Disappearing Acts

Have you ever sat in a room full of people but felt that, if questioned the next day, no one in the audience would recall you being there? Or, maybe you heard something so incongruous and while you thought you were shouting at the top of your lungs to contest it, there was actually no sound emanating from your mouth? If the answer to either of these questions is yes, then you will know what it was like for me today at the 40-day memorial service organized by Cindy's family in Virginia Beach.

According to tradition, this type of service is held 40 days after a death, mirroring the period between the resurrection and ascension of Christ. About twenty of us traveled down from the Washington, DC-area to attend the service. We had no idea what to expect.

The priest began his homily talking about the importance of home, family, and marriage. When he got more specific about Cindy's life, he said that although she was not "married" and did not have a "home," she still lived a good life (apparently a home is made when a woman marries a man and has at least 1 child). During the homily, I turned to my friend and said, "Uh, didn't Cindy and I have a home?" I mean, we never had a kid, but we had 2 godchildren, a niece and a nephew, a dog, a cat, and about 11 koi fish in our pond. And, we may not have been married according to the law, but I'm pretty sure we lived like one. I mean, she often got mad at me for scratching the wood floors, for not drying off my feet before stepping onto the bath mat, and for always getting lost while driving. That's standard operating procedure for most married couples, right?

Throughout the homily, I was shaking my head left and right. This couldn't be happening to me. Why couldn't I stand up and shout, "She did have a HOME and it was with ME!" I mean I used to be a Lesbian Avenger, but here I was sitting quietly and watching my existence for the last several years get erased. These kinds of disappearing acts were a popular theme in melodramatic gay movies from the 80s, but they could not be re-occurring in this day and age, right?

I am sure the priest asked some basic questions of the family before today, but it was obvious he had no idea who I was to Cindy. I was not mentioned during the intercessions, nor was I acknowledged by the family during the part where you say "peace be with you" to your neighbors. I might as well have been a stranger who walked in off the street to sit in on the memorial service of a random person.

People tell me, "Oh Jen, don't worry. No one can take away who you were to Cindy. No one can erase the great memories you had together." But, I want more than just the mental relics. Why couldn't I have also had public and legal acknowledgment of who Cindy and I were to each other for all these years? And when it comes down to it, it's a cop out to only accept our own memories. Memories are not enough anymore. This is about a public consciousness. This is about altering our definitions of family, home, and marriage. This is about expanding the vernacular.