It started with grapes. Grape started with a chat with Ms. Serena Blue about the modern LGBT movement, the flaccid backbone of the American Liberal Party and modern chick lit. I dropped the names of a few British poets (American women become soppy at even the thought of British accents), gave my best Hemingway reading, and untethered a feign blasé flick of the wrist to procure the wine. I did not plan to have the taste of yesterday, however sweet, on my tongue today, but I woke up this morning and discovered myself in my room lying next to a sleeping Serena Blue.
The room wasn’t spinning, but it did feel alive. The smell of grape from the evening before was still lingering on the breath of the walls. The floor was haggard with a few bottles of wine, my favorite dinner jacket, a black dress, shoes and heels. The bed was suffused with the naked bodies of Serena, our intimacy and me. Serena had her share of cracks, blotches and cellulite, but all of it together with the curve of her lower lip that slightly protruded her upper one, made her meet the prerequisites of my bedding. Not that my bed is that picky; I’m permitted to sleep in it.
I wanted water, but the taste of the rounds of her shoulders, where her perfectly fed and swarthy colored hair meets her collarbone, was still on my lips. I would have ventured off into my tiny kitchen if it weren’t for Serena opening her eyes. Watching a beautiful woman sleep is almost as fulfilling as watching that same woman wake up. Her sleep was demure. She couldn’t help but be beautiful even when she is sleeping. Her attractiveness never took time off. At the moment her eyelashes unveiled her pupils, I placed my palm on the side of her cheek.
“So, this isn’t just going to be drunken sex if we keep going.” She said. She did not want to think about the consequences of having “sober-sex.” Sober-sex means sex with clarity, sex with intention and without excuse. To blame this, or our little affair, on alcohol is one thing, but to blame it on liking each other is something else.
“You didn’t want to have sex?”
“No. I did, but I didn’t want to follow through…”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I was going to go into my room, but when you kissed me, I knew that I would have sex with you. You’re fun to kiss.”
I was worried about my kissing. I’ve always been worried about my kissing. My lips are larger than most and I have a phobia of bad smell, particularly when it is coming from me. We were embarrassingly rich in kisses last night. Kisses on the floor, kisses on hands, kisses clothed and kisses unclothed.
“So, if I want to have sex with you, I just need to start making out with you?”
“No. I mean…I do want to have sex, but if I have sex with you again, I’m going to want to have sex with you all the time and that’s exactly the problem. I have to see you everyday.”
“Does that mean you can’t look at me without thinking about having sex with me?” I served the question with a hint of sarcasm and a smile, hoping to receive some sort of validation.
“Don’t you think it would be weird? To sleep with your roommate?”
“It only makes sense to sleep with someone you are living with. The real issue is when you aren’t having sex with the person you are living with.” Serena didn’t know I knew she and her beau, Tim, were temporarily abstinent. The locus of their issue was Serena’s wanting live with him and to marry but Tim was in quasi “bachelorhoodum.” They were working out the chastity in their relationship, but their solidarity did not deter my moral compass. I seemed to be able to navigate my way through having sex with a “taken” woman.
Sex with Serena wasn’t weird at all. It did not take long for our bodies to be acquainted. She touched well and with purpose. She wrapped her arms around my back to pull my close and catch her rhythm. We breathed together, moved together and she wiped the droplets of sweat from my face like a mother would tears. There were aspects of our sex, however, that could have been more gracious. Dressing myself in the condom was one of the more ungainly tasks. Trying to not to notice myself roll lubricated rubber up my skin felt like trying on a suit in a department store. My father taught me every man should own a good suit and wear it well. Putting on a good suit is not like dressing in leisure jeans and T-Shirt. Effortlessly sliding the arms down and out the sleeve and tugging the collar of the suit jacket for the perfect fit around the chest and shoulders is an art. It’s especially unattractive for a man to lack the ability to wear a suit and walk in one.
“I can see how it would be a little weird, but I’m not worried about it.” I answered.
“And I don’t want to like you.” Serena cathartically confessed.
“I can see that.”
“But I do want to have sex with you.”
“I can see that.” ‘I can see that’ was my stock reply when I was hearing someone, but not listening or at least not caring. It was the same type of stock reply my father would give me every time I asked a series of nonsensical questions, to which he replied in spates of indolent “yeahs.” Ostensibly, sober-sex is sex that will lead to feeling. It is sex that does not trespass on inhibitions. For Serena, sober-sex could mean the end.
