversary, which was also National Coming Out Day. They were committed in front of a crowd of their closest friends, despite not being able to actually marry according to the state.
Emily and I also got married on our anniversary (August 24), but we exchanged vows in a tiny room in the Dekalb county courthouse a few years earlier, just us and a woman in a black cloak. We were living in Atlanta, where we knew almost no one, and we had done it mostly for convenience. At the time we were in love, and happy, but not really interested in marriage except for the health insurance and tax benefits. It was a depressing ceremony. We repeated after the official while otherwise alone, even though we could have had a wedding if we'd decided to do so.
"Do you have any special vows?" the official asked. Nope.
"Do you have the rings?" she added. No.
Our lack of money, our distance from family, and our problems with the government overseeing marriage kept us from having a traditional ceremony. We told ourselves that this was good enough, but it never felt right.
While no one was at our ceremony, it was very special to John and Jay both f someone had attended theirs. For believing in their relationship and showing up to prove it, those people had earned themselves a sort of pass. Maybe they weren't as close anymore, maybe she had a child, or he got a new, busier job, or the family had moved away, but to John and Jay, having been a part of their commitment ceremony left a lasting and unassailable impression. It was a strong political statement to hold a commitment ceremony and defy the old norms of marriage in the old South. Just being there meant that the attendees were committed, themselves, to an idea of love that still doesn't have popular support. Despite having no state approval--and, in fact, partly because it had no approval--the ceremony was more meaningful in many way than a traditional wedding or marriage.
John and Jay were my and Emily's first friends in the neighborhood, and even though, with their help, we now have several very good friends here, they remain our closest. And so it seemed appropriate that they were who we told first when we determined, painfully, that we would be getting a divorce.
We pulled up to their house at ten in the morning on that Sunday. I hauled the Craftsman-style plant stand out of the car and onto the porch. Jay opened the door, his short blond hair sticking up sideways in bed-head fashion, and we asked if we could come inside.
I took the familiar spot on the couch, beside Emily. I was pushing my lips tightly together to keep tears from coming. Despite it being her decision, she didn't seem able to say anything.
"We're going to be getting a divorce," I said, with as calm a face as I could manage. "We just thought, since you've been so good to us, and you were our first friends here, that you should be the first to know."
Before a few more sentences got out Emily and I had tears in our eyes. We tried to speak through our quivering, drawn faces. My eyes focused on the closed television cabinet to keep from looking too closely at anyone.
"John," I said, "I want you to have the plant stand. We're going to be selling a lot and I just thought, you know, that it always seemed like yours." I had already started going through the attic and trying to clean up for the sale of the house.
"No, no it isn't." he said. We had joked so many times about how he wanted it.
"Bitch," he would say, "I still think I saw it first!"
I had to laugh.
We believed that they would understand what we were going through, and we knew that they would have enough respect for us to listen. They did. They were so sorry for us that I felt almost worse for including them, but they were the most important friends to tell first.
We didn't know John and Jay when they had their commitment ceremony. It must have been a good one--if they didn't understand commitment, they wouldn't have been the first people we told when we were ending our eight-year relationship.
Emily is living elsewhere now. Our couch is at her new apartment. But the soft cushion in the living room at John and Jay's is still there for me, and when I need to, I still use it. One day, my gay friends will have the right to get married, even in the states of Tennessee and Georgia. And wherever we are in our now separate lives, Emily and I will be right there with them when they do.
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"Well . . . got any plans tomorrow?" John would ask while I was pulling on my sneakers to leave in the afternoon.
"Nope. You?" I'd smile.
"Just cleaning the house. . . . Want to go shopping? Or, you know, it's been a while since I've seen a zombie movie . . ."
The next day, usually around ten in the morning, the silver Jetta would stop in front of my house and I'd jump inside. John and I would make our way to Scottsboro, to see what strange, misplaced luggage was on sale that month at the Unclaimed Baggage. (Our most memorable find: leather underwear, complete with chain-link buckles and attachments. We left it for a more adventurous customer.) Or we'd battle over the cheapest bargains at the area flea markets and antique stores. We only ever bought a few things: the tiny Le Creuset dish that I couldn't believe John found, the Crafsman-style plant stand that I grabbed even though John swore he saw it first. Mostly, it was just something to do.
We were unemployed together. I was new to the city, and while Emily and Jay were working, John and I could only apply for so many jobs. We would drive around for hours, usually while I watched the scenery pass without a clue where we were. We'd hit Big Lots and Goodwills, wineries and plant nurseries all over southeast Tennessee. We had adventures and misadventures--the time the gas pedal broke somewhere past Dunlap and we could only drive about five miles an hour, and John still managed to make me chase him down after I jumped out for a quick bathroom break; The weeks we droe to Lookout Mountain to pilfer chunks of the rock face from the side of the road to complete his fabulous rock garden.
