Have you ever noticed how chunks of time sometimes pass during which absolutely nothing remarkable happens?  Then out of nowhere comes a deluge of aberrations that eradicates any sense of monotony.   The trick is not to get stuck in the seeming unfairness of these times. 

This past Friday morning began like any in my not so routine existence.   I awoke early, brimming with optimism and peace, to finalize my preparations for our DeVOTE Campaign session with the profoundly brilliant and hilarious duo, Frangela.  These ladies have always been fervently and actively in favor of civil rights for all, team spouting wit and wisdom via their one-of-a-kind freestyle blend of comedy, conscience, and current events.   I can’t wait to publish their presentation, during some of which I hid my face behind a piece of paper coincidentally listing Deuteronomy’s absurd sexual prohibitions because I was laughing so hard and I didn’t want to distract them.  I should have known better.    Anyhow, if there is one thing collecting inspiring stories from people who champion equal rights with all their hearts does for me, it is that I am always left believing in the inherent goodness of humanity.  

Afterwards, we expressed our tremendous gratitude to Frangela and sent them on their way to their afternoon commitments.  Me and my DeVOTE compatriots, Lisa D., and Mel B., as well as Miss Pickles the Hurricane Dog, headed off to lunch to kick start our first Los Angeles Pride weekend.  We ate at a café on Larchmont, which I will not name because Lisa found a worm in her Halibut.  She remained calm, happily accepted a full reimbursement for her meal, and strategized a once off with Bulemia in our home toilet to rid herself of her mounting nausea. 

Back at our place, Melinda cuddled up on the couch to wait for a friend who would imminently arrive at Union Station.  Trying to psych herself up to stick a finger down her throat, Lisa, terribly phobic of barfing and also crabs, curled up with her.  I gathered my computer to indulge in a free-writing session on all I have learned about my creative process since I stopped relying on marijuana as a crutch during bouts of writer’s block.  I’d come up with the idea while cherishing a nearly orgasmic release of several lemonade refills only moments earlier. 

Just as I sat down to get started, however, I heard a noise.  Initially, I thought that a mouse had fallen victim to one of the traps speckling my house.  I rose and approached the hallway, unsure if the grating sound was coming from the kitchen or the utility room.  I veered right towards the utility room, where instead of a struggling vermin I came upon two girls attempting to saw through the screen in my back door with a knife. 

I’m not sure how many of you have ever come upon someone trying to break into your home, but what I can tell you is that it took me a good few extra seconds to process what was going on because the perpetrators were girls.  The cutter, a trashy bird with blonde hair so fried she looked like she frequented McDonalds for hot oil treatments, froze in shock.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I barked. 

“Oh hey,” she acted all innocent.  “We were just trying to get into the utility room.”  Blondie and the plumpish platinum Filipino behind her sporting what looked like tailor made wears for the pre-maturely full-grown third grader, smiled anxiously. 

“No you weren’t.  You were trying to break into my fucking house!” I roared.

“NO NO NO!” They whispered, desperate to convince me, “We live downstairs.  The police are here and we just needed somewhere to hide.”  I was hardly surprised they were from downstairs.  For the last six months, we have endured round-the-clock chaos, apparently the drill when neighbors with the notorious Daisy, a floozy with an open door policy for any cathemeral creep with a need for speed.  I have lost count of how many jiggly jaws, white goo framed lips, and Hatchet Face look-alikes I have seen zip zapping into and out of her flat.    

 I turned around and hollered inside, “Call 911.  These girls are trying to break into our house!”   The bafflement on Lisa and Melinda’s faces was obvious as they approached to see what I really meant.  I exclaimed, “I’m serious.” 

Before I knew it, Lisa was hot on my tail as we flew down the stairs after them hoochies.  It all happened without a second thought.  I remember catching sight of Lisa over my shoulder and hearing one of the girls regret, “Shit! We’re locked out” as they bolted passed Daisy’s back door. 