“How are you going to feel when Tim comes over?” She asked as if I should feel something.
“I’ll be fine. What happens in your relationship isn’t my business. But I’m not going to say anything, if that is what you are asking.” But of course I will say something. Not to Tim, though. Not to the Adonis reincarnate – doctoral candidate in Education, Tim. Not the Tim whose words are only slightly less attractive than his voice. Serena will talk about it, but not with Tim. Not with her boyfriend of two years. Not with the man she wants to like. But, she will talk. All women talk. In the world of mass loquacity, someone will talk. Some evidence will surface: A tweet, Facebook post or a conversation alluding to the bond Serena and I have developed over the last six months. Someone will be privy to my insecurities that manifested themselves during sex. Someone will know about the way I forged passion in my hands to touch Serena. Someone will know I was afraid to make eye contact because she would see that I already did like her. Someone will know that, to Serena, I am a fleeting thought.
The doorbell rings. It’s Tim. Serena and I were in bed latched onto each other. A legs wrapped around here, a leg wrapped around there, my hand on her waist and arms around her shoulder. There is a knock on the door. It’s Tim. We roll out of bed and tidy up the secret in my room. Serena greets Tim at the door. Their kiss, in public, is not what our private ones just were. Their kiss looked stale and antiquated. He flopped on the couch noticing the weather on my face.
“Long night John? You look as if you’re dying.”
My hangover was dying. My grape was dying. Liking Serena was a worthless commodity like having children too soon. When your feelings need pampering the heart will beat, kick, and piss feeling from your eyes and if you’re lucky enough you’ve recently cried, so the acidity of tears won’t hurt as much.
I looked over at Tim and once back at Serena realizing why Serena will not like me and why we will not have sober-sex and replied to Tim, “I can see that.”
Here we are,
Under this sunset -
Shining light
On what I am
And who you are.
The star is lulling itself into bed
Over us – the marooneded -
Marooned on the breath of a dying day,
Dipping its plum feet into sheets of maroon,
More colorful than love -More red than my bleeding tongue –
More yellow than the cowardness of my insecurities.
Under this sunset -
My blues have been squeezed from their roots.
Leaving their branches
And trickling down my cheek during my heart’s autumn.
Under this sunset
I am held hostage
This sunset will follow me wherever I go.
Painting its woe in the sky with strokes of melodramatic yawns,
Lingering around like the town drunk.
Under this sunset,
I am vivisected.
Under this sunset
Watching its colors
Making irony from all the pain of today,
Watching the hues strip me of all invulnerability,
I have lost of my cape and cowl.
Here we are
Under this sunset –
Shining light on what I am
And who you are.
Do you really need a book to tell you why sex is fun? The question presents itself as rhetorical and obvious, however, the question and answer is laudable. Sure, sex feels good; but is that the only reason why sex is fun?
Why Sex is Fun explores how the “funness” of sex goes beyond the euphoria associated with the act of sex. The beauty of Why Sex is Fun is revealed in how Diamond explains the ways in which our biological and evolutionary sex-drives all of us. Take for instance the question regarding monogamy. Why are humans monogamous? It is tempting to give love the credit for liberating us from our ancient promiscuity; however, it is our inner primate to whom we owe our gratitude for monogamy.
The portion of the book that sent my male ego and masculinity into a tailspin was a small section on the natural state of humans – is the “natural” gender of humans male or female?
Why Sex is Fun reads as if you are being taught a sex education class by Indiana Jones. Jared Diamond, who is known for his brilliant theories on the rise and fall of civilizations, does a superb job of making very scientific concepts accessible to readers. There are moments where the linguistics are overwhelmingly scientific making the book read like a sci-fi novel. But the point of the book is to explore how our sexuality is scientifically driven.
What would the dead want from us? My dead friend would want me to push back against the sorrow. My dead friend would want me to compete.
Courtney Graham, one of the more athletic, faster, and cavalier friends of mine seemed to be attracted to the dangerous. Throughout our friendship, the difference in our flight or fight response would provide many avenues for us to explore our more precarious sides. This often lead to bouts of whimsical competition (more often than not, instigated by Courtney). Once, we asked my older sister to tie us to a neighbor’s tree just to see who was the fastest at escaping. Another competition was who could climb the fence in my front yard the fastest. Each time we would up ante, going from “who could jump down the balcony the fastest,” “who can ride through pitch black tunnels the fastest” and eventually graduated to “who could run through the nursery that was guarded with the rockwilder,” of course, the fastest. I do not recall Courtney being fearful of any physical injury and I can’t think of many stunts that Courtney didn’t try and it was rarely the case that he would not be the first to attempt any physical challenge. So, when I heard rumors that one of his fists were swollen, after being shot multiple times and killed, I was inclined to believe that it came from wounding whoever pulled the trigger.
