It all started with our wedding: the be-medaled uniforms on one side, the prochoice buttons on the other. Nope, nope, it started with the intervention, the dinner at which my friends planned to confront the self-delusional rationalization that I, the leftwing columnist, had contrived for accepting the proposal of a Marine. A Marine colonel, no less. Problem was, it turned out they liked him.
And he met my political litmus tests: He is prochoice, figures sexual orientation is irrelevant in battle, and actually gives thought to California’s unbridled ballot measures. Our marriage proceeded, and we’ve been playing house ever since, despite occasionally cancelling out each other’s votes.
Then, when Prop. 8 passed in 2008, my response was to staple a sign to our front gate: I DO Support the Freedom to Marry.
My husband came home, and the conversation went something like this: