The Day Love Became Legal

As the Supreme Court reconsiders marriage equality, I remember the day Virginia said yes.

It’s possible that the US Supreme Court will rule tomorrow (October 8, 2025) about whether they’ll take up Kim Davis v. David Ermold, a case that challenges same-sex marriage rights by asking the Supreme Court to reconsider Obergefell v. Hodges. Even with this ultra-conservative court, I’d be surprised if they agree to hear the case (although they decided yesterday to take up a case, Chiles v Salazar, about the horrific practice of conversion therapy. I don’t feel as hopeful about the outcome of that one).

Why do I feel more positive about Davis v. Ermold? First, there’s no disagreement among lower courts about Obergefell v. Hodges. In addition, Kim Davis’s petition centers on a procedural issue rather than the constitutionality of same-sex marriage itself. And finally, even Justices Thomas and Alito, who wrote in 2020 that Obergefell created “a problem” for people with religious objections, stopped short of calling for it to be overturned outright.

However, it’s also true that, according to the Movement Advancement Project, twenty-four (24) states still have both statutory and constitutional amendment bans on same-sex marriage, three (3) states have constitutional amendment bans only, and five (5) states have statutory (i.e., legislative) bans only. That’s thirty-two (32) states that, if given their druthers, would ban our marriage.

Only nineteen (19) states, (plus D.C.) have affirmatively codified marriage equality in state law or their state constitution as of today: California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Hawaii, Illinois, Maine, Massachusetts, Maryland, Minnesota, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, Oregon, Rhode Island, Vermont, and Washington.

These numbers don’t make me feel safe. They don’t reassure me that, in this political climate, our marriage will stand. We once thought Roe was settled law, too. But instead, the Court ruled in 2022 that “the authority to regulate abortion is returned to the people and their elected representatives.” Is that’s what’s in the cards for Obergefell? And, even if we’re somehow immune to changes in the law because we’re already married, will future generations have the freedom to love that we currently enjoy?

If your state is not listed above as already safe, I encourage you to join with organizations such as the National LGBTQ Task Force and the Human Rights Campaign who are demanding that same-sex marriage be codified before it’s too late. And yes, that includes Wendy’s and my home state of Virginia. In the words of Urvashi Vaid who’s been called “the most prolific LGBTQ organizer in history, “There are things to do.” And I’d add, “It’s time to do them!”

If you’re looking for inspiration, watch this new, short documentary about Urvashi Vaid: https://www.therearethingstodo.com/

In the meantime, I want to share with you a story that happened eleven years ago today, October 7, 2014, when marriage equality came to Virginia. If you’ve read my memoir, Living Into The Truth: A Daughter’s Journey of Discovery, you’ll be familiar with this piece. If you haven’t read it, I hope you enjoy this slightly modified excerpt (you can purchase the full memoir wherever books are sold).

Closet—Do Not Enter

Wandering through the cluttered aisles of an antique mall I almost never visited, my phone lit up. A text from my friend Jeanne burst onto the screen in all caps: “THE SUPREME COURT JUST LET IT STAND—SAME-SEX MARRIAGE IS LEGAL IN VIRGINIA!” For a moment, the world around me froze. Over the past decade, one state after another had opened the door to marriage equality, but Wendy and I had promised each other we’d wait until we could marry right here, in our home state. We hadn’t expected that day to come anytime soon. And yet, there it was—history, glowing in the palm of my hand.

As soon as I heard the news, and before I could chicken out, I called Wendy at work—not something I often did, especially around lunch time. As a high school librarian, she usually had a library full of students and no time to talk. I thought she might make an exception for this call, though. When she picked up the phone, the impatience in her voice told me that I’d better get right to it, so I did.

“You wanna get married in the morning?” I asked with an impish lilt.

Her pause was palpable as she digested my out-of-the-blue question. The library sounds muted for an instant. I felt my heart skip a beat.

“Yes!” she said, her enthusiasm unmistakable. “Oh, my God! I can’t believe it!” Her words spilled out in a rush as if she’d been holding her breath. “But I gotta go,” she continued. I could hear students’ animated voices rising in the background. “We’ll talk when I get home.” And with that, the line went dead.

I stared at the phone in my hand, my face reflecting back on the now black screen. The person I saw there was no longer a secretive, closeted young woman afraid of exposing herself to the world. Instead, I saw a confident, almost-60-year-old lesbian who refused to let others define her or be influenced by their judgements.

My parents taught me how to live in the closet by their example. Their secrets about their children’s parentage and the shame surrounding it instilled in me the feeling that I couldn’t live my life in the open, that hiding my true self, especially those parts that others might object to, was a prerequisite to a happy, or at least safe, life.

All that was behind me now. I could no longer keep my secrets, and I would no longer keep theirs. When I met Wendy in 2009 and we fell in love, all pretense was gone. She lived her life out in the open—at work, with her parents, her church community, and her extended family. Even if I was inclined to return to the closet, which I wasn’t, we made a mutual decision to live our life as publicly as we could. Wendy has too much integrity to cover up who she is, and when we became a couple, we celebrated it with all who knew us, regardless of how they felt about our love.

Less than two years after meeting, we did what was unthinkable for most of my life—we held a church wedding. With the brief exception of sitting around a campfire at my friends’ ceremony in Long Island many years before where I imagined the two parts of me—the visible and the closeted parts reuniting into one being who lived and loved openly—marriage, especially legal marriage, was never in my vision for myself. Why wish for something I couldn’t have? But even more central was the question that had driven so much of my life: why stand out, why show people who I was in such a visible way, especially because they might not like it?

Although I had been out at work and in my public life for fifteen or more years at that point, standing and declaring my love in front of a church filled with people still seemed a step too far. All that changed when I met Wendy. I finally felt ready to take that next step, or, in this case, giant leap, into married life.

Our wedding represented so much more than the typical commitment ceremony. The 150 people in attendance included Wendy’s family, her parents, brother, aunts, and cousins and the largest gathering of my family ever assembled, with my brother, nephews and nieces, and cousins on my mom’s side who I hadn’t seen in years. My work colleagues from as far away as Seattle and Wendy’s from across town came to celebrate with us, and of course, several church friends from our Unitarian Universalist congregation where we held the wedding joined us.

The late Rev. Jeanne Pupke (co-officiant), me, Wendy, and the late Rev. Dr. Hope Johnson (co-officiant) after our 2010 church wedding

The ceremony and reception that followed was a public statement that our love could not be denied by anyone, legally or not. It was an affirmation of the community that held us, and it was a call to them to help us survive the inevitable discrimination and prejudice we would experience in our lives together. In lieu of wedding presents, we asked guests to donate to Equality Virginia or the Gay Community Center of Richmond (Now Diversity Richmond) raising over $6,000 for these two organizations. We wanted to help make it possible for all people, not just us, to celebrate their love. Little did we know that four years later, the world would tilt on its axis, and marriage equality would be available to us in Virginia.

Making It Legal

When we approached the Henrico County Clerk’s office the morning after my romantic lunchtime proposal to apply for a marriage license, we had no idea what to expect. We arrived before they opened and waited in the parking lot for a few minutes before excitement and nervousness got the better of us. Surprised to find the county administration building open and people already passing through security, we took our place in line. No one entering looked like a gay or lesbian couple on a similar mission. We were the first and only. At least as far as we could tell.

As we reached the clerk’s office on the second floor, Wendy and I looked at each other and smiled before Wendy pulled the door open.

“We’re here to apply for a marriage license,” one of us—I don’t remember which one—said to the woman behind the counter.

“Fill out those forms,” she replied, pointing to a table with pink and blue forms secured on various colored clipboards. “It doesn’t matter which one you complete. Either color will work,” she went on. I could see the smirk on Wendy’s face and feel the one on my own.

Being the butchier of the two of us, and because I’ve never liked pink, I picked up a clipboard with a blue form. Wendy, who loves pink, gravitated to that one.

The office had gotten a little busier in the few minutes it took us to complete the forms, so as we approached the counter again, this time with forms in hand, we waited behind someone dressed in a suit, probably an attorney. When he completed his business, we handed our pink and blue forms to the clerk. She accepted them without a smile, and I wondered how she felt about this new wrinkle to her work, specifically, how she felt about same sex couples getting married. I couldn’t help it. I’d spent a lifetime wondering how people perceived me—judged me—and just because I lived my life out in the open now, didn’t mean that worry disappeared.

For the next several minutes, we waited while she attempted, with wrinkled brow and pursed lips, to plug our information into their computer system. Two other women hovered over her shoulder, watching her every keystroke. Perceiving our apprehension, one of them attempted to reassure us, “The computers haven’t been updated yet, and we have to cover for her when she goes to lunch, so we have to know what to do.”

We nodded. So maybe the stress-filled faces were just that—people trying to figure out how to do their jobs now that they were being asked to do something new. That’s what I wanted to believe.

When the clerk finally handed us our license, she didn’t say congratulations. In fact, she didn’t say anything. Wendy took the license, and we turned to leave—Wendy to her left toward the door we came in and me, for some unexplained reason, to my right. As I approached the door in front of me and reached for the handle, I stopped short. Printed in bold letters at about eye level were the words, “CLOSET” and beneath that “DO NOT ENTER.” Without skipping a beat, I said, apparently loudly enough that others heard, “Whoops, wrong door. I just came out of there.”

People burst out laughing. From the resolute businesspeople in line to the harried clerks behind the counter, people laughed. We did too. The tension that permeated the room just moments before broke apart as if a glitter bomb had exploded above us and rained down on everyone.

We left the building still laughing, our eyes wet, knowing that on their first full day of granting same-sex marriage licenses in Virginia, the staff at the clerk’s office would have a story to tell around the dinner table that night.

“That’s going to be something they’ll remember,” one man shouted across the parking lot as he waved his hand at us.

I was glad to bring other people joy on our joyous day!

Wendy and me with marriage license in hand

An hour later, we stood in the botanical garden we loved, illuminated by late-morning light spilling through the trees. Six dear friends surrounded us—one smiling from an iPad—and in just six minutes, it was done. It felt as if our church wedding four years earlier had paused mid-vow, and this was the moment we finally finished it.

This time, when we kissed, the light that bathed us seemed to stretch far beyond the Commonwealth of Virginia—reaching toward every place where love still waited to be recognized.