Even in understanding the socioeconomic factors that could lead a person to conform to the footsteps of crime, I can’t seem to employ myself to understand why a person would usurp the role of life-taker from death. Prior to Courtney’s murder, my thoughts on life after death and whether or not there is a deity dictating who experiences which and when had undergone metamorphosis. Before Courtney died, I only knew suffering as a Christian. Courtney’s death was the first tragedy I experienced as a nonbeliever. It had not occurred to me that I viewed death differently from the theist in my life until someone mentioned that Courtney was in a “better” place and is looking down on us from heaven. At one stage in my life, I could have agreed with the celestial bleacher premise: That all our loved one’s are sitting in heaven watching the living with jealous eyes as we play the game of life. In the past I used to believe in divine communication, but I no longer have the capacity to conflate dreams and messages from beyond the grave in such a way or confuse what is happening in my brain with what I want to happen when I no longer posses my cerebral or cardiovascular faculties. While the idea of having celestial reunions with deceased loved ones sounds appealing, I am more intrigued on forming ways to visit them in memory while I’m still alive. Propriety demanded that I keep my disagreement to myself, but I realized my atheism broke the solidarity I had in mourning with others and that my disbelief in deities would have larger implications especially when I had the honor of being able to speak at Courtney’s funeral.
Oddly, many of my Christian friends found the tragedy of experiencing death of a loved one as an atheist to be some sort of personal test that one can pass or fail. I’ve even had an individual say, “Well, the reason why you’re an atheist is because you haven’t been tested yet.” It is unclear as to what form of torture I need to survive that would justify my emancipation from theism and God, but I will say there was nothing in experiencing the murder of a dear friend that moved me enough to seek emotional or mental sanctuary in a higher power. The theist counterpoint could be summarized in two points:
1. Well, that may have been hard (referring to the murder), but wait until you lose a parent or a child.
2. Don’t you want to see your friend in heaven?
I don’t need to lose a child or parent to understand how difficult grief can be. Death is eternal and therefore grief of dead loved ones will also be eternal. You don’t learn to get “over it”, but you learn how get along with it. It becomes part of your daily shadow or acts like a distant relative of feeling that surprises emotion during holidays. After the news of Courtney’s death had been delivered to me, I didn’t know how to grieve. 24 hours in a day seemed to be too little time to do anything let alone grieve. I was unsure how to make appointments on the calendar for such a fickle client and it took plenty of time to comprehend Courtney was in fact dead. So how could I make the time to comprehend the feelings that followed the revelation? After my brother told me around 3:00am Courtney was murdered, I went to work.
It’s hard for me to imagine how it is I managed to sleep that night. It’s even more difficult to decipher what it was that made me decide to go to work. Maybe I was trying to avoid my own self pity or evade the slew of phone calls with the apologies and sorrows of others, but nevertheless I thought ignoring the knocking of grief at my door was the best way to ensure it would not intrude.
The problem with work was that I would be be in front of a computer. As short sighted as my attempt to work was, it was even more short sighted of me not to foresee what I would be inclined to do once I turned on the computer. First, check the news, then check Facebook. Again, ignorance on my part. If I truly wanted to avoid the apologies, pity, and consolation of others, Facebook, which acted as a tabloid of sorts, was the worst mirror to hold in front of my grief. I was, however, more than grateful for the many offers of ears. Especially for those who are common friends of Courtney and I and held a mutual grievence for his untimely departure. Some of these voices were a great source of strength during Courtney’s funeral. Katina and Quianna just to name a few.
The morning of funeral, I woke up, thinking of a conversation I had with Courtney’s sister. One of the greatest honors a person can have is speaking at a loved one’s funeral. I was lucky enough to be considered and I felt uneasiness doing so because that meant someone else would not be able to. I have learned grief sometimes just needs audience and I wanted everyone to be able to give grief a microphone and 15 minutes of infamy. I didn’t feel that I “deserved” to be heard more than anyone else, but I was asked by Courtney’s sister, which was a treasure that outweighed the uneasiness and helped subside the woe.