Nearly tumbling as I dialed 911, I cursed myself for not having tied my shoes, for then I would have absolutely caught up to them.  I may be a stocky little white girl, but that all changes when I sprint.  Lisa surpassed me.  I hated to do it but I ceased running to report to the emergency operator.  Already I was going to sound like a porn star in dire straights thanks to my athletic induced asthma.  It burned extra that as I gave my story, huffing and puffing, I noticed that one of the girls had abandoned her sandals on the sun-soaked sidewalk so she could run faster.   Why hadn’t I thought of that?

I hung up and stood on the corner of 4^th and Alexandria glancing around for any sign of Lisa.  A police car rolled up.  I waved and identified myself as the caller.  The officer instructed me to remain by my house while he prowled the vicinity for the girls, whom I would soon learn that Lisa had located hiding between parked cars.  Perhaps hoping not to be barefoot and on the lamb, they reiterated to her that they really hadn’t meant to break into our house.  One squealed that there was a warrant out for the other’s arrest and they didn’t want to be busted by the cops visiting Daisy’s unit.   

            “Haven’t you ever fucking heard of knocking?” Lisa had asked.  Upon second thought, they both realized we had no intention of offering them refuge, and that a mob of badges was imminent.  So they ran, and Lisa abandoned chase.  After all, it finally sunk in that they had a knife. 

For what felt like eons, I paced in front of the three garages just outside the gate to my complex.  Finally, an indistinguishable white Toyota Corolla circa 1992 veered halfway into the driveway and came to an abrupt halt.  Two ordinary thirty-somethings befitting the drab set of wheels burst from the cockpit, asked me if my name was Brynn, and proceeded to identify themselves as police officers.  

Out of the corner of my eye, I recognized a tweaker pad regular strolling my way.  With my confidence boosted in the presence of two cops, I waited for him to get close then launched into a tirade accusing him of knowing the identity of the girls who had tried to slash their way into my house.  He pretended to have just gotten out of the slammer after a three-week stint and to have no idea what I was talking about.  I insisted that he was full of shit.  The cops waited for his retort.  He clearly labored over his choice; Lie a little bit, or lie a lot.  Finally, he admitted to being on his way to visit ‘a friend in the building’.  The cops asked him who his friend was.  He caved -- Daisy, the not so grand dame of the tweaker pad.  I resisted a great big ‘I told you so!’, instead relishing in his being detained until further notice.   

Before long, I lost count of how many police officers were on the premise.  It felt like they were everywhere.  For once, none of the undercover officers were donning a plaid shirt and jeans.  One of them could easily have been cast as a Vietnam Vet turned off duty prison guard.  An officer permitted Daisy’s friend to hang out under the shade of our garage along with Lisa and I.  I was disgusted.  He tried his best to be on our side, to really have no idea what was going on, and to sympathize, because some of Daisy’s peeps were truly crazy.  The cops warned us not to talk to him.  A little piece of me wondered if I could trick him into divulging information.   Another piece of me contemplated addressing the utter lack of tact he and his friends so shamelessly practiced despite the high risk of their undertakings. 

I thought of myself, 10 years earlier, furious at the rejection that greeted me outside my closet and sometimes too eager to rebel with the help of almost any drug that was put in front of me.   I wondered if at any point in my life, I might have ended up in that downstairs unit, and I realized, no fucking way.   In my few dealings with meth, I never even remotely enjoyed the sensation of having fast-tracked a gallon of JOLT into my veins, and I sure as hell was never tempted by the way every sweaty, wide-eyed, mosquito-eque meth addict, past or present, I’ve ever come across permanently emanates paranoia. 

Having had enough of Daisy’s friend trying to sweet talk us, Lisa and I walked inside the gates to my house only to realize that the cops were attempting to extract the tenants out of the tweaker pad but to no avail.  We had to give our story to so many different officers that my mouth was getting dry.  At one point, I even got caught trying to decipher breasts under one officer’s bullet proof vest, or not really trying to decipher breasts but realizing that the vests must be really uncomfortable for well endowed women officers.   I wondered if this was an issue in the world of law enforcement, but of course decided not to inquire. 

Between the moments of exhilaration, came moments of huge emotional lows.  I looked at my would-be wife and realized that together, we’d chased two girls with a knife trying to break into our house.  It started to sink in that we are fierce like that and my emotions rose again.  Back in the garage, Daisy’s friend had exclaimed how lucky the perpetrators were that we didn’t have a gun because we might have shot them dead.  I silently reassured myself that I neither Lisa nor I were cut from the same cloth as Charlton Heston, no way.  But would Quentin Tarantino have done well to be standing in our stair well when two brazen lesbians came barreling down the stairs after a couple of tweakerbells, yes indeed?! 

I then began to fret that a new clique of tweakers had penetrated my pent house hoping to evade apprehension all the while traumatizing my poor puppy who was holding down the fort.  Lisa reassured me that she had locked up when she helped Mel. B. carry her camera equipment from the morning’s shoot to her car, but she agreed that we should check anyway.   Several officers kindly escorted us upstairs.  They asked me to enter first to make sure Pickles was restrained despite my promises that she was not prone to attack.  I entered cautiously and chuckled at the site of her reclining in a deep meditative state against the heavenly mountain of cushions on my and Lisa’s bed.  And though Pickles has taken to barking at visitors after the November robbery that she bared witness to, she clearly realized her best bet was to appear oblivious to the cadre of Olympic’s finest who poked their heads into the room and crooned, “Oooooh, a puppy!”

We descended the rear stairs and came upon Daisy and several members of her handcuffed harem having finally surfaced, visibly miffed we had spoiled the onset of their tweakend.  As soon as she saw us cavorting with the cops she gasped and ranted, “Oh gaaaad.  It was your apartment?  You guys are such drama queens.  You and your stupid dog.  Leave us alone. Don’t you know we’re just artists!   We’re just artists!  We’re just artists!” 

Neither Lisa nor I felt even the remotest temptation to debate Crazy Daisy and her rootless rationale.  Did she really think in the battle of us versus them, that we would side with a tramp whose nocturnal endeavors have jarred us from sleep at least four nights a week?  What really got us hooting was that with the investigation winding to a close, we would soon be returned to our apartment, as would the wilting flower who had evaded arrest once more.   Our landlords were in no hurry to implement additional security measures, so we at least wanted some comfort that we would be well out of harms way living two floors above a den of wily junkies snorting copious amounts of an ill spirited powder developed by the Nazi army to heighten aggression in their soldiers. 

Ultimately, we retired into our pad, drew all the shades, and cuddled up on the couch, the nucleus of so many of the day’s evolutions.  Rather than bowing to the hoopla of Pride, we decided we’d had enough action and opted instead for a David Attenborough marathon.  After Lisa busted me peering out the window one too many times, she warned me that I was acting dangerously reminiscent of James Stewart in Rear Window, which she would have none of. 

It was time to heal, to let go of everything about the day except for the positives and the lessons.    The love of my life outstretched her arms and invited me forward, the necessary step that distinguishes those who wallow from those who move on and grow.  It sure took a while, but I finally perceived the weight in the words of the Detective with the tortoise shell French braid who had bluntly instructed us to concern ourselves only with that which we can control.     

Once upon a time I was a diner waitress serving cheeseburgers and shakes to overweight police officers who tipped not half as grand as their booming girths.  I partied at night with a crowd of outcasts maneuvering a tempest of societal rejection and self-discovery.  If I was able to find my self worth somewhere between the gutter and over the rainbow and grow into the girl I am today, then the greatest lesson of all that Friday reminded me was to never give up hope.    

