Yesterday I posted the first free story I’ll be giving away weekly during June, Pride month (it’s only up for a week, so if you don’t see it, sorry but you’ll have to buy my collection, A Perfect Life and Other Stories). I wrote “Auto Repair” years after same-sex marriage became legal, but the story takes place around that time—2004 in Massachusetts. I also address this theme in my novel Wishbone. It’s one of those events, like JFK (for the Boomers), Challenger (for Gen Xers) or 9/11 (for anyone born before 2001) that get seared into your soul. You remember exactly where you were when you learned of it.

For me, it was driving home from the grocery store. I had the radio on and heard the breaking news that the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court had ruled in Goodridge v. Department of Public Health that I could not be denied the right to marry simply because I was a woman who wanted to marry another woman. I started crying right there, in the car. I went home, found a blank card, and wrote a proposal to my partner of seven years. (She said yes.)

Writing for the majority, Chief Justice Margaret Marshall said, “The question before us is whether, consistent with the Massachusetts Constitution, the Commonwealth may deny the protections, benefits, and obligations conferred by civil marriage to two individuals of the same sex who wish to marry. We conclude that it may not. The Massachusetts Constitution affirms the dignity and equality of all individuals. It forbids the creation of second-class citizens. In reaching our conclusion we have given full deference to the arguments made by the Commonwealth. But it has failed to identify any constitutionally adequate reason for denying civil marriage to same-sex couples.”

This was November 2003. The ruling did not go into effect immediately, the SJC stayed the judgment for 180 days so the legislature could cogitate on it. On May 17, 2004 the dam broke as couples lined the steps of various city halls at midnight, the Goodridges among the first to marry. (I wrote about that night in Wishbone.)

It’s hard to convey the emotion of that ruling. It was the culmination of years of work, and it wasn’t Massachusetts alone. California, Vermont—the specifics blur (that’s what Wikipedia is for). But as a lesbian coming out at that time (coming out is a marathon, not a sprint), it was…a lot. A game changer. Our relationships were legitimate. Perfect? Hardly. Too soon? Maybe. Were there more important priorities? Possibly. Did we ruin it for John Kerry’s presidential ambitions? So they said.

The simple lesson was that when a group of people band together to accomplish something, something seemingly impossible, it can be done! But the lesson works for both sides, and there lies the danger.

As much as I leaped at the chance to get married to the woman I loved, I also knew that doing so would out me forever. My name would go onto a public list controlled by the government. There would be no hiding or pretending if those who would seek to harm us gained power. It didn’t seem likely at the time, but these days it’s ever present as law after law is passed limiting LGBTQ+ rights, especially for transgender people.

The same conservatives who claim to want government out of their lives, insist on inserting it into queer lives. Not just our legal lives, but our very physical existence. They want us dead, and it is no longer unacceptable to say so.

They don’t want us getting the medical help we need. They don’t want us sharing our stories. They don’t want us celebrating our lives. And they’ll stop at nothing to succeed in oppressing us.

When out lesbian Maura Healey became my state’s attorney general, all felt right with the world. She marched in the Pride parade, she looked out for us and every other Massachusetts resident. Now she’s my governor and part of me wants to feel safe. But part of me is terrified. Of the target on our state, evidenced by the rise in hate extremism here. The sudden permission the anti-[fill in the blank] crowd feels thanks to the box of vile hate opened by a man who never should have become president.

Here’s where I feel safe from those who would band together to harm me and my quiltbag cohort—what worked for us was coming out, telling our stories. Letting people get to know us. They already knew us. Videos of queers and their straight friends and families helped everyone to see that we were just like them. And it worked.

As Col. Margarethe Cammermeyer said, “People ask, ‘Who are you?’ We are their daughters, their sisters, their sons, their nurses, their mechanics, their athletes, their police. We’re your doctors, your fathers, your politicians, your soldiers, your mothers, your friends. We live with you, we care for you, protect you, teach you, love you and need you. All we ask is that you let us.”

All the other side has is fear and hate. I don’t intend to stand to the side holding a flower hoping they’ll change their mind. Love may win out, but it’s not afraid to stand up for what’s right and against what’s wrong. As I write this, Pat Robertson has died and Trump has been indicted. In Robertson’s case, the wheels of justice ground too slowly. With Trump, I hope it’s in time.

And Pride is just that—PRIDE! I am who I am, and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to tell my stories.

So here’s to all the creative members of the quiltbag. Tell your stories, sing your songs, strut your stuff. Love who you love. Be who you are meant to be. (Grammar be damned.)