That morning, a little unsure of what I would say at the funeral, I decided to go to the church early. I happened to be the first one there that morning and decided to take a stroll around Emerald Hills park. Walking around the park, I could see footsteps Courtney and I left behind when we were kids. It felt as if I could walk those exact steps and relive the time we walked to the park to play basketball. It was a breath of old air that I hadn’t inhaled in years. Even in the presence of death, I felt the joys of boyhood I shared with Courtney. Courtney, and some of my other male friends, occasionally walked from our street to the church that sits in front of a place where I shared many kisses with my first girlfriend and is located behind the house in which I lost my virginity. Life was reminding me of its cyclical behavior. There I was, behind the location of which I indulged in life giving practices, preparing to mourn the end of life.
Once the casket was in my right hand, I could feel everything I had been holding come out. Grief was breaking down the dam that concealed my tears and seemed as if grief was looking to break me down. Crying had never hurt so much. I did associate pain with crying but not a physical pain within my eyes. It felt like tears were literally clawing through my eyes for air and scratching my pupils with their chains as they ran over my eyelids. It had become difficult to see and walk. I even lost the strength in my left arm to wipe the emancipated tears away. I did remember something my older brother told me about funerals when my aunt Charlene passed away of cancer. After I saw her body and made my way out of the church, my older brother put his arms around me and said, “This is what these funerals are for. If there was anything you wanted to say, you can say it now.” I had plenty to say to Courtney, but I knew my words would fall on death’s ears.
Sitting next to the pallbearers on the pew, all of whom I’ve known since I can remember, the energy permeating from the hurt took on a physical temperature. I felt hot and my brain went through a cycle of reflection, tears, random bouts of wondering what my speech would entail and then back to grief. I don’t think I was sure of what I was going to say when I made my way to the podium to speak, but I knew I would share the words that I discovered that helped me work through my own grieving process.
Cornel West often refers to defeating nihilism through the story of Emmett Till. Till was brutally tortured, murdered and left in a river. The sight of Till’s body was so gruesome it was advised to Emmett Till’s mother to have a closed casket during Emmett’s funeral. Till’s mother left the casket open, so the world could see how hate can reassemble itself and the human body. When Till’s mother spoke at her son’s funeral, she said, “I don’t have a minute to hate. I will pursue justice for the rest of my life.” I tried to echo this sense of justice, reflection and love when I addressed the crowd as best I could. Whether or not I was successful, I don’t know; I would have to appeal to those that heard my voice. When I have monologues with myself that repeat the words of Emmett Till’s mother, my grief, and mourning and despair transform into hope and here begins the process of closure for me. Closure really didn’t fit what is going on because I wasn’t “closing” anything. Closure is really an opening. It’s living with grief and giving it a space to live, a space to physically and emotionally express itself.
I will never know why Courtney was murdered and if I did know I’m still left with one less friend. I am still left with the unknown of why he is no longer here. I may never know who did it, but I do know regardless if Courtney’s death were by old age or disease, his death was surely coming and I still would have to find a way to withstand the woe. I can not say the things to Courtney that I wish that I could, but I do get to revisit all the things that I learned from him, which is how he will get his chance to have an eternal life. By pursuing justice in all instances, with Courtney in mind, I have the ability to revisit him through the memory of our friendship.
One of the memories I have of Courtney isn’t a memory in which he was with me. The memory is rooted in the way his name was evoked, and how it was brought up as a way I should strive to be – fearless. Although I cannot recall the context for this memory, I can remember the sentence that still resonates with me today. “You need to be like Courtney, a Die Hard.” This comparison has always been a dimly burning fire in my chest, however, that inspiration has evolved into a competitive nature as an adult. It also turned into my way of commemorating Courtney. I can literally feel what it was like to be next to him playing basketball, video games, riding bikes, or jumping fences. I do not need to be corporeally reassembled to visit departed loved ones because I can visit them through their influences on my life.
In a way, I have parts of my father and mother inside of me that are waiting for an opportunity to take the stage of my personality. These actors will stay inside of my body long after my parents have passed away and patiently stew for a chance to manifest in my own offspring. There is something poetic about this and it gives me hope about what my own children can be and how I will live eternally through them. It shouldn’t be surprising that the passing of genes is a way our removed relatives stay with us. It’s one of the first things noticed about humans when they are born and we are reminded of how much we resemble our parents until we die. I’ve been guilty of recognizing a smile or gesture in a person that I saw in their parents. I can’t even count the times I’ve said to someone, “You look just like your father or mother” or “You act like your mother or father.” This is where there is a difference in death, life, the eternal and the finite. While I will have the opportunity to live an eternal life through the passing of my DNA, Courtney, and those who unfortunately encountered the harbinger of death before bearing children, will not. This tragedy was made clear to me when I read his last tweet that said he loved his family and wanted to give his nieces and nephews some cousins.
