When words are not enough…
While the California Supreme Court has recognised the constitutionality of same-sex marriage, this week the ACT passed its watered-down civil union laws. Numerous attempts by the ACT to introduce progressive civil unions with ceremonies were overridden by the federal government, and finally the ACT caved to a pared back model, which doesn’t ‘mimic marriage’. Too little, too late. On Monday morning there were some brave folks that queued up outside the registrar’s office to sign the paperwork as soon as possible, families with kids in tow. Deserving so much more than this.
I was glad that Lo and I had not waited for our local laws, how sad we would have been with this model, that involves a ‘ceremony’ by the registrar in the government office, but does not allow for any ceremonies of substance. We know the kind of Clayton’s ceremony they’re talking about. The words above are the vows we were allowed to say when we got legally hitched in the British High Commission the afternoon before our proper, but legally non-existant, wedding. Nothing more than these words, in a waiting room, with rows of plastic chairs, a dead pot plant, and a lot of hilarity. We, and the close circle of family and friends present, actually had a lot of fun with the crazy environment, and made it our own. We crowded into that room, Lo & I having decided on our outfits about 30 minutes before, our guests a mix of having dashed straight from work, or wandering in from a day of sightseeing, tourists with video camera in hand. As we read our ‘vows’ and signed our certificate, our guests clapped and cheered and commented ironically on ‘how romantic’ it was.
It kinda was in a way. Romantic in the way that my parents, who have been married for 47 years, got hitched at 18 at the registy office, my mother in a grey skirt suit, a small and random selection of guests, with key players missing, and a small spray of freesias. If a ceremony like that can lay the bedrock for 47 years of a successful partnership it must be doing something right.
It helped that we took ourselves seriously the next day, and had a proper wedding, with words that meant something to us, with proper frocks, flowers, music, a priest, a church, a three tiered cake with the two brides cake-topper I had pestered Lo for so much, and all the signifiers that said that this was a capital W wedding, that demanded we be taken seriously. And our guests did. Ask any of our guests what they saw that day, and they would say a wedding. And the way they treat our relationship now is as a marriage, to the point of introducing me, to my shock and pomo feminist discomfort, as ‘Lo’s wife’. Lo’s 78 year old grandmother said ours was the best wedding she’d ever been to. And that’s saying something. I am not sure where our civil partnership certificate is, probably under a pile of bank statements in the study, but as for the memory of our non-legally recognised wedding ceremony? They’re still talking about it.