            I am not ashamed to admit that I’m a world champion sap.  I am totally and utterly in love with my would-be wife.  People say my voice changes and my eyes flutter when she walks into a room or calls me on the telephone.  It’s been that way since the night we first met almost a decade ago when I joined friends for a meal at the restaurant where she worked.  She approached our table to take our order and I recognized her though I had never seen her before.  She ultimately served us free flourless chocolate cake and before I left, I told her where to find me.

            When I was little, I had a dream about the boy I would one day marry.  Or so I thought.  I forgot about the dream until Lisa showed me pictures of her as a kid, and she was that boy from my dreams with a bowl cut and a bewitching grin.  Of course, that boy in my dreams was a girl all along.     

            Dedication comes from somewhere deep inside.  Sometimes, maintaining it feels impossible, pointless, simply like - why? For anyone who’s ever dared to chase a dream, or even just to take responsibility for something from start to finish, dedication means embracing ups and downs just the same.   

Three years ago, I returned a phone call from my mother before driving up into the hills outside of San Francisco where I knew there would be no cellular reception.  She broke my heart with the news that my beloved Nana Shirley was not long for this world.  For years, my nana had been slowly deconstructed by a rare, progressively debilitating condition called Supranuclear Paulsy, which is sometimes likened to Alzheimer’s, though one’s memory is the last thing to go.  I rushed to NY, and Lisa soon followed.

As always, my nana defied expectations.  She traded in the 4 days her doctors initially suggested for 4 weeks.  During that muggy June month, Lisa sat with me by my nana’s bedside for hours on end, sometimes as I sang the Jewish songs my nana so loved including her favorite of all, ‘Dayenu’, a boot stomping tribute to all that God did for the Jewish people, and translated literally as “It would have sufficed.”  Lisa charmed all the family members and friends who drove from near and far to cherish Nana Shirley in her final days.  She eased my nana’s discomforts with Reiki treatments, caressed her forehead as if she was her own grandma, and opened her arms when I needed somewhere to just cry.  As a matter of fact, she almost always cried with me.  

Because I had never come out to my nana when she was alive, the first thing Lisa and I did when she passed was tell her about our love for one another.  We were standing on either side of her bed.  We rested our clasped hands over my nana’s heart, and we promised her that we’d always keep each other safe.  Lisa postponed her trip home to Ireland so that she could attend my nana’s funeral.  Then, she finally flew home to spend time with her mother, who has been suffering from Alzheimer’s for many years. 

Fast-forward nearly 4 years to this past April, which began with a phone call informing Lisa that her mother was fighting a losing battle against Pneumonia.   She immediately called to tell me the devastating news.  I jumped in my car and rushed to her side, crying the whole way. 

Lisa’s mom made a miraculous recovery.  After her doctors switched off her machines thinking she had no hope, she awoke to eat soup, yogurt, and cookies.  Over the month that followed, I kept Lisa company as she helped feed, clothe, and nourish her mother back to health.  I sat quietly and marveled at her tenderness.  I imagined her as a mother to the children we will one day have.  I bit my lip to stop tears as I ached for the woman I love so unconditionally struggling with the unfairness of what’s become of her mother.   

A few years after I thought I had dreamed of the boy I would one day marry, I attended my classmate Jennie’s carnival themed Bat Mitzvah. To get an idea of just how decked out the festivity hall was that evening at Temple Beth El, imagine that Jennie’s mom had cable television and a revolving shoe rack in her closet. 

Squashed along the parameter of the hoopla was a brooding psychic.  When I sat down after a short wait, she inquired what I wanted to know.  A lonely, loveless teen, my first question for her was “When will I get married?”  I remember trying to translate the befuddlement in her eyes as she averted her gaze downward and let her long dark tresses close like curtains across her face.  She sheepishly replied that I would marry between the ages of 20 and 50.  I may have been lonely and loveless, but I was not loopy.  I was just about to give up and get up when she told me with real certainty that one day, I would be a communicator, traveling around and sharing stories with many people, that my work would be very important. 

