In which California really hits home

Although I’ve of course been outraged about the passage of California’s Proposition 8 since November 4, Saturday was the first day that I realized the decision could affect me personally. I’m from California originally, and I was home visiting and talking to a friend about how the woman I was sitting next to on a plane for almost five hours thought, even as we landed, that I was male. She had asked me what I do, I said I was in college, she asked me my major, I said I’m undecided but I’m leaning towards sociology, and she said (rather strangely, actually), “That’s great! You can come home every day and tell your wife about all the interesting people you’ve met!”

Of course, this woman had failed to grasp the basic concept of sociology, but many people don’t know what it is; what I told my friend was that it puzzled me that she had sat next to me for five hours and she’d still come out with the oh-so-gendered “your wife.” My friend joked, “Well, you know, maybe she did mean ‘your wife.'” I shook my head. “Not in this state,” I said. “Not in this fucking state.”

And that was the point when I realized that Prop. 8 isn’t just about all the gay moms and dads out there, or even young couples who are still ten years older than me. It became clear to me that when I decided to take this fight seriously, I’m fighting for my own self-preservation just as much as that of a random jumble of letters (L, G, B, T, etc.) that somehow come together to signify a disenfranchised community.

I’m fighting for the right for a woman to say that to me on the plane, see what I am, and still mean “your wife.”

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