Closure is a dull word, and the absence of it cuts deeply and painfully. Not having words in the possession of one’s tongue is different than not being able to deliver the message. My mouth is full of phrases that I wish I had delivered before Courtney passed away. I do wish I could have told him that I would have wanted his children to be common friends with mine and that I would have wanted him to be an uncle to my children so he could impart his “daredevilness” onto them.
When I think about what will happen to me after I die, I ask myself, “What did you think life would be like before you were born?” It’s a gentle reminder to myself that there isn’t much to be concerned about because when death becomes me, I will no longer know who I am. I will not know that I am dead. But, I do know while I am alive my concerns should be about what my life is like in the present and how I cannot afford to spare feelings of love, gratitude and solidarity.
We all are engaged in a dying struggle. We all are dying and in the process, we try to find ways to live. It’s embedded in our primate DNA just as it is to wonder about what will happen when we are no longer living and how our dead loved ones would want to be remembered. Those question can be answered with a reading of James Fenton’s poem “For Andrew Wood”. We, the living, are lucky in continuing and when we grieve we should grieve for what the dead have lost. And, to console the dead, we can offer life through honored memories and and celebrity. Courtney has his celebrity in my heart and his hallowed chair is rocking back and forth in my memory and I am more than confident that is what he would want.
For Andrew Wood
What would the dead want from us
Watching from their cave?
Would they have us forever howling?
Would they have us rave
Or disfigure ourselves, or be strangled
Like some ancient emperor’s slave?
None of my dead friends were emperors
With such exorbitant tastes
And none of them were so vengeful
As to have all their friends waste
Waste quiet away in sorrow
Disfigured and defaced.
I think the dead would want us
To weep for what they have lost.
I think that our luck in continuing
Is what would affect them most.
But time would find them generous
And less self-engrossed.
And time would find them generous
As they used to be
And what else would they want from us
But and honoured place in our memory,
A favourite room, a hallowed chair,
Privilege and celebrity?
And so the dead might cease to grieve
And we might make amends
And there might be a pact between
Dead friends and living friends.
What our dead friends would want from us
Would be such living friends.
I have hardly been intimate with death.
I’ve only begun to be acquainted with its shadow,
As it rears itself in shadow form to remind the living that he is walking with us and dancing to the same tune.
Indifferently tapping his feet against ours like sand against sand in an hourglass.
I did find death waiting for me one day,
Nesting in my mattress, treading over my sheets and shackling himself to my dreams.
I swallowed to untie my tongue and draw my sword to break the muzzle of anger clenched within my jaw, but as I opened the door to my mouth, I found the home of my voice vacant.
I did find my voice, though, lying on my bed with death.
I saw my voice cozy with death and sharing my pillow.
Pressing against my neck, in search of a pulse,
I could only feel the beat of a silent drum –Just words waiting for emancipation protesting from their prison.
My fingers, still pressed against my veins in solidarity, were holding onto to words regressing into mere thoughts rolling down my tongue like a barrage of tsunamis marching down my throat spreading silence throughout my body like cancer. Silence, belligerent like a drunk, stumbling wherever my heart will break the fall. Cushioning silence from the impact of the coarse pavement of my esophagus, which now resembles a field run down from the weight of words running along its pathway.
I could see, from my doorframe, my voice
Gripped by the shadow of death and there I stood, mute
Like a flame burning against a candle with no wick
Watching the liberation of speech burn and give rise to silence.
A silence lodged in my throat.
Stretching voice thin, drying voice’s extremities with grief.
Silence oxidizing my bones and rusting my rib cage.
Taking root in my diaphragm.
Watching my voice copulate with death.
My vocal chords replaced with barbwire,
I knew, then, what death felt like:
To have it consume the best of life.
Bonding itself to my voice.
Aborting words that will never rest upon ears,
That will never impregnate someone with thought.
I came to know death – reassembling himself in fear of speech:
Making words quiver into the pits of my stomach
Going where all courage goes to die.
To be turned into butterflies with timid wings.