            Now, it’s all starting to make sense.     

   

      

One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told. 

Today, we went for a long walk in Corkagh Park, a sprawling green universe of forests, lawns, ponds, athletic fields, and a petting zoo on the outskirts of Dublin, Ireland. We wandered for hours, sharing stories of our riotous tomboy childhoods, back when Lisa had her hair styled in the bowl cut I wanted so bad as a little girl on Long Island with a head full of unwilling corkscrew curls.  Paths fork their way across Corkagh Park so that one might take a different route every day for weeks.  We mostly stuck to the parameter because it was the longest option.  Along this route, we encountered a posse of magpies, and it is these black, turquoise and white birds, that the aforementioned jingle refers to.

I reminded Lisa that the first time we traveled to Clondalkin, the village where she grew up, we avoided any displays of public affection so as not to rile up unwanted attention.  Thank goodness, the days are gone when we were so aware of what others thought of us, two girls in love.   It used to be so terrifying.  Now, that love is what fuels our every day.      

As we wound our way passed a crowd of raving daffodils overlooking a pond bustling with swans and duck couples, we returned to a topic of conversation that’s been quite prevalent as of late – the documentary series we are working on, the Devote Campaign.  We are gathering stories from people of all walks of life who have been inspired to take a stand for LGBT rights, especially the right to marry.  We are doing this purely from a place of love and determination.  It makes so much sense.  After all, abiding by love and determination is what keeps us, a Jewish girl from Long Island and a Catholic girl from Dublin, Ireland, so madly devoted to each other. 

Of all that I could say about this project, I really want to mention the woman who inspired me and Lisa to take our walk today – Lisa’s mom, or as Lisa says, her mam.  A little bit over 7-years ago when I first visited Dublin, I had just lost my Aunt Sue, who was like a second mother to me, to Pneumonia.  I hadn’t been close to Aunt Sue in a while because she had said some very hurtful things to me about ‘the way I [was] with girls.’ To lose someone so close to me without ever having a chance to reconcile with her broke my heart.  I was still so grief-stricken, though eager to make a good first impression on my girlfriend’s family. 

Despite growing up in a Catholic country so governed by the church, Lisa’s mom decided to trust and embrace her daughter when she came out of the closet.  I’ll never forget the night, 7-years ago, when she and I found ourselves alone in the home where she raised Lisa and her two sisters.  Seated side-by-side on the couch, she asked me about my aunt.  I shared a succinct, yet honest explanation for why we’d grown apart.  She went quiet.

 “Well, Lisa seems happy,” she finally said.  Then she smiled at me.  These words were as affirming of my relationship with her daughter as they were healing to the core of my heart.   

From Mam Donohoe I took the lesson that in family we should rely and find strength, no matter what.  It is in honor of people like her for accepting their daughters and sons, and for not adding to their burden when greater society already has so much to learn, that Lisa and I, along with a very dedicated team of filmmakers, are putting the Devote Campaign together.   

Once upon an August evening on the Isle of Skye, brimming with love and inspiration after three days of reveling in the union of one of my top chicks and her stupendous new spouse, my girl and I decided we would marry in 2009.  The sun was then setting over the vast North Atlantic in a tango of orange, purple, and gold.  At that moment, it seemed impossible that Proposition 8 would successfully soar from the cold, loveless hearts of fellows equal parts homo- and god-fearing straight into the law books.

            Sure enough, come election day a few months later, there we stood facing the harsh reality that more than half of the residents of our state had voted away our right marry.  We were seemingly the last ones left on a ghostly, bottle strewn Castro Street, which had been closed to make way for crowds to celebrate the end of the hopeless Bush era.  The gathering dissipated almost instantly with the announcement of Prop 8’s passing. 

