There my fiancée Lori and I were, feeling blessed and relaxed, watching the sun set into the ocean at my beautiful hometown in Brazil, after having exchanged engagement rings and promised to each other that we would spend the rest of our lives together. But suddenly a wave of fear and anxiety washed over me. I couldn't help but question whether we were ready to face the formidable odds ahead of us. Should we have taken more time to consider how we would respond to the criticism of some family members, colleagues and even strangers who still believe that two people of the same sex should not have the right to get married? Maybe we should have waited to share our cherished dreams of having a big wedding, as well as our desire to have children, with folks who might not be so thrilled about our commitment.
Why was I so petrified by the possibility of getting married instead of savoring that unforgettable moment with Lori? I had finally found my soulmate, a sweet, loving partner with similar values, dreams and dance moves! We were both professionally and emotionally stable. We had been in a monogamous, committed relationship for four years and truly wanted to celebrate our special day with beloved friends and our families. We were already saving to buy a home where we could plant our garden and raise our kids, in addition to all the cheesy clichés that come with dreaming up a shared future with someone you adore. We had even already started researching all options for starting a family. What was wrong with me?
After sharing my concerns with my bride-to-be, we worked hard to unpack what was coming up for me. It turns out that although I've always identified as bisexual or queer, the loss of my heterosexual privilege before the law had prevented me from fully embracing this exciting new phase of my life. If I were not already a permanent resident, for instance, I would be in danger of being forced into exile, away from my new family, because legally, Lori would not be able to sponsor me for citizenship. I was also terrified by the idea that our unborn children might not be protected (or even recognized as our own) depending on which state line we crossed or which country we chose to live in, not to mention the other 1,000 federal benefits that are tied to this state-sanctioned institution, which we would not be granted, thanks to DOMA.
My fiancée and I were now embarking on a series of late-night conversations that revolved more around dull legal briefings than exciting wedding plans. Should we marry in New York, have a civil union in New Jersey or become domestic partners in California? Should we adopt a child or use assistive reproductive technology? Would my dual citizenship be transferable to our kids? And where are the inclusive schools and welcoming congregations? Which employers offer health care benefits for same-sex families? How would we get our families to understand how complicated it is to form, nurture and protect this new family that we were already creating? MORE!
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