I knew what death felt like:
A tree without roots,
Eyes without pupils
The pen with ink
Death is the writer without voice.
“Outside of the marriage context, can you think of any other rational basis, reason, for a State using sexual orientation as a factor in denying homosexuals benefits or imposing burdens on them?” – Sonya Sotamayor During Oral Arguments of Hollingsworth v. Perry
I invite you to partake in a thought experiment. For a moment, concede one of the arguments that opponents of same-sex marriage make:
The definition of marriage, the age-old bedrock social institution should not be redefined to include same-sex couples.
In withstanding the traditional definition of marriage, the following would occur: Women would have no rights over their bodies, women would have no rights in child custody, and women would have no rights to property. Women as an entity independent of the husband, would, in a legal sense, be nonexistent. Interracial marriage would be illegal, divorce would not be legal or would only be permitted in instances of adultery and marital rape would not be a crime. All of this is true and it is a shame for people to hide their religious beliefs and homophobia behind the cloak of the “traditional definition” of marriage.
For those of you that are inclined to believe that the nightmare the traditional definition of marriage provided is anecdotal, I plead for you to consider the institution as prescribed by biblical and secular law. Divorce was only granted in instances of adultery in New York during 1797. In South Carolina, divorce became legal in 1872, repealed in 1878 and legalized again in 1949.[1] The religious should find solace in this since it aligns with what is written in Matthew:8
Jesus replied, “Moses permitted you to divorce your wives because your hearts were hard. But it was not this way from the beginning.9 I tell you that anyone who divorces his wife, except for sexual immorality, and marries another woman commits adultery.”[2]
Jesus makes it very clear what the traditional definition of marriage is and where he believes the authority of the tradition of marriage comes from. Ironically, in some cases of marriage, Jesus splits from the traditional tenants of marriage from traditional Hebrew law. Jesus’ kinship for rebellion against tradition is illustrated when he changed the traditional consequences for the crime of adultery that was given in Leviticus.[3]
10 If a man commits adultery with another man’s wife—with the wife of his neighbor—both the adulterer and the adulteress are to be put to death.
It is clearly stated that adulterers should be put to death, but in the New Testament, however, Jesus has a change of heart. When questioned about the law mandating the stoning of a woman who was accused of the crime of adultery, Jesus saves the woman’s life by proclaiming “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” Even Jesus, the son of the ultimate authority, implemented new covenants for the betterment of society. However, for so many people made in his image, Christians refuse to be as accommodating as their dignitary and result to taking their holy book a la carte and forget passages such as 1 Samuel 16:7:
“The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”
So, again, I can grant you the argument of preserving the traditional definition of marriage, but the definition would have to read something like this: A contract relinquishing all property rights, physical rights, emotional rights, of one woman to one man. As morbid as an institution as this sounds, the law seemed to coincide with that “traditional” definition especially in the case of Packard vs. Packard.
Elizabeth Packard had made a habit of challenging her husband, Theophilus Packard, during bible study. Theophilus, interpreting Elizabeth’s intellectual strength and neglect of the bible’s doctrine of original sin as insanity, decided to have his wife put in an insane asylum. When two physicians entered the Packard home in 1860 and charged Elizabeth with insanity because of a racing pulse, Elizabeth refused to go voluntarily or without trail. Theophilus quickly let his wife know her legal status in society:[4]
You are not a citizen, while a married woman, you are a legal nonentity, without even a soul in law. In short, you are dead as to any legal existence, while a married woman, and therefore have no legal protection as a married woman.
Elizabeth Packard would later become incarcerated in an asylum. Eventually, Elizabeth’s sanity was proven and she was released from the asylum. This may present itself as a silver lining, but, dear reader, do not be fooled. Upon her release from the asylum, Elizabeth, lacking custody rights, was compelled to live with her husband to see her children. After Elizabeth’s return, her husband locked her in the children’s nursery. Elizabeth escaped by delivering a note through a slit in the window, which was later delivered to Judge Charles Starr, who ordered a trial to determine Elizabeth’s sanity. The case was short and deliberation only took seven minutes. Elizabeth Packard was found to be sane, but would not have access to custody of her children and did not have rights over earnings, even after she moved to Chicago and wrote books and pamphlets as a way to make money.[5] How could anyone with an ounce of morality or concern for marriage profess to want to return to marriage in its “traditional” form? How could someone make the case, as Charles Cooper, the lawyer arguing against same-sex marriage, made during oral arguments of Hollingsworth V. Perry, that the definition of the traditional social institution should not be fundamentally changed? Mr. Cooper posed the moral dilemma in the form of, ironically enough, a woman voting in 2008:
… With the question before her whether or not this age-old bedrock social institution should be fundamentally redefined, and knowing that there’s no way that she or anyone else could possibly know what the long-term implications of — of profound redefinition of a bedrock social institution would be.