I got to learn about places like Chattanooga and Nashville, and John got to keep busy. His previous job as a disability benefits specialist, where he was asked to deny people insurance coverage, left a mark on his conscience that caused him to leave, and his resulting unemployment didn't make it any better. I felt like we were helping each other along.
We'd grab a bit to eat (always an interesting challenge in the middle of nowhere for a vegetarian). Then we'd arrive back to their house and I would settle into a familiar spot on the couch. John, or Jay if he had gotten home, would hold up a glass.
"What would you like?"
Wine or cocktails in hand, we'd compare and show off any good fins and turn on Hitchcock or Romero, or fall into familiar discussions about our hopes for the next election and our gentrifying neighborhood.
It had been our proximity and our politics that brought us together in the first place, so those conversations came up a lot. After eight years of G.W., we had plenty to talk about when it came to politics. And whenever we brought up our neighborhood there were some hearty grievances to discuss too. The housing crisis had stalled the "up" in our "up-and-coming" area, which meant more crime, more slumlords, more prostitutes, and more malaise. We complained about ratty yards with trucks parked in the grass, trashy tenants who drank 40oz's all day in the street, which neighbors used to be involved with the neighborhood association and now weren't, who could be and who couldn't. Basically, we gossiped.
"Well, you know, we used to be close," John would inevitably say about a dozen or so of the neighbors that had seemed to fall off the earth at some point in the past few years.
"They came to our commitment ceremony," Jay would chime in. They would both nod and be silent for a moment.
The ceremony came up a lot when we discussed our neighborhood. On October 11th a few years earlier, John and Jay gathered with about thirty of their good friends. They had their ceremony on their anniversary, which was also National Coming Out Day. They were committed in front of a crowd of their closest friends, despite not being able to actually marry according to the state.
Emily and I also got married on our anniversary (August 24), but we exchanged vows in a tiny room in the Dekalb county courthouse a few years earlier, just us and a woman in a black cloak. We were living in Atlanta, where we knew almost no one, and we had done it mostly for convenience. At the time we were in love, and happy, but not really interested in marriage except for the health insurance and tax benefits. It was a depressing ceremony. We repeated after the official while otherwise alone, even though we could have had a wedding if we'd decided to do so.
"Do you have any special vows?" the official asked. Nope.
"Do you have the rings?" she added. No.
Our lack of money, our distance from family, and our problems with the government overseeing marriage kept us from having a traditional ceremony. We told ourselves that this was good enough, but it never felt right.
While no one was at our ceremony, it was very special to John and Jay both f someone had attended theirs. For believing in their relationship and showing up to prove it, those people had earned themselves a sort of pass. Maybe they weren't as close anymore, maybe she had a child, or he got a new, busier job, or the family had moved away, but to John and Jay, having been a part of their commitment ceremony left a lasting and unassailable impression. It was a strong political statement to hold a commitment ceremony and defy the old norms of marriage in the old South. Just being there meant that the attendees were committed, themselves, to an idea of love that still doesn't have popular support. Despite having no state approval--and, in fact, partly because it had no approval--the ceremony was more meaningful in many way than a traditional wedding or marriage.
John and Jay were my and Emily's first friends in the neighborhood, and even though, with their help, we now have several very good friends here, they remain our closest. And so it seemed appropriate that they were who we told first when we determined, painfully, that we would be getting a divorce.
We pulled up to their house at ten in the morning on that Sunday. I hauled the Craftsman-style plant stand out of the car and onto the porch. Jay opened the door, his short blond hair sticking up sideways in bed-head fashion, and we asked if we could come inside.
I took the familiar spot on the couch, beside Emily. I was pushing my lips tightly together to keep tears from coming. Despite it being her decision, she didn't seem able to say anything.
"We're going to be getting a divorce," I said, with as calm a face as I could manage. "We just thought, since you've been so good to us, and you were our first friends here, that you should be the first to know."
Before a few more sentences got out Emily and I had tears in our eyes. We tried to speak through our quivering, drawn faces. My eyes focused on the closed television cabinet to keep from looking too closely at anyone.
"John," I said, "I want you to have the plant stand. We're going to be selling a lot and I just thought, you know, that it always seemed like yours." I had already started going through the attic and trying to clean up for the sale of the house.
"No, no it isn't." he said. We had joked so many times about how he wanted it.
"Bitch," he would say, "I still think I saw it first!"
I had to laugh.
We believed that they would understand what we were going through, and we knew that they would have enough respect for us to listen. They did. They were so sorry for us that I felt almost worse for including them, but they were the most important friends to tell first.
We didn't know John and Jay when they had their commitment ceremony. It must have been a good one--if they didn't understand commitment, they wouldn't have been the first people we told when we were ending our eight-year relationship.
Emily is living elsewhere now. Our couch is at her new apartment. But the soft cushion in the living room at John and Jay's is still there for me, and when I need to, I still use it. One day, my gay friends will have the right to get married, even in the states of Tennessee and Georgia. And wherever we are in our now separate lives, Emily and I will be right there with them when they do.
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