 Lisa and I still very much intended to honor our commitment, regardless of public opinion.  Luckily, my diesel Dubliner is a legal alien.  Of the hundreds of rights that are not granted to domestic partners but are to married couples, we wanted privileges including, but not limited to, heftily discounted car insurance for my newly licensed to drive other half.     

            So, on the morning of August 18, 2009, we finally decided to register as Domestic Partners, a rather fun little adventure though nothing I’ve even told my family about.  That’s the thing about domestic partnering.  In a way, it’s like a booby prize void of all the glam and glitter one might associate with the real deal.

First, we went online and downloaded the sexy PDF of FORM NP/SF DP-1, aka the Declaration of Domestic Partnership.  This we printed on crisp, 70% recycled, multi purpose office paper.  With our signatures indelibly inked side-by-side, we marched over to the Secretary of State’s Office, which has since closed due to budget cuts.  We took a number and then a seat.  Then we realized we’d left blank the section of the form under the banner heading, ‘Notarization is required’.

            We sighed and sheepishly departed from the waiting room past the growing line of people, who, all together resembled a casting call for a Benetton commercial.  We took the stairs back to the lobby and zipped past the security machines that we had only just passed through.  Then on the street, we stopped short and looked around, half expecting neon ‘Notary Public’ signs to be buzzing inside storefronts left and right.    I was clinging on to our little ticket, figuring we had to make it back in time for the calling of our number.  I am always the hurry-worry-bear in the relationship, and Lisa is always quick to remind me that our dreams are ours no matter what number we are in line.

            On Lisa’s phone, she located a nearby notary public and we race-walked over.   I wondered to myself if I would be as sweaty for my domestic partnering as I was for my Bat Mitzvah, when I dripped all over the Torah after disobeying my mother and chasing my brother up Israel’s Masada in a pair of Keds and Z. Cavariccis.

            It turns out the notary public was in a long and narrow UPS store cramped with boxes big and small.  A jolly Indian man emerged from the back and rung the bell on his counter meant for us to notify him of our arrival. 

            “Oh hello!” he greeted us.  “What can I do for you on this fine, fine day?”

            Lisa set our printout on the counter and replied, “We’d like to get this notarized.”

            He experimented with holding our papers slightly closer then farther from his face so as best to read them.  Then, “Oh! You want to be domestic partners.  How very very nice!  Let’s see, how do we notarize for domestic partership?”  Our jovial, mustached notary grabbed a black binder and swung it open.  He licked the tip of his finger and turned the pages until he found the appropriate one, which he then dragged his finger down until he located what he was looking for and thrice tapped it. 

 “Proof of identity, please,” he said, smiling.  His teeth were mini marshmallow white.    We both handed over our California identification.  “Very good,” he said.  First he scrutinized Lisa’s I.D., then held it up so he could compare her to her photo.  Back and forth, back and forth, he examined very closely.  “Definitely a strong resemblance,” he said in all seriousness. 

He returned Lisa’s I.D. to the counter and picked up mine.  “This gal has pink hair and you do not. ”  I contemplated telling him I had been coming down from an e on Christmas Eve morning in my DMV photo, but I didn’t want to jeopardize my imminent commitment ceremony.  He raised an eyebrow straight up almost to his hairline then jiggled it up and down a few more times.  I giggled.   Eyebrows get me every time.   “You think I am joshing.” He sneered at me real good before a great big smile overtook his face and then a hearty guffaw. 

“Oh!” He suddenly recalled, and handed me a pen.  “Sign here please.”  He turned his notary record book to face me and tap-tap-tapped by the X.   I took his pen, on the side of which was printed the name of a medicine. 

“Do you have any other pens?” I somewhat sheepishly asked.

“That pen writes better than any pen in this store.  I promise you!  Try it!” He insisted.  “The medicine lowers cholesterol and the pen is so good I think it lowers cholesterol, too!”