In America, we’ve tried this experiment before and we do know what redefining the bedrock social institution has done for marriage: Women earning property rights, women having a say over their bodies, and people of mixed races being ably to marry – just to name a few.
It is plausible that someone is against same-sex marriage but not for the reason of changing the traditional definition of marriage. It’s possible that one could support the “one man/one woman” argument on the grounds of the “purpose” of marriage, which according to Mr. Cooper is:[6]
The concern is that redefining marriage as a genderless institution will sever its abiding connection to its historic traditional procreative purposes, and it will refocus, refocus the purpose of marriage and the definition of marriage away from the raising of children and to the emotional needs and desires of adults, of adult couples.
In fact, it is true, as the people of California believe that it still is true, that the natural procreative capacity of opposite-sex couples continues to pose vitally important benefits and risks to society, and that’s why marriage itself is the institution that society has always used to regulate those heterosexual, procreative — procreative relationships.
When I first heard this, I realized Mr. Cooper’s argument is strikingly similar to a passage in Malachi 2:15:
“Has not the Lord made them one? In flesh and spirit they are his. And why one? Because he was seeking godly offspring. So guard yourself in your spirit, and do not break faith with the wife of your youth.”
Mr. Cooper and Malachi seem to be combining procreation and raising children when they are, in fact, separate entities. Is it to be assumed that all created beings will be reared by their creator(s)? This assumption did not come to fruition during the traditional stages of marriage when physicians did not know microbes caused infection, nor was this assumption true in mid-nineteenth-century America when at least 4 percent of deceased Southern and 2 percent of Northern women died in childbirth.[7]Whether or not someone is married does not increase their chances of having children, and one’s ability to procreate is not an indicator of how well that same individual will fare at raising the offspring he or she procreates. A quick comparison of the maternal mortality rate (In 1915, the maternal mortality rate was 607.9 deaths per 100,000 live births for the birth registration area. In 2003, the maternal mortality rate was 12.1deaths per 100,000 live births in the United States)[8] will show you that the institution of marriage did not facilitate the odds of surviving childbirth.
In the words of Mr. Cooper, as elicited via questioning by Justice Sotomayor, the essential thrust of the anti same-sex argument is:
Same-sex couples and opposite-sex couples are not similarly situated because opposite-sex couples can procreate, same-sex couples cannot, and the State’s principle interest in marriage is in regulating procreation.
Later, during oral arguments, in an almost matter-of-factly way, Mr. Cooper adds a quasi sub-argument, which is whether or not redefining marriage to include same-sex couples would advance the “interest of marriage.”
The correct question is whether or not redefining marriage to include same-sex couples would advance the interests of marriage
This argument was interesting due to the fact that the comparison to opposite-sex marriages was never made. Mr. Cooper could have said, “Redefining marriage to include same-sex couples would advance the interest the same as opposite-sex couples.” Personally, I think Mr. Cooper knows the argument can be made that same-sex marriage actually does further the interest of marriage in the same ways opposite-sex marriage has benefitted the interest of the traditional definition of marriage. Opposite-sex marriage was able to redefine the definition of traditional institution of marriage in terms of the gender roles women and men were forced into by virtue of “traditional definition” of marriage. The interest of marriage was pushed forward by making the relationship between a man and woman more egalitarian, by providing women with property rights in the death of the husband, and providing women with the ability to have custody of her children Today, it seems as if people assume those rights were always available to women, however, they are the product of redefining what constituted a marriage and the gender roles in it.
In the case of raising children, the process of adoption is more concerned with regulating the raising of children than marriage is. Regardless of marital status, anyone can have children with whomever they wish, but adoption is not a first come first serve process. The argument against same-sex marriage for the “sake of the children” does not hold weight because same-sex couples can already adopt in California. Even if it were not the case, how many of you are willing to put your parenting under trial? Imagine what the world would look like if the right to have children were distributed based on the speculation of the type of parenting the child could receive. How many of you would be willing to tell a struggling single woman, for example, that people that share her situation have had a difficult time parenting, and she should, therefore, not be able to have children? While it goes without saying that two men or two women cannot procreate, one man and one woman can also be genetically robbed of procreation. An easy way to picture the procreation fallacy is to imagine an island populated only by men and women who identify as gay. Would the island be left with the remains of what would be known as the last humans? Would the species slowly dwindle? No. Who you enjoy having sex with does not determine your ability to reproduce offspring, and one’s ability to procreate is not an indicator of how well that same individual will fare at raising the offspring he or she creates. Also, with a population around 7 billion people, the survival of our species and its growing population will not be infringed upon. In fact, our large population has had many negative implications on our economies and nature itself.
Those opposed to same-sex marriage on the basis of religious authority have no ground to stand on. How many of you defending the traditional definition of marriage are living within the traditional definition of your religion? Beyond that, all religious beliefs and practices are not protected under the law. Polygamous marriage, female genital mutilation, and denying children medical care based on the power of prayer are a few. So, do we dare revert back to marriage as it was defined in its traditional sense? Leaving women without a “soul” in the law? Leaving interracial marriages separate from their endogamous (the custom of marrying within the same ethnicity) counterparts? It seems quite simple. Your right to take the definition of marriage a la carte does not negate my ability to do the same. You do not have a right to deny my right to marry whomever I please by evoking the “traditional” definition of marriage you feel comfortable with. The definition of marriage has evolved with respect to equality since it’s implementation as a social institution, so it seems with same-sex marriage, it should do the same, which is the tradition of marriage worth conserving.
[1] On South Caroline and divorce see Phillips, Roderick. Untying the Knot: A Short History of Divorce. Cambridge [U.K.: Cambridge UP, 1991. 142-43. Print.
[3] For New Testament rules regarding marriage see 1 Corinthians 7:1-15 For the New Testament on the unmarried see 1 Corinthians 7:25-40. For laws regarding adultery in the Old Testament see Leviticus 20: 10
[4] On Elizabeth Packard’s abduction see – Packard, E. P. W., and Sophia N. B. Olsen. “My Abduction.” The Prisoners’ Hidden Life ; Or, Insane Asylums Unveiled as Demonstrated by the Report of the Investigating Committee of the Legislature of Illinois, Together with Mrs. Packard’s Coadjutors’ Testimony. Chicago: A.B. Case, Printer, 1868. 43-44. Print.
[5] For Elizabeth Packard and Theophilus Packard see – Abbott, Elizabeth. “Divorce and Gener.” A History of Marriage: From Same Sex Unions to Private Vows and Common Law, the Surprising Diversity of a Tradition. New York: Seven Stories, 2011. 457-65. Print.
[7] Abbott, Elizabeth. A History of Marriage: From Same Sex Unions to Private Vows and Common Law, the Surprising Diversity of a Tradition. New York: Seven Stories, 2011. Print.
[8] Hoyert DL. Maternal mortality and related concepts. National Center for Health
Dear Today,
It is a delight to walk under your beauty
And open my eyes to your youthful breath,
Illuminating my windowpane.
Today,
If I expect you to make amends for yesterday, then,
Call me a fool.
Here you are:
Divorced from yesterday’s misfortunes and self-doubt,
Divided by a river of stars.
Today,
My life is tucked and clasped in your palms,
Buried in the soil of yesterday,
Watered with dreams of you,
Hoping to sprout between your sheen.
Today,
If the sun could speak to you of yesterday,
It wouldn’t say anything new.
I confess to be a prisoner of its knowledge,
But I am freed from its chains and
Cured of the infectious disease of yesterday’s infidelities to my good fortune.
Today,
If my eyes cling to the darkness of yesterday,
At first glimpse of your radiance,
I will end the affair.
Despite, the similarities you share with your elder,
I will not profess the two of you to be in cahoots.
Today, you stand on the grandeur of your uniqueness.
Today,
Unaware of the revelation you will present to me,
I will explore your flare without shade.
Although, I am blind to what you will bring,
I smile for the gift of life you have given me
Today,
As you change into your evening dress,
Wrapping my reflections about you in a cocoon of hindsight,
Drifting into night,
Revealing stars lolling about your shadow,
Like frozen celestial raindrops that have not fallen into existence.
I give myself to you,
The Martyr for my growth.
Dear Today,
You will die,
But, even in death and darkness, dressed in black,
The day still belongs to you.
And if you so choose to take me with you,
There is no other day I’d rather fall asleep with.