Sure enough, the pen worked a treat, and we even got to keep it.  A few stamps, scribbles and photocopies later, Mr. Notary Public waved us off with a big “Congratulations ladies!” 

We hustled back to the Secretary of State’s, which entailed a precarious run over a long swath of warped plywood acting as a makeshift sidewalk along a street that appeared to have been jack hammered and forgotten.  I imagined that the security guards would recognize us and wave us through, but alas, there were new faces at the door.  Belts off, shoes off, jackets off, and wallets and phones in basket, once again.    I made sure our ticket was tucked deep in my jacket pocket before passing it through the metal detector.   Each day, I realize I am turning more and more into my mother.

Back in the Secretary of State’s small, square waiting room, there was a whole new batch of people, and our number had long since been called.  I plucked a new one and sat down beside Lisa on the only available couch, which happened to be a loveseat.   We both listened as the man with a greasy, craterous bald spot being tended to at the service window got a serious reprimanding from the little lady on duty for wasting her time showing up so unprepared.  Did he not know how to read instructions? 

            “Jaysis!” Lisa whispered in the heftiest manifestation of her Dublin speak that she reserves for emphasis.   “Good thing we got this notarized!”

            Somehow, none of the people with numbers before ours were present when their numbers were called, so we were next.  We stood up from our loveseat as girlfriends and sat down at the window, unsure of how we were about to officially become domestic partners. 

At first it felt so much like depositing a check in a joint bank account.  Lisa slid our papers through the gap between window and countertop.  Across from us, a bone thin lady who we deduced to be Malaysian from the collage of postcards above her desk practically jumped out of her severely oversized turquoise and purple rayon dress.   “OH! Domestic partnership.  I love to do this! “  She slipped our number back under the window to us.  “You probably want to keep this memerbila.” Her massive smile practically reached beyond her face to her bulbous shoulder pads, which were working overtime affording structure to her dress that three more of her could have easily fit into.  Her Asian locks fanned into a sprayed high fortress of layers folding back upon one another in dynamic 80’s perfection.  Never mind her eyeglasses with rims the size of diner pancakes.  Here was a lady about to be laid off and our domestic partnership was making her day!   

            “Congratulations!” She said, and held her right hand to the window.  Were we meant to high-five her?  Because we each did, and she scrunched her shoulders up way past her ears and grinned so hard her eyes squeezed shut. 

            “Okay. Be right back.” She disappeared to her desk and typed furiously at her computer.  Moments later, she returned with a certificate of domestic partnership with both of our names on it.  She tickled the shiny gold seal on it.  “You should frame and hang on important wall in your house.”  She nodded.  Then she handed us a chunky pamphlet, with “all information about starting a life together as domestic partners. Congratulations! Congratulations!  Congratulations!”

             We were domestic partners with a pamphlet and certificate to prove it.  Lisa and I stood up from our seats to the prying eyes of those still waiting.  We walked out of the room and back onto the street where we embraced and decided to celebrate in true San Francisco fashion – over a plate of nachos.   That’s it. 

            

       My virgin Grateful Dead show was a riot from moment one.  Climbing the stairs leading from the Long Island Railroad to sidewalks swarming with hippies and the blended aromas of patchouli and pretzels, I remember being hypnotized by the silver sky above Madison Square Garden.   I’d been to ‘the city’ countless times before, but never just with my big brother.   It was all so much to take in for me, only having just begun my freshman year of high school.  Mounted Police officers barked orders to conceal beers in paper bags or pour them out.  As far as the eye could see, it was beards and dreadlocks and public breastfeeding, oh my!  I had only knowingly smelled ganja once before at a screening of Empire of the Sun, of all movies.

My heart skipped a beat as I passed by a woman wearing the first toe ring I ever saw.  For years afterward, I sported a little gold ring with my initials that a babysitter had gifted me on my first birthday.  I wore it on each toe from second biggest to second smallest until it began to cut off my circulation and required Vaseline to come off.  I could never wear it on my pinkies, which are shaped like candy corns and therefore not very ring friendly.

            I witnessed my first bad acid trip at this concert.  A young woman sprinting from imaginary demons crashed head on into a tile wall beside an arena entrance and was catapulted backwards, landing flat on her back with her long skirt hiked high above her pantaloons.  My brother rushed me away, but I’ll never forget the bloody lingerings of her exploded nose and mouth slithering down the tiles and the sound of her bells jingling as she landed. 

            During this first gig as well, a plump hippie woman mistook me for her boyfriend, Robby, and ground her pelvis against mine.   She caressed and tried to kiss my neck and cheek.  She tauntingly sang 'That's right, the women are smarter!' in my ear.   Her breath was deafeningly hot and moist.   I dared glance into her big black pupils for a second before she closed her eyes and nearly toppled me by dipping herself backwards and latching onto my arm for balance. 

            I remember surging with adrenaline as I recounted it all for my friends, earning myself some much needed hero points.

            At my second show, it was not just my brother and I cherishing some family bonding time.  Rather, I accompanied him and a bunch of his fraternity brothers, all of whom popped tiny dots onto their tongues a short while before show time.  Fancying myself a Dead Head of equal standing, I requested a dot of my own.  All eyes zoomed in on me followed by pow wow whirling with whispers, one of which was presumably the brilliant suggestion to pack me a bowl to keep my curiosity at bay.  A glass pipe then traveled down the line of anxious brothers, ending with me.  My brother showed me how to operate a pipe with a carb.  He warned me to take my first time slow then disappeared into his wonderland.  I proceeded to huff the whole package within minutes and spent the remainder of the gig waiting for something remarkable to happen.  On the way home, my brother cackled chronically at my repeated demands that we stop at every snack shop we passed.  This should come as no surprise for a girl whose mother hung sleigh bells from the pantry closet door so as to curb her free-range snacking.  After relaying the tales of this night to my friends, I became the trusted go-to gal or chaperone for a chunky handful of first time pot smokers, a position I filled with great pride.  

            I would go to eight more Grateful Dead shows before Jerry Garcia died, which coincidentally occurred right after my graduation from high school.  Whether I knew it at the time or not, I was really fortunate to experience this historical scene and to be undoubtedly influenced by it – maybe not so much in how I look anymore or in my longstanding distaste for jam bands, but definitely in my spirit of adventure.  

This week, Cindy McCain joined her daughter, Meghan, in becoming a poster child for the movement to invalidate California’s Proposition 8 and reinstate the right of same-sex couples to marry.  This is a huge deal.  Ted Olson, lifelong Republican, veteran of the Reagan and George W. Bush administrations, and one of the lawyers working to overturn Proposition 8 in federate court admitted, “Many of my fellow conservatives have an almost knee-jerk hostility toward gay marriage.”

The truth is, too many of my fellow liberals seem to think that just by living life are they contributing to this modern day civil rights movement.  This issue has mistakenly slipped into the gridlock of divisive politics when it is really about human rights granted to every American in the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution.

I am a lesbian writer and filmmaker whose plans for marrying my partner of eight years have been indefinitely postponed thanks to the passage of Proposition 8.  It is fair to say that the glowing photos of the McCain ladies with ‘No H8’ painted on their cheeks illuminated for me my own inexcusable inaction.

As such, I want to hear from advocates for marriage equality who are going against the grain of their politics, religion, and/or community and ultimately taking a stand for equal rights.  I am looking for inspiring stories from the front lines traversing towns large and small across this country.  This is a unique opportunity to forge alliances with conscientious heroes from all walks of life, as Proposition 8 affects same-sex couples regardless of race, class, ethnicity, religion, political affiliation, nationality, or age. 

My goal is first to share stories of unlikely allies in an article.   Then I will take a road trip around the country this summer to interview subjects for a documentary, which I will have ready prior to the November elections.